The next week was an exercise in persistence. Burning and carving molds in wood isn’t as easy as it seems, and finding the right ratio of sand to sap to bake time was very frustrating. One time we’d end up with brittle, flaky concrete. The next time was hard and cracked in the forming process.

Eventually, on about the third day of trail and error testing, I came up with the idea of cooking the sap first. The sap on the island simply contained vastly too much water content for consistent results, and cooking a bowl full overnight would produce a thick, black pitch, which was much more stable to work with.

Once we’d came up with the resin pitch, finding a proper ratio of sand to it, was much simpler. From our testing, using about half as much sand as pitch, made a decently sturdy cement. The largest problem after that, was actually sorting out how to remove whatever was being made, from the mold. The resin, when heated, tried to act like hot glue, and it was almost impossible to work the finished product loose from the mold once cooled.

The solution we finally stumbled upon for that, was simply lining the sides of the mold with a thin layer of sand. The cement bonded with the loose sand, and not the mold, allowing us to end up with slightly gritty cement products. The loose grit around the edges would chip or flake off naturally with use, and didn’t really harm performance any, so it became the ideal solution to the sticking problem.

The first tools I created were a set of cement knives for the girls. Not as sharp or durable as the knife my wife had gifted me, they nevertheless were sufficient for cutting vines, seaweed, or gutting fish. I wouldn’t want to try and shave with them, but they certainly cut shrubbery better than my finger nails did.

After the practice with the knives, hatchets were made for everyone. Actually, I suppose they’d be called more tomahawks, since the handle was tied around the head, and not the other way around. Either way, they made a most welcome addition to our survival toolsets.

Spear heads, sling bullets, and a massive triple-sized tomahawk head were the final items we made. The handle I wrapped around the Ultra-Hawk 9000 (everything special in a man’s life needs a good name), was a good six-feet long, with the whole thing probably weighing at least twice what Shadow does! If we ever want to build a real boat, we’ll need more that a knife or tomahawk to cut lumber for it.

While I was working on sorting out the intricates of crafting resin-based cement, the girls were busy doing their own thing to help us prepare for the next stage of our island existence, as well.

Laulaia, whose skin is much too pale to be out in the intense heat and light much at all, worked hard at foraging as much fruit and natural supplies from the edge of the jungle, as possible. She stuffed both of her hose as full of various fruits, nuts, and berries, until they almost seemed as if the poor hose were trying to burst at the seams. From time to time, she had to remove something from the collection that had went bad – some berries that were starting to rot, for example – but she made certain to always refill that void with something fresh daily. Laulaia’s job was to gather the food for our journey, and for the first few days, when we moved to our new campsite, and she worked hard to fulfill her duty.

Alaina, on the other hand, was constantly running about here and there, all willy-nilly, trying to do fifty jobs at once. Her and Shadow hunted fresh food along the beach. She rushed to keep leaves and logs atop our campfire, creating a large smoke trail to signal anyone who might be in viewing distance. Between hunting and fire-keeping times, Alaina rushed back and forth into the jungle and collected the vines and limbs we needed to build our travel raft-sleds. Hell, truthfully, she’s the one who did almost all the building and assembling of the sleds.

Alaina also contributed another great discovery for us, all by accident. As she was responsible for gathering and cooking the sap to make the pitch I was mixing and experimenting with, one early afternoon, while using a bowlful of the boiling sap, Alaina accidently dumped it out, all across the logs she was assembling. Too hot and thick to try and put back into the crude bowl we used for cooking the sap, she tried to make use of it by smearing it thickly all across the top of the logs. The boiling pitch seeped into all the nooks and crannies, where it both glued and waterproofed the wood.

Ancient sailors used to use tar pitch to waterproof their ships, but none of us realized that. It was only by pure coincidence that Alaina stumbled upon the long-forgotten trick which might be essential for us getting off this island alive. Accidental innovation is still innovation, no matter how you want to look at it.

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Also, during this time, I managed to learn more about the differences between the two girl’s personalities. Laulaia’s essence embraces more of an equal, but lessor, philosophy; whereas Alaina seems to completely follow a give and take philosophy – she gives, and others take.

It’s hard to put into words the subtle differences between the two, but I can easily think of a few examples which stand out to me. For instance, Laulaia, as a lover, is quick to reach out and take pleasure with her partner. She’s one who will initiate an attempt at sex – more than one morning, I’ve awoken to her softly grinding her hips back and forth against mine – while Alaina never tries that. Alaina is completely passive, wanting and waiting to be took by her man, but never showing or pushing any desire of her own to the forefront.

As strange as others might think it, I found Laulaia’s approach to love to be both enticing and erotic, but also hard to live up to. As an older gentleman, my manly equipment couldn’t perform nearly as often as she offered herself to me. Hell, it’s not supposed to work at all, so I’d be happy with even once a week. Laulaia seemed to want loving daily – or even multiple times a day!

Damn youthful ardor of newfound love is nothing more than a pain in the ass!

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Alaina, on the other hand, fit my heart like a warm and comfortable old glove. My dead wife, God bless her soul, was a completely submissive lover. When she was a young child, she was molested and raped for years by her sister’s husband. This trauma left a mark on her spirit, which she never outgrew.

My wife never liked sex. Never liked intimacy. In all of twenty-five years of marriage, she probably only had an orgasm about twice. Her uncle had destroyed whatever part of a woman that yearns for that soft, gently embrace of a man. My wife had absolutely no desire whatsoever for any form of sex – yet, she knew that, as a man, I would. Her solution was to simply relax and completely surrender herself to my desires. No matter what position, what fetish, what desire I wanted to try, my wife never refused. In all our years together, I don’t think she ever once enjoyed lovemaking – the most she ever seemed to crave was just to be gently held and cradled – but she made certain that she fulfilled any request for enjoyment which I might have.

Alaina reminds me so much of her. The two don’t look anything alike, but their actions and reactions are so similar in many ways, that it makes my heart ache sometimes. Just like my wife, Alaina has dedicated herself to giving herself fully to her partner. Some would say, “She’s a cold, dead fish in bed.” Not me. I find her response completely comforts my soul, whereas I find the feistier, more passionate Laulaia harder for me to deal with.

My wife was a broken woman. Alaina has broken as well, having been raised as Laulaia’s servant all her life. Apparently though, those broken pieces fit me well, while the wholeness of Laulaia is slightly offsetting and ill-fitting.

Honestly, I think we’re all broken, in some way. Some folks are just more broken than others.

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“Okay, ladies,” I barked, “let’s go! You too Shadow.”

The rain from the storm hadn’t completely stopped yet, when I began snapping at everyone to get up and head out. Already dressed with what remained of our clothes, we grabbed the last of the supplies which we had inside our shelter and hurried out towards the beach. Stopping only long enough to lay everything on our separate rafts, all three of us grabbed our respective vines and began dragging our small raft-sleds out to the ocean.

“Left, or right?” Pointing with her free hand in both directions, Alaina didn’t seem to be having any trouble pulling the weight of her load, while Laulaia grunted and struggled with hers. Though both were loaded with the same amount of supplies, they didn’t both have the same amount of muscles for the job involved. Mentally, I made a note to adjust the distribution of gear differently next time.

“Left,” I told her, shrugging slightly. Honestly, it didn’t matter all that much, since both directions were unexplored by us. Thinking about it for a few moments however, made me frown slightly at the oddity of the choices we had.

Something just seemed off, to me. When I’d stolen the boat, it was from a dock in Florida. I’d set out, traveling south and east, into the depths of the ocean. How the hell could I wash up on the eastern shore of an island? Yet, since the sun rose over the ocean and beach, It was obvious I had. We were exploring northwards now, but that just seems impossible to me. Shouldn’t I have either washed up on a northern, or western beach? I certainly hadn’t drove my boat across land before I crashed!!

Not wanting to worry the girls, I kept my uncertainty to myself. Maybe I’d simply drifted north or south, before some tide had washed back up against the beach. I tried to convince myself that was probably the case, but my reasoning felt black against my ears. If the place where we washed up was one where the tides naturally carried someone, why didn’t any remnants of either of our boats ever wash up at shore? And don’t hurricanes normally last for several days? Didn’t I wake up just a few hours after the crash to a clear sunrise?

The more I tried to put together any of pieces surrounding this place, the less anything seemed to fit together. There’re islands not too far from the coast of Florida – the Bahamas – but they’re generally well-traveled vacation spots. There should be all sorts of planes, ships, and human travel if we’re near them. We haven’t seen any sign of other humans in the whole time we’ve been here, so far. Things just don’t add up.

Frowning to myself as we trudged along, I tried not to let my feeling of trepidation become overwhelming. All we can do is the best we can do, and that’s what we’re doing. For now, the next step is simply learning more about where we are. The future will just have to wait, and we’ll see what comes next, when it comes next.

As the sun finally settled over the jungle to our left, and the moon began to light up the sky, Laulaia began to sing a soft song for us. Sung in their language, I was now proficient enough to understand most of the words of love and betrayal which she was singing. It was, The Ballad of Forgotten Darkness, and it was quite a beautiful tune when sung in her soft, willowy voice. It made a nice distraction from my worries, and I was thankful to her for it.

When she finished, and before she could start another, I took a deep breath and began to sing, myself. Now, I’ll admit, I’m not the world’s best singer – in fact, I’d rank myself almost as one of the world’s worst – but my rendition of Unchained Melody was somehow moving enough to make Laulaia stop moving, just so she could stand and listen.

Tears leaking unabashedly down her cheeks when I finished, Laulaia sniffled and wiped her eyes several times. “That’s beautiful,” she whispered, almost reverently. “Did you write that for your wife?”

“Me?” Laughing, I could only shake my head at her absurd suggestion. “That’s not mine. Sometimes, when I just want to have a little fun, I’ll come up with a little jingle or set of lyrics, but I’m not a song writer. That’s the Righteous Brothers.”

“Tell them they can make a lot of money, if they sell or sing that one,” Laulaia told me, absolutely seriously. “It’s wonderful.”

“I think they’ve already did that,” I replied, laughing. How could she not know such a common song? Shrugging, I started tugging on my sled once again. Just chalk it up as another one of the damn mysteries of this place and the girls.

Now that we were walking in the water’s edge, the boards floated easily enough, so we were actually making better time moving than what I’d imagined we would. The next several hours, we all enjoyed the view of the moon glimmering over the gentle ocean, as we laughed, joked, and sung our way ever further northward.

Honestly, one section of beach looked much like the previous section, to me, and I didn’t see anything that I’d leap to call a “distinguishing landmark”. There was gentle blue-green ocean to the right, thick jungle foliage to the left, and a wide slate-gray beach between. Nothing else really jumped out and said, “Wooo, lookie, I’m special!” No fresh water streams, no roads, no docks, no buildings. Just the same old, same old.

The moon was about half-way past its zenith, and well on the way towards heading into the jungle horizon, when we finally stopped. From my estimation, we’d probably traveled twice the distance that I’d expected we would. Finding a suitable stop to meet our general needs, we dragged our rafts across the beach and into the edge of the jungle.

Using the three rafts to form the walls of our new shelter, assembling a new building to act as a water-catcher was a quick, almost effortless task. By the time the sun had risen, we were all finished and stripped out of our clothes. Exhausted, we enjoyed the last of our fresh meat – it spoils too quickly to last for more than about half a day or so – and snuggled up together to rest.

So far, moving somewhere new didn’t seem at all much different than where we were at before.