Will the finder of this bottle please forward the enclosed letter to:

Mr. Jim McPherson,
Chief Engineer,
c/o G. P. O. London.

Dear Uncle Jim: I have no means of telling whether you get this letter. I'm simply trusting luck to the sea. In any case there is no chance of your answering because I don't know where I am except that it's on an island - accessible only from one tiny beach.

As the Admiralty cannot know exactly what happened you'd better tell them that I believe we were torpedoed by a sub on the 15th December, and that I am the sole survivor. I was walking on deck when it happened - the ship just blew up and by a miracle I found myself in the drink still all in one piece. I managed to find some wreckage to cling to, and then it started to blow, and for two days and nights I was like a damned sub myself most of the time. But somehow I managed to keep topside until one night when I was just about ready to cash in, I landed with a bang and a bump on good old dry land. I crawled up above the tide level and passed out completely.

I'll have to tell you the story as it happened to me, otherwise you'll think I'm the most awful liar, for this is the most fantastic spot you could ever dream of - a real Utopia protected from the march of civilization as we know it by great unscaleable rock cliffs. An absolute paradise inhabited by the most charming folk it has been my good fortune to meet.

But to continue with my story…

I was aroused from my collapse on the beach by someone shaking me and found myself surrounded by some natives armed with spears and the first thing I noticed about them was their fine physique and the character in their faces. They were more like bronzed Greek gods than natives. They pressed a wet sponge to my lips and kept refilling it until my throat stopped burning like a lime kiln and I could talk. I asked them if they spoke English, and after that my troubles ceased for they talk the same lingo perfectly without any accent. They produced a gourd of excellent wine and some tasty little things to eat and when I was more or less able to sit up and take notice, plunked me on a litter and began to carry me over the rocks toward the towering cliff face. My bearers moved smoothly and swiftly over the uneven going to the entrance of a small cave - here a halt was called while torches were lit and then in we went, deeper and deeper into the cliff. The cave seemed to get bigger and bigger and then we began climbing up one side. There was no regular path, just easy footholds here and there - then the roof seemed to come closer and we were in a natural tunnel, still climbing. We went on and on for heaven knows how long and then at last I saw the tint of daylight on the rocks ahead and rounding a corner we came at last out once more into the sunlight - and the most beautiful surroundings.

It is quite impossible for me to do justice to it, the whole darned island is the same, just a mass of tropical green flowers everywhere all the year round, birds singing and a perfume which changes all the time, as each different flower seems to take its turn in pumping buckets of scent into the air.

To crown it all there are no pests of any kind (human or otherwise), no snakes, no poisonous spiders or centipedes and no mosquitoes. No heap of stupid rules and regulations - no liquor laws, and no morality laws except the very simple practice of good manners, tolerance, and consideration for the other fellow's point of view. As a result, vice and crime are unknown. Everyone has enough work to keep life from getting boring. No strikes, no lockouts, no landlords, each man owns as much land as he can use for whatever purpose he requires, he cannot own more of anything than he can use. There are no witch doctors, ancient or modern. They say quite simply that the truth is no one knows what happens when we die, and so anyone who says he does is obviously a liar. All that is required of you as a citizen is that you do your part in making life on this island as pleasant and happy as possible for everyone else so long as you live. What a place! But to continue…

We pushed our way through the undergrowth and there in a clearing was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen coming toward me, her hands outstretched in welcome. (Yes I know you think I'm a most awful liar, but I can't help that, this is, as I've said, the most fantastic spot you've ever heard of, and it's all the truth.) I decided I wasn't dreaming but it was pretty staggering. Her hair was like a black satin cloak rippling to her waist in the soft breeze and her figure was absolutely stunning. I had plenty of opportunity to judge this and to notice that her skin was like silk, with a most beautiful even tan, for she wore nothing at all except an abbreviated sort of skirt of silk with a gay pattern in red flowers on it, and a pair of sandals with amazing heels (oh, I forgot the flower - she had a flower in her hair).

Like my bearers there was nothing of the native about her except in the grace of her movements. She looked more like a bathing beauty at a fashionable beach resort. She was just basically lovely at any time, anywhere, not just to a tired, and miserable sailorman washed up on the beach of a South Pacific island.

In perfect English (and her voice was like a caress itself, another of the wonders of all these wonderful people) she asked me how I felt, helped me off my stretcher to which I had been glued in astonishment, and then my eyes really did pop out of my head, for behind her in the shade of the trees to which she was leading me were three gorgeous blondes standing shoulder to shoulder in line abreast in front of a little rickshaw to which I saw they were attached by harness like ordinary ponies. They had nothing on either except the harness and bridles and sandals, a tassel of colored beads fore and aft so to speak, and a large plume attached to the brow band of the bridle.

Their hands were not much in evidence and as I mounted into this Island Rolls Royce I noticed that each girl's arms were folded behind her back and secured in this position with straps, but there was nothing of the captive slave in their behavior, far from it, they smiled at me (as much as their bits would allow), their great soft dark eyes twinkling under impossibly long curved lashes, and as my hostess arranged a cushion for me stamped their little sandaled feet and shook their heads in impatience.

Once settled comfortably, my companion gathered up the reins, clicked her tongue, cracked her whip, flicked the shoulders of her unusual steeds and off we went. I turned to wave thanks to the friends who had carried me up the cliff and then fixed my attention once more on the intriguing spectacle in front of me.

The ponies needed no urging. They ran, in perfect step, with a smooth effortless grace that was a pleasure to watch, and did they go fast, with never a pause for breath. I have since found that any girl or boy here can do the 100 in 7.9 seconds, and keep up that speed for a mile.

I was naturally full of questions but though feeling much better was still too worn out to talk. My companion sensed it, for after asking how long I'd been in the water, said, "You must be very tired. Just rest and we'll have you home in no time", and instead of talking she sang softly in time to the runners as they flashed down the well-worn winding track.

This, with the wine I had drunk (I still clutched the gourd, trust me for that), the scent of the flowers, and the sun as it flickered through the leaves playing hide and seek on the satin skins of our ponies, and twinkling on the highly polished leather of the harness, made me drowsy. I was hypnotized by the rippling muscles of the gorgeous limbs in front of me, the little flying sandaled feet that hardly seemed to touch the ground, and the slender fingers now stretched, and now clenched to relieve the tension of the straps.

The gay red plumes of their unique headdress bobbed and waved in the air, challenging the brilliant colors of the birds which flashed overhead and the vivid butterflies which fluttered around the place.

One particularly large one of a most beautiful deep blood red and purple hovered around the heads of our ponies and then alighted on the shoulder of the one on the portside. This caused considerable excitement in the team - they suddenly ran even faster.

"That's lucky," said my companion, "for Gail, but not for me, for it means I'll lose the finest team on the island. I know what you're thinking," she went on "you're wondering about the ponies. Every newcomer does. Oh no, you're not the first shipwrecked mariner to land up on the beach," and her eyes twinkled.

"You see, we've got no horses, never have had, and it's been the custom for years for all the young girls from the age of 18 to 21 to take their place. I'll tell you all about it later."

"How do they like it?" I asked.

"They love it!" she replied.

"It is each girl's ambition to be in the fastest team. Why, that's what all the excitement is about at the moment. You see, Gail is over age for a pony but she asked the people's permission to stay on being in my team until after the annual races because of the other two and we're certain to win. But that particular butterfly settling on her shoulder means that she'll marry before the moon wanes, and then she'll simply have to go." By this time the ponies had got quite out of hand in their excitement and were jumping and throwing their heads in the air while the rickshaw swayed drunkenly.

With whip and rein my companion collected the team until they were travelling smoothly again, but the butterfly still rested on Gail's shoulder. In silence we watched it, and then out of the corner of my eye I saw another, even bigger, butterfly of the same kind. I couldn't help grinning as the damn thing fluttered around my face and then rested on my shoulder. I looked over at the girl beside me and to my surprise saw consternation on her face, but suddenly another butterfly came out of nowhere and rested alongside the flower in her hair, and her expression changed to one of expectancy. Then her eyes sparkled and she laughed happily as those two butterflies started chasing each other between us, now they were both on her, now on me.

The omen, after what she had just said, was too obvious.

The team sensed something was going on and Gail turned her head. Immediately she drew the attention of the others to it and then they went plumb crazy. They threw their heads in the air. Their harness creaked as they strained against it, and if we'd gone fast before we literally flew now.

We shot round corners on one wheel, and even the butterflies decided to stop playing tag and to hang on for dear life. Gail's still clung to her shoulder, and I could feel mine somewhere up in my hair, while the other had sought refuge on one of the beautiful breasts of the girl at my side.

She had given the team their heads and resting back on her cushions was singing again, a happy lilting tune, red lips parted, dreamy eyes half closed. Still we flew along.

The track widened and we occasionally passed a pretty little thatched hut tucked away amongst the trees and little orchards and patches of cultivated land.

We passed other teams of ponies coming and going, sometimes a pair of girls in the shafts and sometimes three as in ours, and I noticed with delight that all were equally as pretty.

My lovely companion came out of her reverie now and brought the team down to their long swinging stride again, but they were most unwilling to obey and it was only after severe use of whip and reins that she managed to control them. In fact it really wasn't until the butterflies flew away that she gained their mastery. But we were still going extremely fast and it was wonderful to watch her handling as we weaved through the traffic, which was becoming more congested (and no darn traffic cops or red lights).

At last we came to the main village, but that hardly describes it - a fairyland is a better word. Little huts almost hidden in an absolute profusion of flowers. Men and women waved in friendly greeting as, without checking pace, we flashed through a maze of wide paths until swinging across a little bridge over a little tinkling brook we drew up suddenly before a large shady verandah, and I clambered down.

I don't suppose it's usual, in fact I'm certain no rider in a stagecoach, or buggy for that matter, ever did it before, but I couldn't help going over to the ponies and saying "thank you". At which their eyes sparkled and they nodded their appreciation as they stood there on tiptoe, which made their harness jingle and the plumes dance gaily anew atop of their heads. They couldn't answer me because the wooden bits in their mouths, though thin and light so that they caused no discomfort, nevertheless made coherent speech impossible.

The chief with his wife and the rest of their family, for it was Malua, his eldest daughter, who had driven me in, welcomed me and helped me inside. As a matter of fact I'd finished the gourd of wine and was a bit tight, but they took it to be plain fatigue. They were charming people and never have I met such gracious hospitality.

Before I quite realized what had happened, I found myself bathed, and fed, resting on a couch in the shelter of a cool room - a delightful contrast to the harsh voice of the sea which I had heard at such close quarters for the last few days - and which now, as I relaxed completely, returned drumming in my ears. And I fell asleep to dream of mermaids harnessed to my raft drawing me across warm sunny seas in a glorious surf-riding game of follow-my-leader.