The Mystery of Pinhead Island

Special agent Jack Sanders managed to grab his life jacket just in time as the boat went under. He had lost his grip on the wheel as a gigantic wave, rather more like a tsunami than a regular wave, rose up before him, tipping the vessel on its side as the storm raged on above, streaks of lightning cutting through the hot, muggy weather system circling over the pacific ocean.

Jack had rolled his eyes impatiently when he had been given this latest brief – yet ANOTHER Bermuda hoax – nobody wanted these tediously unproductive missions and this time he had drawn the short straw of being sent off to investigate the mystery of the elusive “Pinhead Island”. Seriously, he had thought as he went to collect the keys to his allocated yacht, it was like something out of a bloody Enid Blighton novel. Yet his flippancy gave way to concern as the boat’s compass had begun to spin wildly out of control once he crossed the threshold of the Bermuda Triangle and then to a mixture of trepidation tinged with wonder after the epically proportioned storm hit, despite the fact that the forecast had predicted nothing of the kind.

Jack pulled the life vest on and inflated it as he flailed in the water, but despite the buoyancy aid, the ocean seemed to be doing its best to pull him under, as if it had its own hands deep below the surface, reaching up to him and dragging him down. Finally he could hold his head above the water no longer and taking a deep breath, he let the ocean take him, shooting downwards like a torpedo as the water swirled and frothed around his body and in front of his eyes. Slowly, he felt himself slipping away….

It could have been hours or minutes later when he came to. Time seemed to have lost all significance and an odd sensation hung over him. He was lying on a beach, face down, with the water lapping around his ankles and the sound of gulls circling somewhere above, but there was something wrong. The beach wasn’t grainy or golden, it was smooth and silvery in colour. Slowly he pulled himself to his feet and inhaled sharply, almost a gasp; Pinhead Island. The flat, silver beach stretched on for miles on either side of him, shimmering in the equatorial sunlight. On the shoreline were buildings, tall and lean and made of a similar shiny silver substance, interspersed with skinny grey trees which glittered with an unusual metallic sheen. To his left, about two hundred yards down the beach, boats were nestled in the harbour, their white sails blowing in the breeze and Jack could see small figures unloading silver boxes on to the port.

Instinctively, Jack reached for his mobile phone which had been kept dry in the inside pocket of his waterproof ultracoat. He hadn’t really expected to see a signal but surprisingly, the power icon displayed four bars. Of course, he thought, a slow smile spreading over his face, the myths of Pinhead Island noted the locals’ advances in technology. He dialled HQ.

It answered on the second ring.

“You’ll never guess where I am,” said Jack.

536 words

(written for "Invalid Item" )