“I have the weirdest urge to sing—”

“Oh, please, not that song. Any song but that.”

The other woman’s lopsided smile made Marissa feel oddly better. “What’s it worth to you?”

“Depends on if you sound at all like Celine Dion.”

“I sound more like Celine Dion’s chain-smoking brother.”

Marissa laughed and then felt a rush of tears.

“It’s okay,” the other woman said. She brushed the front of her pale green T-shirt, which sported a cute cartoon dog wearing snorkeling gear. “It’s just tension.”

Nodding, Marissa struggled for composure. She shifted in her place and was glad that the vest blunted Whippet-Face’s pointy elbows. “I’m Marissa Chabot. California.”

“Linda Bartok, Boston, Massachusetts. What part of California?”

“Danville, San Ramon, Pleasanton?” Linda looked blank so Marissa added, “About forty minutes from San Francisco, to the east.”

Linda nodded. “I was out that way a few years ago. It’s a great place to live.”

“I’ve never been to New England.”

“Full of history. Right now, full of ice and snow, so I prefer this.” Linda seemed unfazed by the surge-falter rhythm of the boat as their pace increased toward the island.

“So why the wacky castaways for your bon voyage?”

Linda shrugged.

“It’s a guilty pleasure. Goofy show.”

“Well, the Professor can make a radio, refrigerator and bunk beds out of palm leaves. That why you’d prefer it to Lost?”

“Nah.” Linda gave her another lopsided smile. “Ginger.”

Marissa blinked and wondered what she ought to read into that remark. “Ginger? Over Evangeline Lilly?”

The charming lopsided smile balanced out to a broad grin. “I’ve always liked a curvy redhead.”

“Oh.” Marissa took a deep breath and tried for a confident snicker. “I can’t disagree with your priorities.”

Linda winked conspiratorially and Marissa grinned back.

Dear Mom,

The impromptu cruise toward an uncharted desert isle has clarified certain of my preferences.For future purposes of arranging blind dates for me, please note that I prefer Ginger, Mary Ann, or even Mrs. Howell, to the Professor or the Skipper and most certainly to Gilligan. Mr. Howell is more your type, don’t you think?

Love, Marissa

P.S. Sorry about the Mr. Howell remark. I’m a little bit stressed at the moment.

The life boat lurched on a wave and her thoughts came back to the real world.

“Do you think we’re caught in a current?”

Linda shrugged. “Yeah, probably.”

They were quiet for a while, listening to the broken English conversations of the rowers. Marissa wanted to ask Linda lots of questions but Linda’s attention was on the rower nearest her.

“I can spell you,” she said to him when they all paused to take a rest. There were other offers, so a change of shift was implemented. Only when Linda stood up did Marissa realize she had to be only an inch or two short of six feet. From the back, with tanned, wide shoulders and dark hair down her back, she could have been mistaken for any number of tall, well-muscled models or actresses. She had the physique of a cartoon heroine—Batwoman or Wonder Woman. Even Xena.