John Fisher was sitting at one of the many outdoor bars that covered the beach area of Phuket, Thailand watching the hundreds of sailors walking around. He had just gotten off the ship with a four day pass of not having to be back at the ship until the morning it got underway. The sun had just gone down with an evening tropical breeze blowing off of the ocean cooling off the heat of the day.
"What are you looking for?"
"Mermaids," the young woman replied without hesitation, without even lowering her binoculars. Her Irish accent matched the fiery mane of curly red hair that had first caught my eye. She was currently leaning against the railing at the bow of the ferry, scanning the horizon, her plump bottom pushed out behind her, an attractive target for the flat of my hand, but I resisted the temptation.
Bridgett was a single woman in her forties, tall and average looking; not one to stand out in a crowd, yet pretty in her own way. The chestnut hue of her hair with just a hint of auburn accentuated her mysterious lens-covered green eyes. Being a bit on the thick side she was never model material, but then again she never wanted to be and was happy with her appearance.
What happens in Puerto Rico, stays in Puerto Rico. That was always the understanding for our quarterly business trip to the Island. Unfortunately for me, in the dozen or so times I had traveled to the tropical oasis, nothing worthy of keeping secret had ever occurred.
"What should I pack," I debated, as I wrestled with whether or not I could cram enough clothes into a carry-on bag to avoid the incredibly slow baggage claim process in San Juan.
I use hook-up apps as a way to travel I suppose. I don't have the luxury to flit about the globe taking selfies with landmarks, so more often than not, when I get to chat up a guy, I'm dipping my toe into a completely different life. To a degree, if and when we hook up, I become a different, more adventurous guy. And perhaps, ashamedly - when I'll leave town, there's no looking back.
Gail King, a natural blonde with a figure sculptured perhaps by the sculptor's gardener employed to shape shrubs rather than by the sculptor himself was deposited on rickety jetty on Kismet Island where there was a small roof on four poles for shelter.
"Don't worry love," said the deckhand with an unusually soft Aussie accent as she steered the inflatable away from the jetty ready to roar over the reef to return to the mother boat, a rusting tub that looked ready to sink.
Emily opened her eyes, squinting against the blazing sun and looked down at the clear blue ocean far below her poolside lounge chair. She could hear Latin music drifting faintly from the bar. The air was hot and the faint breeze that blew did little to cool her.
She had been daydreaming, lost in her thoughts.
Every once in awhile I'll enter one of those contests you see in a store or in a magazine. You know the kind, the ones basically designed to entice you into entering just so they can get your phone number or email address and hound you to death with sales offers.
I happened to be shopping for groceries on a cold, snowy, January evening when I spotted the advertisement box for one of these contests.