OW! Ow-ow-ow-dammit-dammit-OW!!! I hopped around awkwardly on one foot, cradling my bruised big toe in my palm. Worse, with every bounce my other foot prickled at the scratch of a thousand little pointy needles, as the grainy sand and tiny pebbles that coated the ground poked at my bare sole. After thirty seconds of agonized hopping and cursing I surrendered, and flopped down onto the sand. Something sharp stuck me in the ass; I hoped it wasn't anything poisonous. I rubbed my aching toe and wondered for the millionth time how I'd gotten myself into this mess. I'd first signed up for this asinine excursion of Malinov's in the middle of February. I'd been desperate for warmth, for relief from the arctic temperatures and bone-chilling winds of the New York winter; I was a dormant hibiscus yearning for the return of spring and life. Mal's e-mail -- "join us, Comrades, as we journey toward tropical ecstasy!" -- could not be ignored under such circumstances. Without even thinking twice I responded with my reservation and credit card information, clicked "Send", clicked "Yes, I know this is sensitive information sent on an insecure connection," clicked "Yes, I never want to see this message again," clicked "No, I will not sue AOL's ass off when some hacker maxes out my VISA card," and drifted away. In my tropical fantasy I lay toasting in the sun, drinking in fruity cocktails like Orgasm On The Beach, and delighting in bronzed rippling-muscle beach beefcakes who could provide hours of youthful stamina with no required conversation afterwards. My brain didn't kick in again until I saw the rusty old tub that Mal's cut-rate online travel agent had booked for us. As I dragged my suitcase behind me up the rotting wooden gangplank I began to have second thoughts. After my official greeting from the slacker nymphet Official Greeter -- "like, hi, I'm Joo-lee-ya, like, welcome to the boat, I mean the Sibarist, Syberus, c'n I, like, help you?" -- I began to have third and fourth thoughts. But it was too late, and so I made the best of it by heading straight for the nearest shipboard bar and ordering a daquiri. I got gin in a dirty water glass with a tiny pink toothpick umbrella in it. Since I had no choice I did the only thing I could: I fished the soggy umbrella out of the bottom of the glass, shut my eyes really tight, and slugged the drink back in one go. By the fourth or fifth gin daquiri things were beginning to look a whole lot better. As I thought about it now, sitting on the hot gritty sand, I could dimly remember staggering down the between-deck rope ladders with my suitcase and lugging it into my room. But beyond that everything about the cruise was a hazy blur of lots of drinks -- I still couldn't get the taste of that gin out of my mouth -- loud people, and gin-soaked conversations that, at the time, had passed for witty repartee. Only a few disconnected images held any clarity for me: a group of scraggly, scrawny teenaged skanks in badly-fitting cheerleader outfits; a boozy Uther gesturing at me with his corncob pipe while he watched me pee (what the hell was he doing in that bathroom with me anyway, I wondered); and a swizzled Kim yanking at my underwear, yelling "iceberg dead ahead!" and "fire in the hold!" before she dumped her drink down the front of my underwear. I had no clue how we had gotten off the boat or what had happened to it. Something had gone terribly wrong -- as if that was any big surprise -- and then we were all in dinky little dinghies, rowing toward some tiny speck in the distance that Mal said was "his island." I figured that from here on in things might improve, but instead they only got worse. By the time we reached the damned island every single one of us was tired and cranky, and most of us still hadn't recovered from our boat-trip hangovers. Conditions were perfect for some kind of crisis, so of course an eruption was inevitable. Kim started it when she got into a thing with some guy named Eric. Then jc and Maff stepped in, which meant that Bear got all pissed off and started yelling. After that George got himself involved, as did a whole bunch of other people I didn't know very well, and things began to get loud. While all this developed, Malinov -- who'd gotten us into this in the first place -- was off by himself on a rocky crag looking out at the sea and mumbling to himself in iambic pentameter. Half the people on the beach were snapping at each other, the other half were grinning on the sidelines as they watched all the action and made editorial remarks, and I was getting a major headache. By the time Kim and Kathy got into a clinch and started pulling hair, I had had enough. Unnoticed, I slipped quietly away from the group and headed up the beach. As I got further away the noise receded (though I could still hear gleeful shouts of "Catfight! Catfight!" from Ivan and Johnny). I walked on, and after a while the combination of sun and sand and surf had me calm and soothed. I removed my jacket and my shoes, and untucked my blouse from the loose, flowing skirt I was wearing. Thanking my lucky stars that I still had my big floppy straw hat to protect me from the sun, I began to hum as I strolled along the beach, bare of foot and free of worry. For a moment, just a moment, I was at peace. Then a wave of nausea and a series of sharp cramps hit me, nearly doubling me over. I gasped in pain and shock, and wondered if all the lousy gin I'd consumed had come back to get me. As the agony receded and faded into a mild discomfort the answer came to me in a sudden flash of clarity: this wasn't gin, this was PMS. My time was upon me, probably tomorrow or maybe the next day. Great. Here I was, a passenger on a sex cruise, and I was about to get my period. As far as I was concerned, outdated menstrual taboos or no, sex was simply not going to be on my agenda for the next week. This was just fabulous. First I got myself stuck on a crappy cruise on a crappy boat, then I managed to get off the crappy boat only to end up on this crappy island, where my shipmates were at each other's throats. I was stuck there, marooned on some tiny little island with a bunch of squabbling hack writers, nothing to eat or drink, a week of celibacy, and only the clothes on my back. Suddenly I was struck by a horrible thought: I had no luggage! Everything I had was back on the ship -- and that included all my toiletries. What the hell was I going to do tomorrow?! It was a pretty sure bet that this piss-poor island didn't likely have a Walgreen's. In fact, I didn't know if the island had any other inhabitants besides us refugees. Even if there were, what was I going to do -- slink into a native village and ask if anyone had a spare Maxi-Pad? "Ukkamagube Tampax?" Trapped in a rueful feminine-hygeine reverie I stumbled forward, only to stub my toe forcefully against a half-buried piece of wood jutting out of the sand. Thus I landed on my ass in the dirt, contemplating the events that led me here. It was just another shitty day in Paradise. Now I was all cranky and out of sorts, and not because of PMS (although that didn't help either). I glared at the offending bit of flotsam that had tripped me up and nudged it with my foot, the pain-free unstubbed one. It didn't move. I pushed at it a bit harder, less tentatively. It remained still and unmoving, mocking me. Unreasonably angry, I reached out and shoved it with my hand. It was too solid, though, and stuck fast. I moved closer and peered at it carefully. As I'd thought, it was indeed a piece of wood. But on closer inspection it didn't look so much like a piece as it did a corner. I scrabbled away at the sand around it and soon discovered that I'd inadvertantly tripped over the top edge of a wooden crate, buried in the beach. Happy to have something constructive to do I began digging with a will, and soon I'd cleared the top layer of sand away to reveal an entire side of the wooden box. By this time I was gripped with a childish excitement. Buried treasure in the sand on a remote island! My mind's eye danced with visions of peg-leg pirates and one-eyed privateer captains, baubles and dubloons. I eagerly ran the tips of my fingers around and around the wood, seeking entry to my mysterious treasure-trove. One corner gave a little when I pulled, and after banging on it with a shoe and essaying several hard yanks -- never mind the splinters or the damage to my nails -- I managed to pry it open with a loud crack. I reached my arm into the small cavity I'd created and felt around for the distinctive roundness of gold coins, or the smooth glassy feel of precious gems. I found neither. What I did find, after groping around in the sand-filled crate for a time, was the cylindrical form of a bottleneck. Grasping it firmly I withdrew my hand, which was wrapped around a beverage bottle. I blew some sand off and read the label. It listed a date, 1948, and a Jamaican brewery of origin. I'd found a case of fifty-year-old Jamaican Rum. And if the other bottles were like this one, then they were still sealed. I might die on this island. But if I did, I was pretty sure I could die happy. I smacked myself hard on the forehead and felt the return of grim reality. How would it help matters for me to get plastered (actually, considering the cruise, that'd be re-plastered)? The last thing I needed right now was another drink, even if it was well-aged tropical booze. A brief, ugly image of myself sprawled on the ground in a bloody comatose heap flashed across my mind. Ugh! Imagine if any of the others stumbled across me in that condition! I'd never hear the end of it. Filled with a new resolve, I turned and left the case of rum where I'd found it, and marched inland into the greenery that ringed the beach. I took along the bottle I was holding, though. Maybe it would come in handy later. I almost never wear a watch, so I had no idea how long I meandered. But after some time alone I began to wonder if this hadn't been such a good idea after all. One tree looked pretty much the same as all the rest to a city girl like me, and I soon figured out that I was completely lost. I'd been swallowed up in the jungle, surrounded by green and completely isolated. It was funny -- I'd expected the same sort of rushing quiet that accompanied me along the beach. Instead I was painfully aware of the sheer volume of noise around me. I could hear the cries of tropical birds, the scrabbling of small animals scurrying about, and the constant rustle of thick leaves. Soon my brain was swimming with delirious images from World War II, from Vietnam, the ones I showed to my students every semester. Paranoia was creeping in, and I clutched my rum bottle tightly. They were after me, all of them. But they wouldn't get my rum, even if I had to... A faint sound intruded, a quiet thumping that sounded like it was coming closer. I shook my head clear of crazy ruminations and strained to hear. Footsteps? People! I was saved! "HALP!" I yelled, trying to get someone's attention. But I was bone-dry from hours in the heat, and all that came out was a croaking groan. I swallowed, but before I could try again a big blurry shape flashed into view through the trees. It looked like a big brownish guy with something dangling over his shoulder -- could it have been a dark-haired girl in a tank top? -- and then it was gone. The footfalls faded and I heard a pained cry -- "Slow down Hoss, I'm gonna puke!" -- and then nothing. I gaped in stunned shock, and then sat down and had a good cry. I don't usually do that, but I was devastated, lonely, hungry, and I had PMS, so there wasn't much I could do about it. Eventually I recovered and marched onward. I didn't know where I was going, but then I rarely do, so there was no real reason to get too concerned. I decided to try optimism, for a change. It was a small island, after all; surely I'd be unlost in no time. Some short while later my optimism had withered into a cranky sullenness. I was still lonely and hungry, but now I was also tired and hot and gritty and sweaty. My usually mild PMS had also flared up into outright bitchiness, though I was sure that it wouldn't have if I were on a big old fucking cruise ship drinking big old fucking Mai Tais and sunning my big old fucking ass on a big old fucking deck chair like Mal had promised, the big old fucking liar. I was probably dehydrating, too, and I was pretty thirsty-mean by now, yearning for liquid refreshment. Too late, I realized I'd left my rum-bottle at my crying-spot. I screamed out loud. There was nothing else to do. I shrieked and cursed and started flailing away in pure rage, knocking trees out of my way and then yelling louder when the springy branches rebounded back to smack me in the face. Totally gone, I grabbed the biggest branch in front of me and pulled it, yanking it back in an effort to snap the damned thing off. As I did I accidentally caught a glimpse through the space where it had been. I saw paradise. I cautiously released my branch and ducked through the trees to find every tropical fantasy I'd ever had brought to life. It was the loveliest place I'd ever seen. At the bottom of a shallow downslope was a pool, several dozen feet wide. It was fed by a gentle waterfall that curtained gracefully down a rocky outcropping. The water was crystalline and pure, and it sparkled with points of light where bright sunlight danced across the surface. I stood, breathless and entranced by the vision I beheld. And then the spell broke and I tumbled down to the water's edge, lay my face into the water, and drank deeply. Once my immediate thirst was satiated I lifted my drenched face out of the pool. I was refreshed and invigorated, but still discomfited by my itchy grittiness from the neck down. I looked carefully around me and saw no one. I grinned, and began to strip. Within seconds I was nude, my hot and sweaty clothes in a heap at my feet. For an endless time I stood there, trapped in the surrealistic clarity of that moment. I was alone at the pool, yet I felt a curious oneness with everything around me. I am not ordinarily the "Earth-Mother" type; New-Age philosophies make me itch, and talk about the Universal Woman strikes no chord in my presentist practical soul. But as I stood in that magnificent place, alone and naked in the most natural setting I'd ever experienced, I found that I had dropped my Outer Self along with my garments. I felt not woman so much as Woman. I was Eve without artifice or covering, naked and unashamed. I could feel the gentle breeze caress my skin, blowing across my breasts and belly, thighs and calves. Every inch of my body thrilled with electric contact, my thick curly hair brushing my shoulder, the soles of my feet crushing the soft blades of grass beneath. Then the endlessness passed and time reasserted itself. I blinked several times and restarted my breathing, and picked my way down to enter the pool. I entered the water without thought or hesitation, and regretted it within seconds. The water was clean and clear but it was also frightfully cold, and by the time I was waist-deep I was gasping from the chill. There was no use prolonging the agony, though, and so I immediately ducked my head under water and submerged myself entirely. At that point cold turned into COLD and I shrieked, but mercilessly I forced myself under again until I was thoroughly wet. The initial chill soon began to fade, and within minutes my teeth stopped chattering and I stopped shivering. My shock turned into langorous delight, and I moved in deeper until the water came up to my neck. I felt thoroughly cleansed, and generally marvelous. After enjoying the cool encasement of the water for a while I let my feet leave the pebbly pool-bottom and began to float. I am a terrible swimmer. To tell the absolute truth I really don't know how to swim at all. On the cruise ship I hadn't even tried; I took one look at one woman swimmer on board and abandoned all notions of displaying my own lack of skill. At poolside she'd seemed so incredibly tall that I'd automatically assumed a certain gawky awkwardness. But when she dove into the ship's pool (such as it was) her effortless grace in the water left me feeling like a hippopotamus in water wings. Now, alone in my Island Paradise, I wondered if this was how she'd felt. I was buoyant, almost weightless as I let the water take me. In peaceful detachment I looked down at my body in the water. The tops of my breasts were revealed, twin rosy-peaked islands jutting out of the water. My belly and my thighs were pale where they broke the surface, and the rest of me was a wavering slash of whiteness in the water below. As I floated, at rest and in motion at once, the eroticism of the moment began to unfold within me. I could feel the water everywhere around me and within me, holding me and filling me. As I turned over and swam lazily I chuckled, remembering at last the other side-effect I frequently experience when I'm premenstrual. Now that I was less tense and wound up, I was starting to get really horny. The chuckle gave way to giggles as the impossibility of the situation got to me, and soon I was laughing too hard to swim. Coughing and sputtering in the pool I made my way back to the shallows and got my feet on the ground. I stood and cracked up, laughing at my misadventures on the ship and the island, laughing at my arousal, laughing at myself. Caught in a patch of sunshine I threw my head back, my wet hair whipping around behind me and rivulets of water trailing down from the peaks of my dripping breasts, my backside, and down my legs. I am a nymph, I thought, a Water Sprite, a mermaid. My mind flashed on the Little Mermaid and I giggled again, but only for a second. Then, without thinking, I began to sing. I hadn't sung much, not in years. I'm a natural soprano; I've been told I have a beautiful voice, though I know I don't have the true talent of a great singer. But over the years I've sung in all sorts of choruses, performing Mozart and Vaughan Williams, West Side Story and Carmina Burana. As I grew older I dropped out of formal singing and became more self-conscious about my singing, to the point where I rarely share that part of myself with anyone any more. But in that lagoon I sang, just a wordless melody, a tiny snippet of music from the animated film that had insinuated itself into my consciousness. It was short and trite, totally inconsequential. But my voice was clear and pure as the water that had immersed my body, and as the notes trailed away I dissolved into light. Then I opened my eyes. A man stood before me at the water's edge. To my untutored eyes he looked like an island native, at least at first glance. He was golden-skinned with an unremarkable medium build, and wore only a loincloth-like garment around his middle. Despite his sudden appearance he didn't seem that threatening, even though I was alone and defenseless only a few feet away from him. Even as I stood there silently staring at him, the analytical part of my brain wondered why this was so. What was it about him that seemed so reassuring? And why did I have the oddest feeling that I'd met him before? I looked carefully at his face, seeking a familiar mark or sign to tell me who he was. The entire notion was absurd anyway: when had I ever met a Pacific Islander in my life? Still, I let my eyes take in his features: his pigmented skin, the line of his jaw, the dirty-brown curly hair that framed his face. He was older than me, I realized, but not that much older. Could I have met him at school somewhere? As I searched for clues I became aware that he too was assessing me with his eyes, but he wasn't focusing on my face. My eyes narrowed as I watched his gaze travel up and down my dripping body, taking in every curve and hair follicle. He seemed especially riveted by my breasts, for some reason. That was odd; I had thought that most islander women went topless, and that other cultures didn't share the American fixation with hooters. I looked at him sharply and caught the shadow of a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. That look was damned familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on where I'd seen it before. All at once the native stopped his leisurely examination of my naked, wet form -- it look like he had to make a real effort -- and began jumping up and down, gesticulating wildly.