Trapped

They were the only ones to make it to shore. Just the five of them. All were male, all in their forties, all white. They were strangers to each other. The cruise ship had gone down so fast.
They sat now on the sand holding their knees, most were crying. They stared at the ocean, at the waves, at the birds in the distance. Finally, they looked around at their present location. An island, a tiny one. A small patch of vegetation in the middle. No palm trees. No hills, no caves, no sign of human life. They looked at each other then, and sat down again, arms back hugging their knees.
Finally, one man stepped forward to stand facing the others. My name is Dr. Dell Wilson,” he reported.
They all stared in silence.
“Does anyone here have any medical conditions I should know about?”
Silence.
“Injuries?”
Silence.
“OK, then, lets go around the group. “Tell us your name and occupation.”
A large man with a soggy black cowboy hat stood to his feet. “First off, who elected you head honcho?” the man asked. “I don’t care what your name is, or anybody else’s. I want to know who here can make a Hamm radio out of a coconut?" He alone laughed at his joke. The rest refused to look at him.
“Please sit down sir and wait your turn,” the doctor said, his voice friendly but firm.
They each began to speak then, one at a time, left to right.
“Carl, Fire and Casualty.”
“Nick, bartender.”
“Jesus, carpenter.”
“We’re saved!” shouted the next man, who was the one in the cowboy hat. “He has returned! Better late than never, huh?”
“You’re starting to get on my nerves,” said Nick the bartender,
“Tell us your name and what you do, sir,” the doctor said.
“Tank Martin,” said the one in the hat. He stood up. “I own a little spread out San Antonio way. Ten thousand head ‘a beef.”
“And you, sir?” the doctor asked the last man.
He stood to his feet. “Morris Goldberg, Rabbi.”
“Great,” said Tank Martin, his voice without enthusiasm. “All the bases covered. Maybe we can put on a little talent show later!”
The bartender got to his feet and was just stepping toward Tank Martin when the latter sat down again.

It did not take long for them to realize there was no water on the island. No wood or palm fronds. They tried catching fish with their hands. They tried building traps to catch birds. They used rocks to spell our H E L P in the sand. They saw no planes, no ships. They did see darkening clouds over the ocean and hoped for rain and after four days of sermons from the Rabbi, the weather cooperated. They caught rainwater the best they could. After six days they began to search for lizards. Insects. They chewed on the strange vegetation in the center of the island.
Except for Tank Martin, conversation was rare. Tank kept up a constant banter. He talked about politics, about God, and asked where He was now. He called everybody “Faggot,” and talked ceaselessly about slow death.
The next day the group ate well. It began to rain during the meal, and with the rain, laughter returned, as did hope. They danced that night around a cowboy hat pretending it was a fire. And the next morning a Coast Guard helicopter landed on the sand, and they were saved.
“This everybody?” the pilot screamed before taking off.
“Just us four,” the doctor replied, and everybody nodded their heads and were happy.
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