Fun with Zeke and Chester - let's write a collaborative short story . . .

So, I have this idea about a couple of yahoos who end up in Negril, thru no fault of their own. I've written the part that gets them there and I've started in on their characters a little.
I thought it might be fun to write a short story, together. Give me some ideas, and I'll do my best.
If it turns out, I'll make it into an eBook and post it here in its final form.

I'm sure you all have lots of experiences that we could foist on these two dudes. We can make them do whatever we feel like.
So, we need a pivot to swing the whole story on, and an ending.
Any ideas??? Comments? What do you think?

Part One

His phone chirped.
“Zeke, here,” he pressed his cell to his ear.
“Yeah, Zeke, it’s Joe.”
Zeke pushed the ‘Spkr’ button on the phone. “Hey, Joe. I gotcha on speaker, Chester’s here too.” He looked over at Chester, who was sitting on the patio railing. Chester was grinning.
“So what’s going on, Zeke? Bring me up to date. What’r we doin, where we goin?”
Zeke took a big breath. He’d been dreading this call since arriving in Montego Bay. Joe wasn’t going to be happy.
It was mid-February. Back in Yellowknife the temperature would be -40C. Zeke pictured Joe sitting in his office; unshaven, bloodshot eyes, and on edge. Joe was always on edge. Joe’s desk would be cluttered with mounds of paper and office detritus. The windows overlooking the tarmac would be clad in a thick layer of frost. Outside, it would be dark. It would be another two months before the sun made its first springtime appearance, peeking over the southern horizon for just a few minutes before disappearing again until the next morning. Joe would be wearing his winter overalls and a thick sweater, the one he always wore.
Zeke heard the radio squawking in the background. Reluctantly, he gave Joe the bad news. “So, when we were about forty minutes out of Montego Bay, we noticed that the oil pressure on the left engine was dropping – but the temp was good. So, we landed and when we checked the engine, there was only a gallon of oil left in the tank. We poked around a bit and saw that the oil cooler was leaking. It looks like its fubared.”
There is a long silence from the other end. Then, “F#@k!”
“Yeah, so I guess we’re stranded here until we can get the oil cooler replaced.”
“F#@k, F#@k, F#@k!”
“Yeah . . . sorry Joe. But the engine is still good. I think it’s just the cooler.”
Another longish silence.
“Okay, well, I guess I’ll have to send Chucky down there with a cooler. Dammit . . . I’ll get him to call you. It’s gonna take a while. I want you to call me when he gets there and keep me posted, is that clear? I need you guys back on the sched and I want that airplane repaired and up here ASAP.”
“Sure, Joe. No problem.”
“Alright, talk to you later . . . goddammit!” Joe clicked off.
Zeke snapped his phone shut.
“So, Cap - we’re stranded here?” Chester asked, arms spread, looking around, still grinning.
They’d just checked into The Sundowner, a modest, three star beachside hotel in Negril, Jamaica, a funky beach town an hour and a half from Montego Bay. They had adjacent rooms with little patios that overlooked a lush tropical garden and a walkway that led down to the beach. A juvenile banana plant grew directly in front of Zeke’s deck. A small bunch of tiny green unripe bananas adorned an otherwise barren stalk.
“Yup – seems we’re just gonna have to tough it out.”
They were dressed in shorts. Chester was sporting a short sleeve shirt that boasted a flamboyant hibiscus print.
Zeke looked at Chester and shook his head. “You look like a goddam tourist.” Chester’s spindly legs poked out the bottom of his shorts – legs atrophied from sitting in a cockpit five hours a day and white as the driven snow.
A couple of young women, tanned and clad in bikinis, walked by on their way to the beach. They glanced at the guys. When they were well past the patios they put their heads together and shared a girlish giggle. Chester’s gaze had followed them.
“They’re laughing at your shirt, dude.”
“What?” Chester glanced down at his shirt and ran his fingertips delicately over the print. He looked back up at the girls, who’d reached the end of the walkway and had stepped onto the sand of the beach. “No way, this is a nice shirt,” he asserted.
Chester had purchased the shirt from a street vendor in Caracas – a $6.00 U.S. bargain – two days prior.
“Look! It’s a Tommy Bahama!” he’d said, proudly showing his sartorial acquisition to Zeke.
Zeke had glanced at the label. “It says ‘Tony’ Bahama, you fool. You got ripped.”
Zeke, who’d also been tracking the bikini babes, pocketed his phone. “Yah wanna drink?”
“Thought you’d never ask. I’m parched,” Chester replied, hoping off the patio.
They walked down to the Sundowner’s beach bar. The bikini girls were there – sitting with their backs to the bar, gazing out at the water. Out to sea, a parasail drifted by. People saunterd by at the water’s edge. The sinking sun was reflected in brilliant diamonds that danced on the surface of the water.
“So what’re we gonna do?” Chester asked. “We’re stranded here for like, a minimum of four days, five or six maybe.”
They ordered beers.
Zeke surveyed the beach. It was his second time in Negril, the first being twenty years and one marriage ago. He lifted his beer towards Chester and nodded before he took a swig. Wiping his lips, he said, “Well, I figure we’ll just hang out here and relax a bit and wait for Chucky to show up in MoBay. You know, catch a few rays, re-hydrate,” he took another swig, “and take in some of the local fauna.”
Chester turned to the bikini girls and smiled lecherously. He asked the bartender to send them a couple of Pina Coladas.
Their stop in MoBay was supposed to have been for fuel only, a quick overnight and then on to Panama City, Florida. Their final destination was Yellowknife, North West Territories in Canada’s high arctic.
Joe, their boss and owner of the DC3 that they were flying, ran a small airline in Yellowknife. He was enamoured with the DC3, an aircraft built back in the 1940’s. Joe, who was 65 years old, had been flying ‘threes’ for forty-five years. The airline had two DC3s but had lost one of them in an accident. Joe had immediately, and fervently, set about looking for a replacement, saying over and over again, "the only replacement for a DC3 is another DC3.” He’d hunted one down in Caracas, Venezuela. After a quick trip with his Chief Mechanic to examine the aircraft, he’d purchased it. The airplane was rough, really rough - but flyable. Zeke and his First Officer Chester had been tasked to ferry the DC3 back to home base where Joe would bring the old airplane back up to standards and press it into service in the north.
Zeke finished his beer. His thoughts drifted to Yellowknife. He pictured his trailer, half buried in ice and snow. “Plus forty to minus forty,” he muttered. When they’d departed Caracas the thermometer had read +40C.
“I hear yah, bro, but let’s not dwell on it, okay?” Chester polished off his beer and ordered two more.
Across the bar the bikini girls had just received their Pinas. They picked them up and started in the direction of Zeke and Chester.