Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-friends/shark-reef/) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.
NOTE: In this chapter, I use some real names in an utterly-fictional way. The Gov-Gen and Prime Minister of the Solomon Islands and a couple of famous actors DO NOT (as far as I know) have anything to do with ANY gay porn story, and certainly not this one.
I smiled slyly. "I hope this sounds as good in my head tomorrow when the hash wears off, but I just had a very interesting idea about that." We cuddled and cooed together without actual sex until we both drifted off.
Shark Reef 12: Happily Ever Aftering
By Bear Pup
It was perhaps two hours after full-dark when we were jolted awake by a bullhorn: THIS IS THE RSIPV LATA CALLING MISTERS CANTRELL AND DOYLE. IF YOU CAN HEAR THIS MESSAGE, TURN THE CONTACT RADIO TO CHANNEL SIX. REPEAT: TURN THE CONTACT RADIO TO CHANNEL SIX.
Since they'd scared us half to death, we had a spot of trouble getting our fingers to work the radio. They had started again before we got it right: THIS IS THE RSIPV LATA CALLING MISTERS... We finally found Channel 6. "--oyl. We pause ten seconds for you to reply. Over."
"Hello! Hello! This is Cantrell and Doyle! Hello?" The bullhorn fell abruptly silent.
The voice was calm and had an accent that was exotic and friendly, "So glad to hear your voice. I am Captain [aye-KAY-oh] of the RSIPV Lata. Is this Mr Cantrell or Mr Doyle? Over."
"Cantrell. Mr Doyle is here next to me."
"Excellent. Mr Doyle, please say your name so we can be sure you are alright. Over."
"Ian Doyle here, sir!"
"Quite excellent. As you may have guessed, we are your rescue party. Now, I understand from our dispatchers that you two feel it is safe to await morning? If not, we can attempt to send a launch immediately. Over."
"It's too dangerous and we're fine for now. Repeat, we're fine for now. Um, Over?"
There was a friendly chuckle. "That is very good of you, Mr Cantrell. Nothing in the weather should bother you, no rain to speak of and enough of a breeze to keep the midges at bay. Leave the radio on and tuned to this frequency so we can contact you if anything changes. We'll also let you know when we send out the launch. We will likely wait until full light. If you need anything at all, please press send and say 'LATA' loud and clear, then wait ten seconds. Over."
"Understood. We will say 'LATA' if we need you and you'll tell us if anything changes. Over. Oh, um, not over." Ian and I smiled at each other and screamed in unison, "GOD BLESS YOU! Now, um, over."
We could actually hear the laughter over the lapping waves. We snuggled down and cuddled more than anything else for the next five or six hours, neither of us able to sleep but nor were we interested in losing skin contact between us. When the sky began to lighten, we scrambled through the clothes for the least-hideous options for each of us and slathered on the sunscreen from the first aid kit. The faint blush of dawn let us see our rescuers for the first time. The view was... uninspiring.
The grey hulk was perhaps fifty yards offshore and rose above the light waves about the height of a tall man. Honestly, I think I'd seen bigger tugboats. A massive, stenciled '03' on the bow took up the whole area from wave to rail and a blue-and-white checkered band reading POLICE circled the part that stuck up in the middle of the boat. All that mattered, though, was a guy with binoculars waving at us. We waved back like high-school cheerleaders at The Big Game, hooting and hollering. Soon, the deck was manned by about twenty guys in bright white shirts and deep black faces smiling and waving.
Ian had thought to bring the radio and it squawked to life. I could see an impressive and rather portly man with a microphone. "Well, Misters Cantrell and Doyle. Early risers I see. Almost as if you are all packed and ready to leave your private tropical vacation! Over."
"Of course we--" Ian slapped my hand off the switch before I could finish, ''--'re ready you fucking idiot!" Apparently, the guy with the binoculars had a damned good guess. I could see the Captain and half the crew belly-laughing.
"I think we'll put the launch ashore in about an hour when we have a higher tide. We'll come into the narrow space about sixty metres south of you. Kindly have your luggage and boarding passes ready! Over!"
Ian and I looked at each other and tried to think if there was anything we wanted. The monocular and the multi-tool (which I vowed never again to be without). I grabbed the giant bar of hashish and Ian cocked an eyebrow. "This is priceless shit, Ian. I'd hate to leave it for the crabs. I'll give it to the captain and it's his problem on whether to, you know, throw away tens of thousands of dollars of joy." We both stared wistfully at that tiny pipe.
We toted all the luggage, including Teeny Bop and Useless to near where Bra Island narrowed to make retrieval easier. After that, we just sat and jittered for a while. Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity and the captain spoke through the radio. "We are launching the craft that will come ashore and retrieve you. Please stand well back, preferably in the tree-line. Over."
Instead of responding I just waved and Ian and I stepped to the trees. The launch gradually took shape. At first, it looked like a long, deep vee made of seemingly-thin plastic, maybe like a postmodern canoe in eye-piercing orange. At a signal, a man on each side pulled some handles and a boat magically appeared as the sides ballooned with air, creating great, grey-black tubes that came to blunted point in front. Five men clamored in, two burdened with huge backpacks.
The launch moved back from the main craft and scooted over to a point facing the beach. A man sitting in the middle called out comments that we couldn't hear, obviously timing the wave. With a shout, all the men grabbed the ropes on the sides of the boat and the driver slammed it into motion, catching the crest of an incoming wave. We could hear a slight and very brief grinding screech, apparently as it topped the highest point on the reef, but no one looked alarmed or even surprised. The thing beached itself and all but the driver leapt out and pulled it further onto the sand, one man on each side then sprinted for the trees and secured lines.
The two with backpacks trotted off toward the end of the island where the container was, giving us a cheery wave as they passed out of sight. The one who tied off the rope closest to us smiled massively in his deep-black face. He wasn't tall, just big with loads of muscle. "The ropes are just a precaution. Come with me and I'll get you settled in the launch and you'll be on the Lata in no time!" He was absolutely true to his word; Ian and I were in ludicrously-huge life preservers and tied to the bench seat in front of the driver securely before we really knew what happened.
Within moments, the men with the ropes came running and the driver said, "Hold tight. They push us out now!" Both of the muscular, squat men hit the balloon-bow like linebackers and the smooth orange hull slid across the sand. They grabbed the ropes on the sides and kept pushing, keeping as much of their momentum as possible, then suddenly vaulted over the sides, slewing us left as they did so. Calm as anything, they strapped in, smiling at us, as the driver caused the little boat to leap over an incoming wave and fly toward the larger boat. I felt like I was being dribbled by a Harlem Globetrotter.
The larger vessel began to move and we fell in behind like a ducking in its mother's wake. Our ride suddenly became smooth as glass as we crept closer and closer. One of the men on our little launch moved forward and threw a tow-line that another sailor caught and affixed to a winch and we were inexorably pulled up a sloped pair of rails. We were unswaddled and chivvied aboard into the waiting arms of Captain Akao himself. "Welcome to the Lata!" He laughed and patted us both on the shoulder, "and by extension, the Solomon Islands. Do you have anything to declare?"
"Actually, Captain, can we step aside for a moment?" I left Ian vociferously and profusely thanking anyone he could get to hold still long enough as the men readied the launch and set off again. The Captain's huge smile had gone off like a light switch. He stepped into a hatchway and gestured me to follow. "Um, we found this in one of the pieces of luggage. And yes, it's what it looks like." I handed him the thin, tablet-sized brick and his eyes boggled. He opened the plastic, sniffed and stepped back.
"Is this yours?"
"God, no! We found it going through the luggage looking for things to help us survive. It was in a sort of strange pocket. I'm guessing it was some drug dealer's sample wares?"
"And Mr Doyle? He knows about it?"
"Well, he saw it, but he's just a kid. I doubt he has any idea what it is. I didn't know until I saw the little pipe thing," I lied smoothly.
"I'll take charge of it then. Please don't mention it to the men. If it's what it looks like, it could crash the economy of the Solomon Islands! We'd have to go on the Hashish Standard!"
The ride back was long. The crew made us comfortable in a 'lounge' sort of space, wrapping us in long sheet/blankets and providing an endless supply of tea and 'biscuits'. Ya know, the Brits supposedly created the English language. Why they can't tell the difference between cookies and biscuits is beyond me. The crisp little things were good, though, and the tea was strong and well-caffeinated. My body had forgotten the magic of caffeine and reveled in the return of the Elixir of Life.
The Captain interviewed us each alone, then together, getting details that his five-man team (boat driver and four others who stayed) could use. He radioed them the location of Crab Man's body, and the fact that the pump inside the container was a fresh water source. Other than that, there really wasn't much else of value. Our individual stories of leaving the plane were endlessly fascinating and he had us repeat many parts.
Ian, it turned out, had been on the other end of my row of four 'middle' seats. I was on the aisle, Grandma Noses was in the left-middle, her best friend Ethel in the right-middle and Ian on the other aisle. Ian recalled seeing Ethel leafing through a book of patterns; I avoided looking at him then since it was likely that Little Old Lady bag -- from whence came the Ninja Knitting Needles -- were likely either Ethel's or Grandma Noses who name I never even bothered to find out.
It's strange how quickly you can get accustomed to certain things, and how standards change. A few hours earlier, I was wiping myself with a philodendron leaf and delighted to have it; in the head on the Lata, I was cursing the scratchy brand of toilet paper supplied by the Solomon Islands Maritime Police.
Ian was a marvel, though. He positively bubbled and the crew ate it up. I just smiled as I watched. Eventually, he faded to sleep and I followed quickly; the thrum of the engines and the rhythm of the calm sea washed us both to a dreamless and very deep sleep. It's not that we hadn't slept on the Island. Far from it; we slept more than we did anything else. This was different. It was the sleep of sudden safety after a week of working hard not to die quite yet.
They woke us as we approached the harbor at Honiara and pulled into a slip reserved for the RSIPV Lata. It was late afternoon, perhaps heading to early evening. We were hustled ashore and into a waiting golf cart, then whisked to a huge, cavernous warehouse. A team was waiting, four men in various uniforms and perhaps a dozen miscellaneous workers milling about. One man stepped forward. "Gentlemen, we need to verify your identities before we announce the rescue. I'm very sorry, but there have been hoaxes before."
"Um, before you do that, I have to insist on speaking with someone from the British Foreign and Commonwealth Office." The man rocked back on his heels.
"As it happens, Solomon Islands is a Commonwealth nation. The representative from the Governor-General's office happens to be an F&CO officer. Mr Henries," he turned to a tall and older black gentleman who was chatting with the captain, "Mr Cantrell needs a word?"
Everyone frowned at me, wondering what was happening, but then busied themselves with Ian. I stepped out of earshot with Mr Henries. "Sir, this is sensitive. I need to speak with someone in the F&CO who would have the clearance to discuss what Noah Pearce, the Queen's Messenger, was carrying in his diplomatic pouch." I would have gotten a less-shocked reaction if I'd dropped my pants and danced a nekkid hula.
"I beg your pardon?"
I sighed deeply. "This has been a long and harrowing week. I don't want there to be any... misunderstandings or to say the wrong thing in front of all these people while I'm tired, cranky and unsettled. Do you have a secure way to communicate with someone that has that level of clearance?"
He just blinked at me, slowly reddening. I had the patience of a toddler by that point. "Fine. Let me put it another way. I am familiar with everything Mr Pearce was carrying and where it is right now. I think you'll find the F&CO to be extremely... displeased if I cannot report my information to someone with the authority to discuss it. Jeeze. The fact that I know who the hell Noah Pearce is should be enough!"
He was a career political type and thus allergic to surprises and highly-sensitive to threats. We were in the back of a black micro-mini-van thing in moments with the driver zipping through the crowded streets. Perhaps five minutes later, still without a word, Mr Henries led me into a boring looking building between a couple of banks. He led me past some very curious-looking guards and secretaries to a small room.
"This was my assistant's office before the Government cut the position a couple years ago. Have a seat just there, please, while I see with whom you can 'discuss' things." He sat in front of the large monitor and started typing.
A beeping emerged and Mr Henries said, "Good morning, Peters."
"Good evening Henries. You're in late."
"I have what might be a situation. Do you have a few minutes to speak to a Mr Cantrell who we believe was on Virgin Australia Flight 9? He said something about a Mr Noah Pearson and a diplomatic pouch?"
There was a long, long silence. "Did he give you any other info?"
"That he knows what the man was carrying and that he needed to, uh, 'report to someone in authority'. And he's here if you would like to speak with him?"
"Yes. And if you would leave the room, please, and see that security is in place?"
"Of course."
The tall, elegant black man bowed me into the chair he'd been sitting in. I expected the 'black silhouette against an ominous background' kind of thing, maybe with a spinning blue logo, all lines and angles. What I got was a balding, middle-aged bureaucrat with teeth that can only come from British dentistry sipping what had to be tea from a garishly-colored teddy-bear mug. "Mr Cantrell? I'm Fredrick Peters. Please feel free to call me Fred or Peters at your preference. How should I address you?"
"Um, JB would be fine, sir. Sorry to cause trouble. It's got to be early where you are."
"Yes, it's barely light out. But I've always been an early riser. What can 'a person in authority' at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office -- that would be me -- do for a presumed-dead American glass salesman from Salt Lake City?"
Yikes. That was fast. Okay. "I found the briefcase that had probably been handcuffed to a Mr Noah Pearson. I say probably because the entire handle was ripped from the case, along with some other... damage. We were survivors of the plane... by the way, I never asked. Was it a plane crash?"
He looked genuinely surprised. "Actually, no. The pilots were able to land at Buka. Twenty-seven are still missing and presumed dead, including you and Mr Doyle until we get confirmation. Sixteen others died of various causes... including a certain Noah Pearson. I therefore have to politely insist you get to the point, JB."
"Sorry. Sorry. It's been an pretty full week." I got a wry and very British smile at that. "I was desperate and went through every piece of luggage thoroughly, including the late Queen's Messenger's case. When I realized what was in the diplomatic pouch--"
"You opened it?" His eyebrows shot upwards.
"I'm not an idiot; of course I opened it! It could have had a sat-phone in there!" He sat back and pursed his lips. "As soon as I guessed what I was seeing, I buried it."
"For God's sake, why?"
"Because I was pretty certain both the kid and I were going to be dead soon," I snapped at him, "and I had a strange hunch you wouldn't want just anybody finding it! I've been on an island surrounded by sharks for a week and I itch like a motherfucker and want a shower and a bed. Can we stop with the silly questions?" He nodded at me silently.
Deep, calming breath. "I will tell you where to find it whether or not you agree to do me the favor I ask. In fact, it is seven paces, yards, metres, whatever from the container. Use the logo like an arrow and it will point right to it. It's about three or four feet down in the sand. Shouldn't you be writing this down?"
"Everything is recorded and, as you say, why waste time with silly questions? I assume that the favor is going to surprise me?"
I blushed so red I wasn't sure I could talk. "Yeah. Yeah, it sure surprised me. I did a lot of soul-searching on that island and I'm not really excited about JB Cantrell coming back from the dead." I said the last all in a rush. I looked up and he didn't seem at all surprised.
"And?"
"What do you mean, AND? I want you to let JB Cantrell stay dead and me to, um, be someone else."
The man stared at me for the longest time. "JB, I need more tea. This is going to be a longer conversation that I expected. If you need anything, stick your head out the door and ask whomever is nearest. Back in a mo."
I sat there blinking at the monitor. What the fuck just happened? A minute or two later, the man came back with something I'd never seen outside a BBC murder mystery. A kettle in a fucking tea-cozy. He poured himself some and sipped gingerly, doing the 'hot coffee mouth dance'.
"Now, what did you have in mind? A penthouse with hot and cold running maids and a lifetime supply of Guinness? What?"
I spluttered. "No! Just give me enough to get started and the paper trail to be whoever you want. Nothing else."
"Nothing? I find that exceptionally difficult to believe."
"Listen, buster. I just handed a brick of black-tar hash to a Solomon Islands cop that's probably worth more than I make in a year and just told you, gratis, where to find your spy shit. I really don't need you telling--"
"Calm, please. I am simply surprised. As it happens, I have a very interesting proposition..."
BBC WORLD SERVICE NEWS FLASH: Two Survivors of Air Disaster Found Two men ejected from Virgin Australia Flight 9, commonly referred to by the flight designation NZ-9, were found alive and in reasonable health, authorities tell us, on a small atoll north of the Solomon Islands. Details have not been released, and neither have the identities of the two men pending notification of loved ones.
BBC WORLD SERVICE NEWS FLASH: NZ-9 Survivors Named as Story Unfolds
Officials of the Royal Solomon Islands Police Force who effected the rescue, flanked by Governor-General Frank Kabui and Prime Minister Manasseh Sogavare, announced today that Mr Ian Doyle of Limerick in the Republic of Ireland and Mr Noah Pearce of Twickenham, London, England survived NZ-9.
Their harrowing story is only beginning to come to light, but both were ejected mid-air and lived to tell the tale. Another 25 who were also ejected are presumed dead, along with 16 who died when or shortly after the plane explosively-decompressed but were still physically in the plane when it made its miraculous landing on the tiny field at Baku Town, Papua New Guinea.
The accounts of the pilots (see original stories, here and here and here) confirm that the plane was low and slow enough that survival was possible, but the odds were astronomically-small. Few believed even the bodies would ever be recovered. The plane's post-event flight path, adjusted to match the place where the two men were found, passes over no other spot of land. Mr Doyle, a student in university, and Mr Pearson, a retired civil servant, survived on what they could glean from luggage that washed ashore and what they could catch with...
THE TIMES 'Virgin Flight Nine, a Love Story' Tops Best Seller List The harrowing and emotional tale of Mr Ian Doyle (as told to the celebrated ghost-writer Sheldon Miles) is part adventure, part farce and all love story. It tells a story of survival after the infamous mid-air failure of Virgin Australia's Flight 9 by a young student and an older man and the unlikely love that kindled on a tiny Pacific atoll.
ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY 'Shark Reef' Starts Filming The whirlwind fame of air-disaster survivor Ian Doyle is being rushed to the big screen. The book, 'Virgin Flight Nine, a Love Story' spent a mere three weeks on NYT's List but it resonated with a young, hip crowd. We can now confirm the rumors that Devon Murray (Seamus in the Harry Potter franchise) will play the hero. Alan Van Sprang (Reign, Shadowhunters) will play the older Noah Pearce, the hard-boiled and worldly-wise man that Ian tames into a tender-hearted lover.
"You know, you're a hell of a lot cuter than Seamus Whatshisname from the wizard movie." I snuggled into Ian a little tighter as he read to me from the printout his (I guess 'our') agent sent of the article that would run in next week's EW. The rippling light from the huge fish tank -- all the fish were technically sharks, of course, though a lot less intimidating that the ones when we'd first met -- made the pages swim and washed across Ian's cream-smooth skin.
"Then again, the King Henry guy is a hell of a lot hotter than me, so I guess it balances out." I nuzzled into Ian's neck and he purred.
"No one is hotter than you and you know it. And I had a serious hardon for Devon Murray."
"Whoa! You like old guys like me OOF--"
"He was cute and his patronus was a fox. Just. Like. You." I lost myself in the kiss for a minute, then let my hand wander into Ian's pants, teasing his hole. He moaned and wriggled onto my finger. "But yeah, I'll probably like him better when he's, you know, old like you..."
"Careful there, tiger, or the, um," I reached over him for the printout with the hand not fingering my young love's ass, "hard-boiled and worldly-wise Noah Pearce will tan your fanny."
"Promise?"
T_H_E___E_N_D
I offer a heartfelt and sincere note of thanks to those who wrote me about Shark Reef and grew attached to the unlikely story of Ian and JB. That tale is now at its end, but I assure you that good and sexy stories are not. Please check out some of my other work at http://www.nifty.org/nifty/authors.html#bearpup. Love & Kisses, Bear Pup.
If you want to get mail notifying you of new postings or give me ANY feedback that could make me a better author, e-mail me at orson.cadell@gmail.com
Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Canvas Hell: 32 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 24 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 26 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Lake Desolation: 18 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/ Culberhouse Rules: 9 chapters .../incest/culberhouse-rules/ Raven's Claw: 7 chapters .../authoritarian/ravens-claw/ Ashes & Dust: 2 chapters .../rural/ashes-and-dust/