Marooned

Chapter 1

The motorboat bounces and heaves as it skips over the waves.

The ocean is a deep, sapphire blue, the clearest I’ve ever seen, and emerald-green islands surrounded by pristine beaches dot the horizon.

It was raining earlier, but now the sun is shining, obscured only occasionally by giant cotton ball-like clouds speckled across the sky.

I was expecting Samoa to be beautiful, and so far, it hasn’t disappointed.

If only I could actually sit back and enjoy the beauty, that would be great.

Instead, I’m trying my best not to throw up, and not just from seasickness.

In a few hours I’ll be stranded on one of these deceptively harmless-looking islands with seventeen strangers, with little in the way of food or shelter, all of us competing to be the last one standing and claim a million-dollar prize.

Five of those strangers—namely, my competition—are on the boat with me, along with the captain.

We all just met this morning, but we were instructed not to talk to each other yet, so we sit in relative silence.

I knew this was coming. The producers don’t want us to do any strategizing before we’re on camera, because they might miss something and the show might not make sense.

But how much strategy can you really get from a simple Excuse me or Hi, nice to meet you?

So instead of chatting with the others, I silently analyze them while trying to look like I’m doing anything else.

There are three men, including me, and three women.

One of the women is Black and older than I am, probably in her forties or fifties, with long brown hair that whips in the wind as she gazes around with wide eyes, a tiny smile on her lips.

The other two women are younger and could probably both be models.

For all I know, they are models. One is Asian, with high cheekbones and shoulder-length jet-black hair, while the other is white and blonde, and looks like she probably grew up on a farm somewhere smack dab in the Midwest. The former is smiling too, but the latter looks grim, as though she’s about to throw up, either from motion sickness or nervousness.

In between the two maybe-models sits one of the men, who lets out the occasional whoop when the boat speeds up or bounces on a particularly large wave.

He looks to be in his late thirties or early forties—so, about a decade or two older than me—and his attire is that of a quintessential redneck: a dirty-blond mullet, goatee, and creased green baseball cap.

He probably sells tractors and tractor accessories for a living.

Or, at least, that’s what he wants us to think.

I’ve seen every episode of all eighteen seasons of this show, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that appearances can be deceiving.

Sitting next to Green Hat is a muscle-bound Hispanic man with quite a few tattoos and a thick mustache, who looks like he’s about to throw up, too. He’s deeply tanned, and his face looks weathered, so I’m guessing he works outdoors, but I obviously don’t know for sure.

One of the models glances in my direction before quickly looking away, and that makes mee wonder what conclusions the other five are drawing about me.

They can probably guess from my pale skin that I don’t get outside very much, and I’d bet that my short, dark hair and clean-shaven look probably give that same impression.

I doubt they’ll see me as a physical threat since I probably weigh half of what Mustache does, even though I’m the tallest one on the boat.

That could be a good thing or a bad thing—or, more likely, both.

In truth, I probably won’t find out if my wild guesses are correct anytime soon.

If this season is anything like previous ones, we’ll be split into two tribes to start, and I doubt all six of us will be together.

Realistically, I’ll get to know two or three of them soon, and the rest later, assuming they’re still in the game by then. Assuming I’m still in the game by then.

But I don’t know who will fall into each category, so I try my best to evaluate all of them as best I can without actually speaking. The game is about to start, and I need to have as much information as I possibly can if I want to win.

And I don’t just want to win, I need to win.

A gasp from the Black woman draws my attention, and I look up to see a ship, a real-life wooden ship, with sails and everything, in the distance.

As we draw closer, I can see that it’s a replica of a pirate vessel, albeit painted with bright colors that I assume are to make it look better on TV screens, and it sits in front of the prettiest, most jewel-like island I’ve ever seen.

I can’t deny a bit of a stirring feeling in my chest; if I’m going to starve and get rained on and sleep in a poorly-built shelter every night, at least I’ll get to enjoy the view.

We continue to speed towards the ship, quickly getting close enough to see people walking around the top deck, holding cameras or adding finishing touches to the decor.

One woman waves at our motorboat and speaks into a walkie-talkie, and her voice crackles from the captain’s side.

I can’t make out what she’s saying over the sound of the engine, but the captain nods and responds with, “Understood. Coming around to starboard. Over.”

Slowing as we approach, we circle around to the other side of the pirate ship, so we’re between the ship itself and the island.

Two other motorboats like the one I’m on are waiting; we’re too far away to make out the occupants, but they must be the other contestants.

In truth, I only spare them a glance, because my attention is drawn to the pirate ship.

A wide hole gapes in the island-facing side of the ship, as though it’s been shot by a cannon, with wooden beams sheared off to expose the interior.

The effect is striking, and I could almost believe that this is a real pirate ship that the producers somehow discovered and refurbished to look like new.

After a few minutes of waiting, we draw up to the side of the ship far from the gaping hole, and one of the walkie-talkie people lowers a rope ladder for us to climb up.

The six of us on the boat line up, with Green Hat in the front and me sandwiched between Model One and Model Two.

Once it’s my turn, I scramble up the ladder, the rope rough against my hands.

Once I’ve reached the top and clambered onto the ship, a producer points me towards a large open area on the deck with two mats on the ground, one purple and one sky blue.

“Stand on one of the mats—doesn’t matter which one—and we’ll get started quickly,” he says, his tone bored, like he does this every day.

“Remember, no talking until we’ve started filming. ”

I follow his instructions and stand on the purple mat, remaining silent despite the fact that it feels incredibly strange not to say a single word to the people I’m standing with.

As I’m standing there waiting, it finally hits me that I’m here, about to play the game that I’ve loved watching on TV since I was ten years old.

I applied for the first time as soon as I turned eighteen, and kept applying every year after that, at first because I knew I could win, and because I was sure the journey would be more than worth it even if I lost.

But two years ago, everything changed. By the time I finally got the call from the casting department a few months back, all I could think was that I have to win, no matter what.

Living on a beach with no shelter or food or water may not be the most alluring prospect, but it’s a small price to pay to be able to finally do something for the one person who’s always been there for me.

I’m so caught up in my own thoughts that I don’t pay attention to the last group of contestants coming on board, only coming out of my mini-trance when one of the producers, the same one who directed us to the mats, stands in front of us and waves his hands.

“Okay, everybody, if I could have your attention for a moment,” he says.

He looks old enough to be my father—I push down a slight pang of pain at the thought—and he has deeply tanned skin, a bald head, and a gray goatee the same color as his T-shirt.

“My name is Steve, and I’m an executive producer.

In a few moments, we’ll get started. First, the host will do an intro with all of you in the background.

Then you’ll be split into tribes. You may quickly introduce yourselves to each other during that brief period, but other than that we ask that you please continue to remain silent until we explicitly say otherwise. Finally, we’ll do a brief outro.

“Once that’s all done, we’ll send you off to your tribe beaches, where you’ll be living for the next thirty-three days. Does anyone have any questions? If so, please raise your hand.” He pauses for a moment, but nobody moves, and he nods. “Excellent. In that case, just hold tight and—”

He's interrupted by a squawk from his walkie-talkie. Once again, the voice coming from it is inaudible, but Steve just nods and says, “Alright, sounds good. We’re ready whenever he is.” He puts the walkie-talkie away and turns back to us, a hint of a smile gracing his face.

“Perfect timing,” he says, waving to one of the cameramen, who hoists up his camera on his shoulder and aims it at us.

“If you could all just look off to your right—yes, just like that, perfect—you should be able to see it any moment now …”

I do as he requested. At first, I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for, but then I spot another motorboat in the distance, heading our way.

In my peripheral vision, I see Steve wave to yet another worker, who commands a camera-loaded drone to fly straight up into the air and hover overhead.

There are only two people on the boat, one driving and one standing in the center.

The latter looks imperious even from a distance, as though it’s a battleship and he’s the captain. Could it be …?

The motorboat rapidly closes the distance, and it’s not long before a tall Black man with close-cropped hair and an easygoing smile—Alex Crawford, a man I’ve seen a million times on TV but never in person—steps onto the boat.

He’s the one mainstay of this show, the host since the very first season, pretty much an institution unto himself.

Alex walks towards us, his stride powerful, still looking every inch the captain, the man in charge, the intermediary between the eighteen of us and the millions who will watch the show at home.

He pauses so someone can clip a small mic to his white shirt, then moves to stand on a small red X painted onto the deck.

Finally, he looks at Steve, who gives him the thumbs up.

Only then does Alex turn to us, his shoulders back and his chin held high. “Contestants,” he says, gracing us with a professional smile. “Welcome to season nineteen of Marooned.”