Part One - Filfa
Marisa
FUCK! was all Marisa could think as she wrapped herself out of what was left of her Euro 800 Heimplanet Cave titanium tent. Grateful to have googled the most wind-resistant tent before she embarked on her project, she was swearing because the situation (and her tent) looked worse for wear in the dim morning light. Even worse than when she dragged herself to sleep after nearly drowning after her dive yesterday.
She stretched her light frame and donned her wet suit again- this had almost dried, which did not make the exercise easier, but she did not want to waste fresh water on it as she only had carried two twenty-five litre canisters up to her tent. Being blessed with 32E boobs did not help with this either, so she was happy only to work the zipper halfway up, donned her belt, mobile, and diver's knife, and was ready.
Most Maltese would have described her as normal if a bit skinny looking. She took after her Maltese mother, who once won the competition of most attractive student nurse in the nineties, with long, almost black hair, olive skin, and long legs. They'd ask her about the blue eyes that would always remind them of her German father and his medical school exchange fling.
In Germany, they described her as a Mediterranean Goddess or a f'ckin Turkish cunt depending on their socialization and intoxication status and desire to bed her. Still, she had never felt less gorgeous or more sore than this morning. And she had bad mornings in the past – mostly when her mum was full of drugs, alcohol, or semen from some sleepover she had picked up on her way to get sloshed yet again, and she needed to sort it out—something she would have to do a lot growing up.
Where had the bloody storm come from? Was it a storm to start with? Her weather app had indicated sunshine, and July is mostly stable weather all over the Mediterranean and far too early for winter storms. Her iPhone and iPad showed no network coverage. Peering over the rocks, the big Maltese island was still not visible; it was like a wall of haze, although the sky had cleared up a bit, and she should have had a signal, being just four miles from the Dinghli masts.
She needed to see whether Lady G had survived the night, so she needed to get down to the leeward side of Filfa, where she had been anchored for the last two days. It was ironic that she was allowed to use her almost-ex father-in-law’s fifty-foot historic Yawl to sail for her master's project, although it was mainly idling moored in Gzira marina most of the year.
Her ex got seasick just looking at boats, and daddy was too busy running his property empire. It was purchased as a mere vanity project - she fell in love with it when she first set foot on it, having learned to sail in Uni. Her father-in-law might also hope he could get in her pants now that she disposed of the younger model. She got hives just thinking of his lecherous glances when she was hanging out at the pool, and nobody was watching (or so he thought). Like father like son, she guessed.
The two boat crewmen enjoyed the break from their boring harbour routine and the sight of Marisa tanning in her bikini on the way there. They would have gone back at the end of today anyway after setting Marisa up for her fourteen-day stint, replenishing her halfway through. The government would not allow the boat to anchor for the whole period; hence she needed to set up camp- this would disturb the habitat less, or so the theory goes.
Ironically, her ex-boyfriend fell for a student marine geologist (there were more ironic things about her useless ex, but this is another story), with his seasickness and adversity to boats. Thinking how hard she had lobbied the Maltese environment and planning authority for her to study the cliffs of Filfa and what had led to half of the island sinking after the 1856 quake, she got ready. As funny as it may sound, this had interested her since she was part of the marine and seashore surveying group at Malta University during her first degree. Now that she had lost her camera, hard drive, notes, and anything else, if the boat was lost in her near-drowning experience yesterday, ironic really didn't quite cover it.
Having pitched the Heimplanet about a third up the sixty-meter high cliffs on the leeward Malta-facing side of Filfa on a little recess, she walked the five meters to the edge of the little ravine where the steep climb down to the shore started.
“What the fuck?” she shouted. Marisa was not typically one of the girls who made her points by swearing more than the sailors, geologists, and other blokes she regularly worked with, but she was otherwise lost for words. Instead of looking twenty meters down in the sea, she was looking at a stretch of land ranging about one kilometre towards the big island. Was there an earthquake? An earthquake? She could not remember feeling shakes, although it would explain the storm and waves,
She climbed down about five meters and tried to get to the far side, which appeared to be about a one-kilometre walk, for a higher position. She still could not see the Maltese mainland, just some gray haze in the north. She must have looked on her phone about twenty times in the ten minutes since she got out of her tent, and there was still no cell signal. Frustrated, she put it back in her Aquapack waterproof belt pouch. There were no masts to see, which was worrying, as this was bad news regarding the Yawl.
Down on the lower part, it did not look like this was part of the seabed yesterday. It appeared to be grass and macchia like everywhere else on the Maltese islands and dry with no signs of old ammo or seashells or weeds or anything she would have expected if the sea around Filfa had suddenly risen by thirty meters. Also, strangely, no debris from Lady G or other boats sunk here by the Brits over half a century ago anywhere to be seen. Was that a good sign? Did they get the boat away? They were professional sailors, after all.
This lower area looked about doubling the size of the island, mainly to the west and a bit to the north- whilst she could still not see the Maltese mainland, she would not have expected to be significantly closer to it. At odds as to what to do next, she went back up, retrieved her diving gear minus the useless, as now empty air bottle from outside her tent where she must have dumped it in her exhaustion and terror yesterday, and prepared to make the shortest possible way to the waterline.
Her plan was still to see if she could find the boat, missing that to explore the seabed with her snorkel to see if this could help explain what was happening here. She also kept pinching herself in case she was still asleep. She had been terrified the day before, suddenly sucked to the ground whilst exploring the island's windward side underwater. She was then thrown up in a sea that appeared to be boiling and nearly drowned several times until she managed to get on the island and fall into a dreamless sleep in her tent. But she was remarkably calm today.
One of her dad's principles that she had sworn to upkeep is that one should not waste time fighting or be anxious regarding things outside of one's control; trying to adapt was a better way to deal with ambiguity or wait for when the time to fight came. This had served them well during the pandemic. Either way, she was not getting her knickers in a twist (not that she wore any under her wetsuit). However, she felt emptying her bladder would be a good idea, so she pulled down her wetsuit with little bother about the sea petrels that would be the only witnesses to what was happening. Scratching her snatch, which she usually kept meticulously groomed, but had started to grow very short pitch-black hair whilst being at sea, sent a shiver through her pussy.
Calm down, girl; she thought it's been a while, fearing her drought period might last a bit longer given her situation. In truth, it had only been twenty-four hours since she last had a session with her trusted Satisfyer, which she kept in her cabin on the Lady G in its USB charger. As for real cock that was sadly a different story.
She dumped her ex halfway through the pandemic when she found him mounting daddy's PA and having the guts to ask her to join the fun rather than just continue to stand there gawking. She was no prude by a long way, but that suggestion was stretching her fantasy a bit too far. Especially given the fact that she was coming home from a wedding planner, thinking about the proposal he made only a week before, and her reluctant acceptance - at least it confirmed her doubts. He was kind of good-looking, from a filthy rich family and nice enough mostly- but he rarely got her eyes hazy, neither in life nor in bed, and was interested fuck all in her as a person, but liked to show her off to his mates as if she was a prize. He also had strayed not only at this time; good riddance.
She had not really been bothered by lockdown as it got rid of all the college boys coming onto her constantly in Southampton Uni. She had never been a party girl (her mum covered that for her and several other people). She did not think marine engineering (her first degree) or geography was such an alpha male course. Blokes had become a right PITA after word got out she might have become available.
After half-term in Malta, she blended more in; her long black hair hung to the hips when left down. Her Levantine features were considered more normal, and whilst her body was carved out of a thirteen-year-old schoolboy's wet dreams, she would primarily hide it in jeans and T-shirts. Her mum said that all German girls wear a uniform even if they look more practical than attractive. Whilst she tended to agree, she preferred dresses.
However, she wore them only in the summer in the Mediterranean - no dress looks appealing if the wearer is covered in goosebumps and has clattering teeth. (The tolerance to cold was definitely not something she had inherited from her dad). The vibrator might have gone down with the ship (as she could not see any masts), which didn't improve her morning mood. Her iPhone had shown it was 10.30 when she woke up, and she was unsure what to expect from this strange day. It was only clear that she was not asleep.
Walking back to the lower part, she finally reached sea level on the island's western tip, which still had its old (or normal) outline. Arriving at the beach, she saw a large post or pole with what appeared to be a human arm tied to it above it, and there was a long blond mane and a shoulder just above the waterline.
WTF? Now running down to the person, she tried to recall what her dad and the countless first aid courses he had made her take (in the hope she might follow his path and become an anesthesiologist or emergency doctor) recommended in this situation. Was there such a thing if you were ever stranded on an island that did not exist yesterday and found yourself in a position to be the first responder to an unconscious person? Goodness!
First, she needed to get them out of the water. Trying that proved more problematic as it appeared to be the guy was as out of it as anyone can be, head flopping around. Cutting the piece of wood with her knife, she lifted it off of the man to free his body and appraised her options. Pulling bit by bit was the only feasible plan while trying to keep the dangling head mainly above the water. She had to regain her strength after getting the bloody pole off the bloke and dragging him almost out of the water, giving her time to appraise her rescue.
He was about one hundred eighty-five centimetres, making him about ten centimetres taller than her and possibly weighing eighty kilograms. Even with her best moves and well-trained body, there was no way of carrying him further, as there was almost no tone in him. Bringing her wrist close to his mouth and nose reassured her he was just out and not dead, although his breathing appeared shallow and irregular. She found a low pulse on his carotid artery and decided that had to be good enough for now. Dad would have done a primary survey, so she looked at his body all over, patting down his sides.
His body shape would have otherwise increased the tingles in her neither region. He appeared well-built without pumping iron constantly and taking steroids, as her ass of an ex did. No, this looked more like hard work and good genes.
“Hello, Mr Shaggable; pleased to meet you,” she said aloud. No response, not that she expected one. What an ass! Yes, he had a chunky ass as well in what seemed to be a white loincloth or something. She was tempted to look at what this hid at the front. Focus, girl, focus!
The loincloth was the only kind of clothing, if you could call it that, that he wore. He had otherwise little on him, but his stuff was strange.
Jesus, who would walk around like this? You'd get arrested or sectioned!
His right hand clutched a dagger or knife of some sort; his grip was so hard she could barely wrestle it free. Strangely, it looked kind of old, like something she would have seen in the Roemisch/Germanisches Museum in Cologne as a youngster. However, it appeared to be brand spanking new, and it certainly had no 'made in Hong Kong' stamp on it and only a light layer of rust.