Hello my name is Jack. My wife Lila and I had saved up and were celebrating our dream honeymoon with a thrilling sailing trip starting in the Mariana Islands in the Southern Pacific. The trip was scheduled to end in the Marshall Islands around 3 weeks later. We had boarded this older sailing vessel with over 20 souls aboard about 6 days before the harrowing events unfolded. A squall, more like a typhoon, struck our vessel with no where to run or hide. High seas, winds and 20 ft rogue waves tossed our 70 foot boat like a bobber in a pond. Our mast was creaking with each wave that came crashing over the deck. During the course of the storm the mast snapped. We had no engine and now with the main sail completely broken I couldn’t envision a scenario in which we would survive. Not the dramatic, heroic kind of death—just the wet, stupid kind where the ocean spits your bloated corpse for the marine life to recycle. My wife Lila and I were clinging to the broken spar, saltwater plastering her thin dress against curves that had no business surviving a shipwreck. She had on no shoes, no bra. Only a thin wet white cotton dress and tiny pair of white thong panties. Six others besides my wife and I stayed in a group. All of the others had been washed away and presumed drowned. The six were a 20 year old deckhand Javier, Two middle aged paying passengers like us, Gus a jacked 36 year old passenger and Richard 42, a tall and good looking man who seemed to have come from money and also a fellow passenger Briggs who was also traveling but was separated during the storm from his girlfriend. Carter was the co-captain, a 40 year black man and Larson the Chef . That left my wife and I. My name is Jack and I am 26 years old and Lila my new wife, is 24. We drifted after the storm ended for two full days before running aground on a reef with a remote island in view. The remaining survivors all used their last bit of energy to get to its beautiful beach. The sand burned under our backs as we dragged ourselves ashore, coughing up saltwater and blinking against the glare of a merciless sun. The island rose behind us—a jagged crown of jungle spilling down to meet the white crescent of beach. No smoke from cookfires, no footprints in the wet sand where the tide licked at our toes. Just the hiss of palm fronds and the distant scream of gulls. One of the men—Larsen, the ship’s cook—started laughing through his sunburnt lips. "Well," he said, eyes sliding to where she wringed seawater from her hair, "looks like we’re all sharing paradise." After five weeks of building shelters, scouting the island for food and resources and building crab traps the key elements of survival were met. Now the primal needs had replaced the hope of getting rescued. It was six men, her husband and her. After the fifth week with no hope of rescue left they decide to take a vote. A vote to share everything ....

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