The little monkey backed off, making a sort of chuckling noise, then dashed forward and struck her again, this time on the back of her hand.
She nearly dropped the bottle of rum. If it weren't for her deeply ingrained alcohol-preserving instincts, she probably would have.
"You creepy little critter!" she shouted, her voice going very high and squeaky. "You must be one of those pesky radioactive monkeys Captain Butt was going on about." The monkey just giggled at her again. " Back off, I say! GIT!"
The monkey jumped a little at that last bit and scurried off a little ways. Cynthia had shouted so loud that she found herself rubbing her own ear absentmindedly.
"Now, what was I thinking about before that low-down, crummumbling... creature inturupted me?" She stared about her, trying to remember. A moment later, she forgot what she was trying to remember. Then she forgot that she had been trying to remember anything to start with.
She lifted the bottle to her lips and this time only took a small sip of it. She had to make it last till sunset. That she remembered.
Just then she spotted (for the second time in the past few minutes) several intact crates bobbing in the water several feet from shore
"Wonder what might be in those?" she said outloud. She wasn't sure why she had made that a question, not just a statment. But since there was a question hanging in the air, she felt obligated to answer it. "Yes, I suppose I do wonder." she said.
The monkey giggled at her again.
"Oh, shut up you stupid thing!"
It took her a few minutes to gather herself: check for her tiny purse, make sure she was still holding the bottle and the note, leave the glass on the sand, stare vacantly at the gull poop on her dress, then rock to her feet.
The struggle to drag the crates to shore was a wet, messy one that involved a lot of cursing and Captain Bottom's note drifting away. It also included Cynthia having to go back up into the shade to leave the bottle in a safe place, after removing a small amount of liquid from it. She also did her best to terrify the radioactive monkey by screaming loudly, hoping that this would make it leave her rum alone.
Once the two crates were finally on the sand, she slumped back to her tree, feeling altogether... "disgustingly sweaty." She took a sip. Then another one. "Reginald, open those boxes, will you?"
It is unlikely that Cynthia ever would have gotten the boxes open. Thankfully, she was not the only one on the island who wanted to see inside them. Her radioactive monkey companion was just as curious as she. Perhaps more so. He had soon called a whole bunch of his palls and they were engaged for some time twisting and pulling and giggling at one of the crates till they managed to get the lid off.
"Those nasty little things will ruin whatever is in that blasted crate," said Cyntha. So she collected herself again (repeat long process described above) and went to see what was inside.
She gasped when she saw...