by LA Witt
Ever the helpful one, Morris had said, “Man, that is one hell of a shiner, Ensign.”
“Wow,” Gonzales had said. “He’s right. I don’t even know if I want to see the other guy.”
At that, Ensign Lange had paled. “What…the other guy?”
“Yeah.” Gonzales gestured at his face. “The one who messed you up? Please tell me you beat the holy hell out of him.”
“Oh.” The ensign had laughed and gestured dismissively, which only drew my attention to his scraped up knuckles. “Went hiking over the weekend. Fucked myself up on the rocks up at Hiji Falls.”
I’d been up to Hiji myself and nearly fallen on the rocks, so I hadn’t thought much of it at the time. But now…
I gulped. “What was his name?”
“Hmm?”
“The kid,” I said. “What was his name?”
“Lange. Aiden Lange.”
I closed my eyes. “Oh, fuck…”
“What?” Eric asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Ensign Lange, he…” I lowered my voice even though there was no one else around. “Eric, I work with him.”
Eric’s eyes widened. “You do?”
I nodded. “Not directly. But he’s in my department. Unless there’s another kid by the same name with a stitched-up eyebrow who’s telling people he busted his ass at Hiji Falls.”
Eric shifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Wow. Small world.”
“And an even smaller island,” I said.
“No kidding.” He turned onto his side, facing me. “Then maybe we should take this as a sign we need to be extra careful.” Sliding his hand over mine on my chest, he added, “Extra discreet.”
“We’re being careful and discreet,” I said, turning my hand over beneath his. “Let’s just take this as a hint to really watch our backs and be careful, but I don’t see it as a sign we need to stop.”
“Stop?” Eric grinned. “Who said anything about stopping?”
I laughed to mask the sigh of relief. “Good. We’d better not be stopping.”
“We aren’t. Not if I have anything to say about it.” He watched his thumb trace the side of my hand. “Does make me realize how amazingly small this place really is, though.”
“No shit. Gets a little claustrophobic sometimes.”
“Yeah, it does.”
I absently ran my fingers through his hair. “You know, maybe we need to get off this island for a little while.”
He furrowed his brow. “And go where, exactly? Up to the mainland?”
I shook my head. “I was thinking somewhere a little more local. And less populated.”
“I’m listening.”
“There’s this island off the coast,” I said. “Komaka. It’s tiny. Seriously, you can walk around it in about five or ten minutes.”
Eric blinked. “I believe those are called rocks, Shane, not islands.”
I laughed. “Oh, it’s decent sized. Mostly sand, but it’s got some rocks on it. They even built a restroom on it a few years ago. Anyway, it’s about two miles off shore, fifteen minutes by boat, and has some amazing snorkeling.” I met his eyes and trailed my fingers along the shaved side of his head. “Maybe we can take off. Camp there for a night. Get away from this place for a little while.”
“You don’t think that’s a little conspicuous?”
“There’s never any Americans there. Especially not in the middle of the week.”
“Hmm.” He pursed his lips. “Well, maybe next time I have a couple of days off during the week…”
“You bring the beer,” I said with a grin, “I’ll pack the tent.”
He returned the grin and slid closer to me. “Who brings the condoms and lube?”
“Hmm,” I said, shivering when he bent to kiss my neck. “How about we both bring some?”
“Extra prepared,” he murmured beneath my jaw. “I like this plan. Sign me up.”
“Consider yourself signed up.”
“Excellent.” He pressed his hips against mine. “And consider yourself signed up for another round of everything you did a few minutes ago.”
“Bring it on.”
Chapter Fifteen
Eric
Small world or not, our clandestine method of dating turned out to be the perfect excuse to explore the island. Just as Shane predicted, we rarely saw any Americans, especially as we drove farther and farther from the bases. There wasn’t a Y plate in sight when we went up to Cape Hedo, the cliffs at the north end of the island. No one spoke a lick of English when we checked out the castle ruins south of Naha, and I didn’t see a single American as we chanced being in the same car and drove around Henza, Ikei, Miyagi, and Hamahiga Islands. After a couple of excursions, I relaxed.
And so much for my cousin’s summary of this place. Okinawa was fucking stunning. The areas immediately surrounding the bases were moderately westernized, but once we were ten or fifteen clicks from Kadena in any direction, the number of signs written in English decreased significantly. In some of the smaller villages, we were lucky to find anyone who spoke English, so I was more than a little thankful for Shane’s ability to speak enough Japanese to get us by. I picked up words and phrases as we went, but he was almost fluent.
And he was right about being out in public together--even when we did run into Americans, no one batted an eye at the two of us. They didn’t know who we were, never mind what our ranks were, and two American men talking to each other wasn’t terribly unusual. In a place where you don’t speak the common language, it’s almost a given you’ll start talking to anyone who speaks yours. If we bumped into someone one of us knew, which happened on rare occasions, we just acted, as always, like Shane and I had only just met and struck up a conversation.
Not that anyone questioned us or even really noticed. Standing in the turquoise glow of the Churaumi Aquarium’s enormous shark tank, I couldn’t imagine anyone bothered giving any thought to the two guys standing a few inches apart, watching the stingrays dart between massive manta rays and whale sharks. At the Japanese Navy Underground Headquarters, as far as anyone else was concerned, we were just a couple of World War II buffs comparing notes on the Battle of Okinawa. And there wasn’t an American in sight to give a rat’s ass about us while we wandered through Shuri Castle or along the walls of Nakijin Castle.
Still, we didn’t dare show any affection in public. Even when we were deep in the forest hiking to Hiji Falls, or soaking up the sun and scenery on some remote beach we’d probably never find again, we didn’t risk more than the occasional exchanged look or a brief stolen kiss now and then. It was tempting—oh God, was it ever—to make out on the cliffs of Manzamo while the sun sank into the East China Sea, or strip off our clothes and fuck in the moonlight on a deserted strip of white sand, but we held back. There was always time for that when we made it back to the privacy of our respective apartments.
I had never experienced such incredible snorkeling in my life either. I swore Shane knew all the amazing places around the island. Either that or there was no such thing as a bad snorkel spot here. Whatever the case, he took me to all kinds of secluded areas where the wildlife were colorful and fearless. And dangerous. I swore there wasn’t a creature on or around this island that couldn’t kill or dismember us. Even the snails were deadly.
And finally, we both had a few days off in the middle of the week so we could go check out that tiny island he’d been talking about.
So, here we were, way down on the southeastern coast, standing on a dock while Shane made arrangements with the boat owner to take us out to Komaka Island.
It was a flawless day for snorkeling--the sky was clear, the seas were calm, and while it wasn’t unbearably warm, it was hot enough to make the water nearly irresistible. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
One thing that struck me as odd, though, and had every time we’d been snorkeling, was the lack of seagulls on Okinawa. After a few years in San Diego, it was hard to reconcile a marina, the sounds of boat engines, and the sm
ell of salt and diesel fumes with complete radio silence from those winged white rats.
While Shane and the owner discussed everything, I looked out across the water at the island. Thanks to my camera’s zoom lens, I was able to get a pretty good look at it from here. It was probably three or four miles away, but it didn’t look quite like what Shane had described. A thin belt of golden sand encircled it, but it was definitely more island than beach. Even from here, I could make out some buildings and other signs of civilization, and while it was certainly a small island, it was hardly something we could walk all the way around in five minutes like he insisted we could.
I lowered my camera. “Thought you said this place was tiny and uninhabited.”
He glanced up from counting out yen. “It is.”
“Looks like more than one building to me.”
Shane turned. “No, that’s Kudaka, not Komaka.” He pointed about fifteen degrees to the south. “That is Komaka Island.”
I stood corrected. Maybe two miles off shore, the island was little more than a large rock with a few smaller rocks jutting out into the water on one side and, on the south side, a sandy beach that made up about half of the island. Through my zoom lens, I was able to make out the one and only building, which was a tiny, gray peaked roof peering over the thick bushes, but otherwise, Komaka was just sand, rocks and vegetation. And just as Shane predicted, as near as I could tell from here, there was no one on the island. The beach was deserted, and no boats bobbed in the water beside it.
“Oh,” was all I said.
“Told you it was tiny.”
“Yeah, you were right.” I lowered my camera and glanced at him. “And there isn’t a single vending machine over there?”
He laughed. “Well, all there was last time I was out there was the restroom, but hey, you never know.”
Shane finished settling up with the boat owner, and we took our gear, a cooler and a couple of backpacks to the boat launch.
He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the boat leaves. You want to put on your wet suit here or wait until we get out there?” He nodded toward the island.
“Might as well do it now,” I said. “As long as we’re just sitting here.”
“Go ahead. I’ll keep an eye on our stuff.”
Not that any of it was going anywhere. We could probably leave our stuff there all day—cameras, wallets and all—and no one would touch any of it.
I left Shane by the boat ramp and went to the restroom across the gravel parking lot to change clothes. Wet suits weren’t entirely necessary here, but I preferred to wear one, as did Shane. The water was warm enough, we didn’t really need more than a pair of swimming trunks, but it minimized the amount of skin exposed to the tropical sun. That, and there were box jellyfish around here. I wasn’t terribly keen on getting stung by one of those critters or any of the other things out there with stingers, so I opted to cover up. It wasn’t even a full wet suit, just a half suit: it covered my torso and extended to my knees and elbows but left my lower legs and my forearms exposed. Anything more than that was too restrictive for my taste. Gloves kept my hands from getting scraped up or stung, and either fins or scuba booties—depending on the current—kept my feet covered. If I couldn’t keep my forearms or calves away from something’s stinger, I supposed I deserved to get stung.
When I came back, Shane picked up his wet suit and headed in to change clothes. As he walked past me, he did a down-up with his eyes, then grinned at me. I was suddenly glad he’d had the forethought to bring along more than just beer, food and snorkel gear. I still wasn’t so sure about fooling around somewhere outside our bedrooms, but it would get dark eventually. And with the looks we’d just exchanged and how well he always wore his wet suit, it was a good thing we had condoms and lube with us just in case.
While I waited for him, I sat on a weathered old bench at a nearby picnic table to put sunscreen on my exposed skin. The tropical sun bit hard, a lesson I’d learned very well in both Hawaii and Guam, and I wasn’t spending another weekend sick and miserable because I hadn’t put on enough sunscreen. Once I’d put on enough to seal out the sun, I capped the bottle, dropped it into my backpack and glanced up just in time to see Shane on his way back from changing clothes.
God. I couldn’t imagine anything Shane could wear that wouldn’t look good, but painted-on black Lycra was fucking glorious on him. The material clung to him, showing off every groove and contour of his muscles. It didn’t matter how many times I’d seen him in that wet suit, I was always ready to peel it right off him. This time was no exception.
I suppressed a shiver and shifted my gaze back to the water.
Shane sat beside me, his arm brushing mine. Gesturing at the boat, he said, “You’re not going to get seasick, are you?”
“Fuck you.” I glared at him. “I’ve probably spent more of my career on the water than you have.” I elbowed him back. “You have your sea legs, Sir?”
“Watch yourself, Petty Officer,” he said with what didn’t even aspire to be a stern look. “Or you’ll be swimming to Komaka.”
I shrugged. “Go ahead and try it. I go in, you’re going in with me.”
We tried to exchange menacing looks, but both burst out laughing instead.
A few minutes later, an elderly bronze-skinned local in a pointed straw hat gestured for us to come down the ramp. We loaded our gear onto the boat and sat with our backs to the bow while the old man untied the lines from the dock. He barked an order at another younger man, who jumped from the dock into the boat and busily went about coiling lines. They pushed off, and we were underway.
The boat bounced across the rolling waves, and Okinawa gradually shrank behind us. I rested my elbow on the side and turned so I could see our destination. Though it had to be my senses screwing with me, I was sure Komaka got smaller as we approached. Or maybe the closer we got to the island, the more I realized just how tiny it was in the first place. If I had to guess, I’d have said the island was maybe two hundred meters from end to end.
About fifteen minutes after we’d left the dock, the old man cut the engine. He and the younger man used oars to guide the boat as close to the shore as they could get. The tide was partway out, so the boat scraped bottom with ten feet or so left between us and dry land.
Shane and I picked up our gear, shouldering our backpacks and snorkel bags. I stepped out first, Shane followed, and the old man handed him our cooler. We each carried one end of the cooler and, stepping carefully to avoid falling on our asses, waded through the shin-deep water to the beach.
Once we were on the dry sand, Shane stopped. He and the younger man exchanged a few words in Japanese, and a moment later, the men in the boat were pushing off.
I stared at them. “They’re just…leaving us here?”
He nodded as the boat’s outboard motor fired up again. “Usually, they stick around, but they’ve seen me enough times they know I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I would think they’d know you well enough to—”
“Very funny.” He shot me a playful glare. “Anyway, they’ll be back around two tomorrow to pick us up. But until then”—he gestured around the island—“the whole place is ours.”
“What about other people?” I asked. “I would assume we’re not the only ones who know about this place.”
Shane put a hand on the small of my back. “Trust me, the only time you see anyone else out here is on Sundays, and I have never seen another American out here unless I’ve brought them myself.” He kissed my cheek. “In the middle of the week? I doubt we’ll see another soul here until the guys come back to get us.”
I let my gaze drift up the beach, then back down again. Up over the vegetation-blanketed rocks. And across the water to Okinawa, which looked like it was even farther away than it was.
The whole island. No one here but us. Sure, Komaka was just a tiny speck on a map, but for now, it was ours. Only ours. It was like havin
g an entire world to ourselves.
We put our stuff on the beach well above the tide line. I supposed we should have brought a couple of beach chairs, but oh well. They would’ve been that much more shit to carry off the boat and through the water. We had towels and a blanket to sleep on in the tent, and I didn’t imagine we would be spending much time out of the water anyway. Throwing a glance at Shane in that skintight Lycra, I figured if we did spend much time on shore, beach chairs wouldn’t be part of the equation anyway.
Goose bumps rose on my bare arms. I leaned down to put my wallet and keys into my backpack, and casually checked to make sure that, yes, we had plenty of condoms and lube with us.
I was still a bit uncertain, though. Everything about him was a turn-on, but we were still out in the open. This beach was completely exposed, right out in the open where everyone and his mother—or commanding officer—could see us. I could see miles of coastline, both on Okinawa and Kudaka, from here, which meant people on Okinawa and Kudaka could see us too. With binoculars or a telephoto lens, anyway. Or from a plane. Or a boat.
Still, at least we had what we needed in case the mood struck us.
I glanced at Shane as he pulled on his black scuba gloves. He looked up, met my eyes and grinned.
Today’s forecast calls for a 95 percent chance of the mood striking and a 5 percent chance of nerves.
He fastened the strap on the back of his glove. “Ready to get in the water?”
“Absolutely.” That or a cold shower. I dug my gloves, mask, underwater camera, snorkel and fins out of my bag. “Let’s roll.” I could pay attention to my attraction to Shane later. For now, I wanted to see if he was blowing smoke when he said this was one of the most amazing snorkel spots in the region.
We got into the swimming-pool-warm water, and I knew the instant I submerged my face and mask that he was right about this place. This was going to be a spectacular day of snorkeling. Nothing promises a great swim like getting in the water and finding oneself face-to-face with dozens of colorful fish. We didn’t have to seek out the animals; they were right there waiting for us.