The skiff bobs in the calm waters. It has nothing more to do.

The skiff bobs in the calm waters. It has nothing more to do.

The skiff floats on the calm mirror of the sea -- its two seats are empty.

Once you get in, that's it -- one pull of the starter handle and you're off into the bay. A strange trepidation comes over you: are you sure you want to go now?

Have you made all the necessary preparations? Closed all your accounts?

Remember what the Net Picker said: It's a small tank. You won't be going back and forth on this.

Nothing to do here without the lieutenant... You must return here with him.

(I'm not ready yet.) [Leave.]

Get in and ride to the island.

The boat comes to a slow stop. You turn the engine off -- then there's silence.

In the silence -- a sputter of wings. A flock of quails takes off in the distance...

There is very little wind here today. The ghost is standing still. You look at your arms, then the cliffs above you...

"Let's go." He whispers.

[Climb out.]

"Good. You made it." Cuno stands with his arms akimbo, looking at the shadow of the ruined flak tower looming overhead.

[Climb out.]

"I mapped the place out and uh... it looks like both of us aren't gonna make it. This is death island. The hell maw." He wipes snot from his nose.

"This isn't death island. Is it?"

"I don't know." He throws his hands in the air.

"Maybe Cuno's just pessimistic because of the massive speed hangover. I did scout the place out. I can fill you in."

The kid turns away from you, cautiously looking to his left and right. He's on the edge.

He hasn't been here before either.

"What the hell are you talking about?

"Hell island? Finally."

"Yes... finally." He says with some reservations.

The time has come.

[Climb out.]

"You take the engine, Kim. I'll hold the boombox."

"What?"

"You heard me. Don't make me repeat myself."

"Fine. Why not?" He shrugs.

Very cool. Now tune it to Sad FM. You know you want to.

Sad FM is a radio station specializing in sad, slow rock songs. You seem to know its frequency by heart.

Say nothing.

"What 'what'? How else do we blast Sad FM on our way to the island?"

"Fine." He gives you resigned shrug. "Let's blast Sad FM then."

"This banged up old thing... it's a ROO A72."

"It'll float."

He's too banged up himself -- to talk torque with you.

First -- tie your porta-reel boombox to the breasthook to keep you company.

There. This is now a Rock and roll skiff.

Cool.

It'll keep you company on this lonely voyage.

What did I just do? Why did I do that?

Why? Because Rock and Roll.

Yeah. Sad rock and roll. Tune it to Sad FM.

A skiff with a small steering engine in the back floats on the calm mirror of the sea. Its two seats are empty.

The boat's belly is a shiny yellow colour, industrial paint over fresh tar. You see it reflect off the water, along with the factory number: A72.

SRV-made, this machine represents humanitarian aid from a workers' state on the Samaran isola. The ROO logo on the engine gives it away -- that and the white five-pointed star.