The Playas del Coco Switcheroo (part three)

By BobbyRica | February 14, 2011

witches rock

If you want to follow the story consecutively, read the first part here. For the second part, go here.

The sudden force of water hitting my face woke me up. The pain screaming on my cheeks made me moan, slapping me out of my fuzziness. Maybe it was because they threw warm salt water at me.

Clarity has quickly set in while I recognized the rock formations of Roca Bruja. I can hear the howling sounds of the wind when they pass through the sinister-looking tall rocks by the sea. I used to love going to Witch’s Rock with my friends, but now I wonder if I will live long enough to be reunited with them. Thank God, it’s still daytime.

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Glancing around, I saw that we were still at sea and the goons still surrounded me. They looked really tough but I knew they were exhausted. I wanted to stand up and run away but I was tied to a chair. I wanted to shout for help but they gagged me, making breathing difficult. I also felt something warm and syrupy dribbling down my neck. I realized it was the blood from my nose. My nose was bandaged but blood was still leaking out. But I wasn’t really concerned with that. I don’t even want to know what they’d done to my sliced nostril. I only wondered if the Coast Guards would ever patrol these parts of Santa Rosa National Park.

“The boss is here,” says the man I hit a paddle in the face with. “Look alive, asshole.” He glared at me like he wanted to rip me apart. Their accent had made me realize they are Germans.

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At a distance, a small motorboat approached the catamaran. I saw a woman riding with another guy. The closer she got, the more beautiful she became. She looked a lot like that Hollywood actress Madeleine Stowe. She was really striking. Her black hair diaphanously waved and shone at her back. Despite wearing those aviator shades, her aquiline nose looks less severe, betraying her soft easy face. A face like hers can warm up any cold-blooded killer. While underneath that see-through sundress, she had a body of a tennis player. She was fit alright, but she didn’t seem to lose her feminine grace. As a treat, I can see that she’s wearing a skimpy bikini.

Despite the stinging pain on my nose and cheek, I was beginning to fall in love with this woman. A few meters away, she looked so ravishing. I wanted her. I wanted her bad! But why would a gorgeous woman be in cahoots with these clowns?

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As the motorboat lurched to a halt, I can see that her face changed from being stoic to abject wrath! She jumped from the motorboat to the catamaran in one big leap before they could drop anchor. I can see her smooth creamy thighs escape from a slit in her sun dress. I suddenly smelled the perfume of jasmine and rose. But her three inch heels was making a racket as she was stomping towards us.

“Who is he?” Her grainy voice becoming shrill every second, “You stupid morons. He is not Stewart! Where did you get him?” Her pointed finger (with French manicured nails, yummy!) was trembling. She looked at me like I was a neighborhood mutt banging her leg.

But I was still lost in her beauty. Her voice just added to my fantasy. Imagine Demi Moore (pre-Bruce Willis) with a German accent, and you can understand my reaction. She’s so damn hot. If it weren’t for the rain of German expletives that she threw down on her guys like God’s judgment, I would have died and went to heaven.

As my German beauty continued to rant and stomp using her expensively new pair of Laboutins, I knew something was up. And a part of me was rejoicing that I — finally — may have a chance of eluding my captors.