Day 2—Philia

MARTIN

He wakes up in the dark with a start. His arm feels numb. Zoe’s head is resting on his shoulder, cutting off his circulation. The gentle breeze of her shallow breath caresses his skin, punctuated by tiny snores. They are still in the hammock; they fell asleep there after her panic attack. He checks his watch: it’s just past midnight. The stars are bright and the jungle is loud with the noise of nocturnal creatures. The sound of the receding tide—gentle waves lapping at the shore—infiltrates the jungle, settling in on them as a warm backdrop. He looks at Zoe, marveling at her beauty. The memory of yesterday’s fun, playful dynamics make him smile. Then he remembers their drink with the Germans and her panic attack back at the bungalow. A confused sense of shame takes hold of him, the kind he last felt when he thought about Mela, the scared and hurt expression on her face as he screamed at her.

A brief rustle in the underbrush jolts him back to reality. He turns his head sideways, following the noise which seems to be coming from the narrow path into the jungle. Something strange is happening there, and that something woke him up. He hears a faint droning sound, a low and gentle hum, barely noticeable against the night voices of the jungle. The shadows grow longer as a distant, flickering light appears behind the trees. What the hell is going on? He wants to move but feels frozen in place; an invisible weight crushes his body, like an anvil resting on his chest. The hand-woven ropes of the hammock cut into his lower back and shoulder. The light continues to move closer, and the hum grows louder. He hears rustling in the underbrush as something approaches. He tries to make a sound but no words leave his mouth.

Suddenly, it is like someone turned on a projector in the night. He is in the water again over the Blue Hole, with the giant manta ray lazily drifting over the depths of the ocean, circling widely. He suspects he is hallucinating. He continues to feel the hammock cutting into his back. He closes his eyes and then reopens them—nothing is different. The Blue Hole and the manta ray are still there. The gigantic sea creature climbs to the surface in long, slow circles. He can’t move, can’t breathe—yet an ancient sense of calm falls over him. The universe is looking out for me. The manta ray approaches, passes underneath them, and does a slow but deliberate barrel roll, revealing the intricate patterns on its underbelly. Then it swims away with a few short pumps of its giant wings.

He marvels at the creature’s grace and beauty. It picks up speed in a sudden burst, its massive, wing-like pectoral fins propelling it upward, breaking the surface in a shimmering spray of water. For a moment, the manta soars through the air, its sleek, dark body arching against the sky, the sun glinting off its wet skin. Its fins spread wide, like a bird in flight, before gravity pulls it back down.

Deep emotions bubble up in his throat, and tears flood his eyes. Caught in the wonder of the moment, his first instinct is to share it with Zoe. I miss you—just a moment ago you were here, next to me. The ray crashes back into the ocean with a resounding splash, sending ripples across the water as if the sea itself were applauding its dance. Then it starts its descent to the depths of the Blue Hole, slowly circling itself out of his field of vision. His heart drops. He does not feel ready to say goodbye to it yet.

A rush of air rapidly enters his lungs, as if surfacing after a deep dive in the ocean. What was this? The anvil is gone from his chest, and the Blue Hole disappears from his vision: he is back in the hammock with her, the stars glimmering overhead, the noises of the jungle once again overpowering his senses. The hum is gone, and with it the light. He still hears rustling in the underbrush, along with slow receding steps from the road. He pulls his hand out from underneath Zoe’s head and climbs out of the hammock as she rolls to her side, mumbling something in her sleep. He takes a few careful steps towards the dirt road when he hears the distant, hushed voice of a female: “I keep finding things.” Where have I heard this before?

He walks along the road towards the voice, but he can’t find anything or anyone. He turns around and walks back to the bungalow.

That was weird. He sits on the veranda, looking first at the stars, and then at Zoe, peacefully sleeping in the hammock. He feels deeply confused about what he has just experienced, and yet the events do not bother him at all. Instead, he seems to settle, a sense of calm washing over him. Then he remembers it was Zoe who told him earlier about “finding things.” Could it have been the woman Zoe thought she saw? Why would she be in the jungle at night? And what did any of this have to do with the manta and whatever it was he just experienced—frozen, almost suspended in time?

He walks to Zoe. She is in deep sleep, strands of her beautiful hair obscuring her face, which is imprinted with the pattern of the hammock. I am here for you, and I really want you to be able to trust me. I haven’t felt like this in a very long time—if ever. The calm spreads through him, and he gently touches the smooth skin of her face, as if to transfer some of it to her. His desire for her mixes with desperation, a wish to rebuild the trust and confidence she might have lost due to his jackassery earlier in the bar.

He reaches under her neck with one arm and under her knees with the other, and lifts her slowly and gently from the hammock. She stirs in her sleep, burrowing her face in his neck. Her slender body wrapped around his has a warmth and innocence to it. He carries her from the hammock to the bungalow, stopping for a moment to look at the stars once again, with Zoe in his arms. This moment is really special. I love sharing it with you, even though you are asleep. He looks at her peaceful face and plants a kiss on her cheek.

***

ZOE

She awakes with a start. It’s dark outside, the day has not yet started. They are in bed, still in their clothes. Martin is asleep next to her in what seems like a deep REM cycle. She can’t remember how she got into bed; her last memory of the evening was relaxing next to him as he talked her down from another panic attack. She feels a deep sense of gratitude—it’s been a while since anyone looked after her the way he did. He probably thinks I’m a nutcase. She doesn’t care—she is just grateful that he is still there next to her in bed.

She sits up, sleepless, listening to the sounds of the night jungle. Something lurks in the back of her head, a nagging voice reminding her of something. In her dream, she had been walking through the night forest on a strangely familiar path, following a faint orange light. Towering tropical trees were silhouetted against the starry sky, their branches intertwined with hanging vines. Soft starlight filtered through the foliage casting delicate beams on the lush undergrowth below. She maneuvered the deep, mysterious shadows like this was a hike she had done a million times.

She gets out of bed and walks out to the veranda. The front door was open; Martin must have let the night breeze in to cool off the bungalow. She grabs a bottle of water from the cooler, sits down, and takes slow sips. According to her watch it is barely 3 am, but the forest seems alive with a vast soundscape. The same sounds echoed in her dream. The chorus of the jungle lead her along the hike, like a strange mariachi band at the front of a wedding procession. She then remembers something else. During the hike she couldn’t breathe; there was something heavy crushing her lungs. But somehow this didn’t bother her. If anything, she felt more calm, watching the thick wall of vegetation move by in the darkness, as if she were in the observation tower of a tiny cruise ship.

The dream feels important, somehow. She digs deep into the recesses of her memory, working to identify at which point she woke up, hoping it will reveal something about the dream’s meaning. She knows from experience that the harder she tries, the less likely she is to find answers, so she tries to empty her mind. She does a few breathing exercises and watches the stars. Memories of yesterday drift into her mind; the childlike joy of looking at each other in warm anticipation of doing things together—like a real couple. Memories of their embrace in the swimming hole; walking hand in hand among the Lelu ruins; swimming with that gigantic manta ray. Suddenly another memory emerges—the woman in the clearing. Her strange posture, her calm voice, what she said about… finding things?

Finding things. The missing bits of last night’s dream jump at her like a cat pouncing from behind a kitchen door. She remembers hiking through the dense forest in her dream. A feeling of finding things she thought were lost forever. The small orange light lead on, flickering playfully in the distance. She knew where the light was leading, though not consciously. She moved gracefully with a strange calmness, in harmony with the universe, her footsteps quietly melding with the other nocturnal noises—the way the sleeping island breathes.

Susan. Somehow, she knew her name in the dream was Susan.

She takes another sip and walks around the clearing next to the bungalow, the cool dewy grass cushioning her bare feet. She goes through a few standing yoga postures. She holds a tree pose for some time, mentally reviewing her discussion with Martin right before her anxiety attack. She remembers calling him out for his behavior in the bar, and was fully prepared for a confrontation. But he took it surprisingly well, almost like he was expecting it; it seemed like it was not the first time he had had that conversation. As she tried to explain why she couldn’t be around aggressive people, she barely made it through her teenage years when the panic struck. He was incredibly sweet and caring. He held her hand, caressed her hair, and talked in low tones, just like he did on the plane, which now felt like ages ago on a different planet. You are amazing, I hope you know that. But when your dark passenger comes out to play… I don’t know if I want to be around you. Been there—done that.

She moves through a slow, deliberate succession of warrior poses, then settles in a triangle pose, staring into the thick, dense jungle. Her dream ended abruptly with a strange encounter with someone she had known in real life. She stands up, stretches her arms and palms. She gazes up at the stars, sees the Aquarius constellation and the Y-shaped pattern forming the Water Jar. And that’s when another burst of memories hits her.

I saw you in my dream.

She remembers walking past the bungalow and peering through the windows. She saw him look upward in a trance-like state, which seemed normal to her at the time. When she continued down the road, following the orange light, faster and faster, she felt like she was going to lose him. She felt more tense and worried as she continued down the road, first jogging, then running along the dense forest wall. As her speed increased, so grew her worry that she might never see him again. Her eyes flickered beneath their closed lids, and her mouth quivered with fear. The next thing she knew, she was awake in the bungalow.

She finishes her yoga routine and walks back to bed. Martin is still peacefully sleeping on his side, just like she left him. Something stirs in her, a strange and deep desire to look after him. She slips into bed and nestles against his back. I don’t know where you came from and what happened to you, but I am here now. In another moment she falls back into a deep, peaceful sleep.

***

MARTIN

He sits on the veranda sipping his coffee while a gentle, warm rain patters on the awning. The drink’s bitter flavor jolts him awake, not like he needed it—he can’t remember the last time he had such a relaxing night. They both slept in. The white noise of the tropical rain helped. She is still inside, probably asleep—he doesn’t want to bother her. He thinks of how pale her face got during last night’s anxiety attack, and he hopes the extra rest will help push the reset button. Plus, sitting outside sipping coffee listening to the rain is probably as perfect a moment as he could expect to have alone.

We will need food. They raided the cooler last night, and this morning he nearly finished the rest of the crackers, leaving a few for Zoe; although so far she seemed to eat very little, mostly vegetables. He looks around, wondering what they might do in this weather. He always travels with a book and she has an e-reader stacked in her bag. Maybe we will make a book club out of it?

“Good morning.” Zoe’s mezzo soprano voice comes as a surprise from the doorway, just over his left shoulder. Her words are slightly hoarse; they did a lot of talking last night. He looks up and smiles. She looks a bit more disheveled than yesterday’s yoga routine, with bed hair and slightly puffy eyes. She is still the same beautiful woman he fell for two days ago, and her right-out-of-bed look makes his heart drop.

“Hi there,” he greets her. “Did you sleep well?”

“I don’t know.” She sits down in the other chair. “I must have because I haven’t felt this refreshed in ages.”

“Me neither. We might have gotten a little sunstroke yesterday.” He stands up and pours her a cup of coffee.

“That’s very sweet of you,” she says, her smile widening. “Thank you.”

He sits on the ground and puts his hand on her slender ankle. She gazes at him gently, still smiling. “What?”

“I don’t know. I just... I feel like that talk last night...”

He hesitates. “It was a bit intense.”

“It was,” she says.

“I’m starting to think this is what we are here for, though.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Intense talks?”

“I think so,” he responds. “There was something deep… I don’t know, it feels like we needed to have that conversation.” She nods, then touches his face.

They sit in silence, drinking their coffees and listening to the rain. Zoe nibbles on the last bit of cracker. “Thanks for saving this for me,” she says with a full mouth. “I normally wouldn’t eat breakfast but somehow I’m starving.”

“Want to get something to eat at the resort?”

“Sure, let me get ready first.” She disappears to the outdoor bathroom, then resurfaces in a pair of hiking pants and a Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirt.

“Are you kidding?”

She looks behind her. “Now what?”

“Are you a fan?”

“Umm… yea? Probably their biggest one on this side of the planet.”

“Not possible. I’m their biggest fan.” The rain doesn’t relent. They walk to the car and start their slow drive while chatting about festivals and concerts. Someone brings up The Getaway tour, and they realize they both caught the same show at the Rock Werchter Festival.

“I can’t believe you were there,” Zoe shakes her head. “I was right in front, getting crushed by the crowd.”

“That crowd was insane!” He exclaims enthusiastically. “I got caught in the pit during Give It Away… barely made it out alive. What were you doing in Europe?”

She looks away for a moment, then returns her gaze. “I’ll tell you over breakfast.”

They settle into their usual table in the empty restaurant. Rebecca comes over, takes their orders, and disappears to the kitchen after chatting about the weather. They look outside; a sudden burst of wind picks up heavy drops of rain and throws them at the window, leaving long translucent streaks.

“Remember what I told you yesterday about my time in Ohio and how I needed to get out of there?”

He nods.

“I couldn’t finish because of my panic attack.”

“Please… no need to talk about things that upset you.”

“No. I want to.” She hesitates and reaches for his hand. “And I feel… safe with you.”

She tells him about leaving her friend’s basement after graduating high school and backpacking in Europe for six months on her own. It was the first time she had ever been completely alone—and she reveled in the solitude. She carried a worn copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being like a wound, exploring freedom and responsibility through the lens of the romances between Tomáš, Tereza, Sabina, and Franz. For the first month of her trip, with every passing day on the road, a new trauma surfaced. She often woke in the middle of the night from dreams in which long-forgotten hurts and indignities resurfaced. She’d quietly whimper into the pillows of starchy, uncomfortable beds in hostels and guesthouses as she passed through humble, small towns across Western Europe.

She tells him how she was in Amsterdam with a Mexican boyfriend-in-passing. They were experimenting with a particularly gnarly strain of weed when her phone dinged, notifying her that there were just a few remaining tickets for the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ performance at Rock Werchter Festival in just two weeks’ time. She jumped on the opportunity to buy one, nearly emptying her already shallow bank account. She traveled a little more with Paco, but then parted ways after a night of intense but ultimately unsatisfying sex at a B&B in Antwerp. The next day she was at the festival—crushing, and being crushed by, thousands of fans moshing to Can’t Stop.

“Thanks for telling me all this,” he says. “We have many things in common.”

She smiles again. “We do, don’t we?”

That strange sense of calm that overtook him last night reappears; the one he felt after his emotional encounter with the breaching manta in his dream. I’m so happy we are both here. He watches her dig into her banana pancakes, which Rebecca has just dropped off at their table. She looks ravenous, chewing at a cuteness-level volume that only attractive women can get away with.

“And what do you want to do today?” she asks.

He looks outside, where the rain continues to pour relentlessly. “I was thinking we could fill up our food cache for the bungalow, then drive around a bit?”

“Right on,” she quips through a mouthful. “Let me finish this pancake first.”

***

ZOE

The drive to town takes no more than five minutes. She sits in silence as Martin drives from the resort, maneuvering their way around standing water that has pooled on the road from the recent torrent. The car sways in the wind, which blows the rain sideways. As they approach the causeway, gigantic waves crash to its side and onto the road. He brakes abruptly before the onramp as a big wave floods the road, washing debris into the ocean.

“Wow… insane weather,” he murmurs. They wait for a lull in the waves and carefully drive through the causeway, following another ages-old Japanese hybrid, the main form of personal transportation on the island.

They reach the market, a run-down industrial-looking building that doubles as a hardware store, right next to the entrance to the ruins. The rain pours relentlessly.

“What do you think… should we make a run for it?” she asks, looking out the window with a faint smile.

“We will get drenched,” he responds, scratching his chin. Then they notice a family of five—mother, father, three small kids—casually walking through the flooded road wearing shorts and t-shirts, flip-flops in their hands. They laugh and stroll as if they were enjoying a morning drizzle, as opposed to fighting their way through a brutal tropical storm.

“Look at them,” she chuckles. “They seem excited and happy. Clearly, we need to revisit our concept of ‘drenched.’ Come on, Lowlander!” She opens the door and steps outside as the wind blows warm, heavy rain drops inside the car.

An overwhelming sense of energy, joy, and freedom washes over her as her t-shirt gets immediately soaked. She tilts her face to the sky and closes her eyes, letting the water trace its way down her body. This is what I needed today. She opens her eyes: Martin stands in front of her, also soaked through, his hair sticking to his forehead, his signature playful grin on his face.

“It’s kind of nice, no?” he observes, musingly. “When I saw that family crossing the road, I realized…”

She finishes his thought. “… that there is a way to live together with bad weather. Like an annoying cousin who crashes at your house but you don’t kick out because, well, he is your cousin.”

His smile widens. “Love that. So true.” Warmth spreads through her chest, anchoring her in the moment. She reaches for his hand and they walk into the building together, slowly and casually, through the storm’s never-ending curtain of rain.

The market is quiet and dark. The lights are out, probably due to an island-wide blackout from the storm. There is a young girl of about seventeen or eighteen at the cashier, wearing a dress with a floral pattern. She is in deep conversation with a boy of similar age wearing a basketball jersey and wide shorts. Judging by the way he is leaning over the counter, he probably aspires to be her boyfriend. They are looking at his phone, laughing and chatting in rapid Kosraean. Zoe can see they are watching a YouTube video of a large grey tabby cat strutting to the rhythm of the Imagine Dragons song Radioactive. The store shelves are mostly stocked with non-perishables—entire rows of Filipino food and ramen, even more bags of chips, lots and lots of sweets. In the back, two large standing fridges store frozen chicken and pork. The happy-looking family from the street is there, loading up their cart with chicken leg quarters, drumsticks, and pork bellies. She browses through the shelves. Very few items meet her usual standards, but she has learned to lower these when traveling on islands, where pretty much everything is imported, packaged, or processed. She picks up a box of Fijian cookies and some nuts and dried fruit, a bag of rice, soy sauce, canned tuna, and corned beef. While she tries to stick to a plant-based diet, she does need protein every now and then. She is about to move on to the fresh produce when she notices Martin chatting up the Kosraean family. He waves at her, she smiles back. Are we being social now?

“Hey Zoe… meet Richard and his family.” She walks over, shaking hands with the couple whose kids are running around the store. Richard is a heavy-set Micronesian in his late thirties with tribal tattoos covering his lower arm. His wife, Nicole, greets them with a warm, bubbly laugh. “You were on the same plane as us.”

She blushes, recalling their first kiss. Maybe that’s why they remember us.

“Great to meet you guys,” Richard smiles. “What are you doing out in this weather?”

“Just shopping for food. Our reserves are running low.”

He looks over at her basket, raising an eyebrow. “Food? That’s not food.”

Nicole laughs. “Rick, let them eat their backpacker rations.”

“Hey, I did ten years in the Marines—processed junk ages you in dog years.” Richard grins.

They chat for a few minutes. She tells them of her travels around the world and why she decided to visit Kosrae; Martin casually mentions how she whimsically stole him from the plane. Her heart beats faster as she realizes they are behaving more and more like a pair.

As they are about to say their goodbyes, Nicole asks if they want to join them for an early dinner. “I am cooking fish and chicken with taro and roasted breadfruit,” she says. “You guys should come and hang out with us.”

“There isn’t much to do in this weather but eat and chat,” Richard adds. “Oh—and I am from Pohnpei. You know what that means?”

Zoe and Martin look at each other. “No idea, tell us.”

“That I have the best sakau on the island.”

She smiles, reaching for Martin’s hand. “Well, I am interested.”

Martin winks at her. “Oh… you’re in for a treat.”

***

MARTIN

They drive along the main road, which hugs the Kosraean coastline. The rain sweeps sideways across the car windows. Coconut palms bend and sway under the wind, their fronds heavy with water. The road is paved, but very narrow and winding. He navigates the giant potholes and washouts, slowing for the many dogs that jog by the side of the road, oblivious to the rain. The mud from the steep inland roads seeps out to the main road, covering whole sections in slippery brown goo. They sit in silence; in the background, the radio quietly plays a recording of a church service. The vehicle has a strong “rental car” smell, mixed with the scent of Zoe’s shampoo. She lowers the window; the rain has quieted down a bit. The charged air smells of wet earth, salt, and thick jungle.

As they leave the Tofol area, a mosaic of mist-shrouded mountains rises to the right. The wind and waves have settled down. The lagoon to their left is glassy and silver, and the raindrops create endless ripples—as if the eternity of space and time meet in the Pacific. Fishing boats bob beyond the mangroves, their roots clawing into the water where they form intricate tunnels. The rain’s steady rhythm against the windshield and the hypnotic motion of the wipers distort their reality.

“I know it’s weird to say in the middle of a storm,” she murmurs. “But I feel safe here. With you.”

He smiles, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “Me too.”

“Even if we get stuck forever in a mud pool?”

“Especially if we do. I could live here, you know.”

She laughs and turns her head sideways to look out the window. People watch from doorways, their feet dangling in the rain, while kids in board shorts play in gigantic puddles next to the road. Everything around them seems distant and slow.

A dog shakes off in the middle of the road, forcing them to slow down. “These guys seem absolutely clueless about how much softer their bodies are than a car’s bumper,” he notes.

She leans back, hugging her knees to her chest, her bare feet up on the seat. He steals a glance at her slender ankle and his heart skips a beat. Focus on the road. He watches a man wade knee-deep into the flooded road, unfazed. Martin slows, steering through the next deep puddle.

“You’re right. No one’s rushing anywhere.”

They approach the town of Utwe and the rain slows to a drizzle. The lowland taro fields are fresh and dripping. Houses sit atop stilts, with smoke curling up from kitchen fires.

“You know, Richard’s family made me think of mine,” he says, after a pause. She watches him, waiting. “I miss them, sometimes. Families, not people, are the basic unit of the Pacific. And they are very, very different from the rest of the world.”

“What do you mean?”

“They walk through the heaviest rain I have ever seen, even in this part of the ocean—drenched, barefoot, smiling, without a care. They strike up conversation with total strangers. They invite them to dinner after ten minutes of chatting.” He chuckles and steers the car around another pack of dogs chilling in the middle of the flooded road.

“Can you imagine this in Ohio? I for sure can’t see this happening in Delft.”

“No, this wouldn’t happen in the States,” she replies, then waits a beat before continuing. “Based on what you told me about your father, I imagine you didn’t have a lot of good juju at home?”

He exhales. “Not at all. We had people over every now and then, but everything took days of planning, and my dad always bitched and moaned about how much he hated visitors.” He chuckles bitterly. “At some point he made my mother swear never to invite anyone over anymore. I learned to hate get-togethers very early on.”

They reach a quiet section of the road. The jungle leans in, vines and ferns creeping towards the pavement. The rain gathers in small roadside waterfalls, gushing from the steep volcanic slopes of the island’s highest peak, which is still swallowed in mist. The endless silver ocean is now hidden behind the trees.

“Same for me.” Zoe begins. “Kids in Athens county mostly hung out by themselves, aside from Thanksgiving and Christmas. But then people would get drunk or high very quickly, and things started flying.”

“Oof. At least my father never got physical,” he says. “He would bellow and scream over the smallest things, but he never laid hands on us.”

She stops for a moment before responding. “Mom was a waitress. Young, pretty. She had boyfriends. Some were fine. Some weren’t.” She exhales. “The ones who trashed our house never stayed long, but long enough to ruin everything.”

Her eyes turn cloudy, like the mountains around them. “I mean… what the fuck were you expecting moving into a house where a ten-year-old lives?” she says to no one in particular. “Endless meth parties?”

Her breathing increases. He takes her hand. She locks fingers with him and places her other hand on top of his.

She swallows back tears. “It was a real shit way to grow up.”

As they drive, they talk in hushed voices, chatting about their pre-travel lives. For a moment he thinks about telling her about Mela and their split, but then decides against it. Right now, you need my attention more than I need yours. He continues holding her hand as she looks out the window. Another hour passes, and they approach the north side of the island. The coastline is more exposed, with stretches of black volcanic rock switching with empty beaches and the occasional house on the roadside; most are abandoned, crumbling into the jungle. There’s a long bridge that crosses a river, its waters swollen from the downpour. A rusted, abandoned Japanese tank sits half-hidden by the roadside, overgrown with vines.

After another half an hour they arrive back near the airport. The rain has completely stopped. They walk around the terminal building, taking in vistas of shrouded mountains rising above the sea. He sits on the hood of the car and marvels at how she walks; so graceful, with the elegance of a dancer.

She notices him watching, and looks back at him with a beckoning smile. “What?”

He beams. “Worst moment to nerd out, but… Star Trek?”

She blinks. “Are you kidding? Huge Trekkie.”

He grins. “Tractor beam?”

“Of course. Remember when they used it to stabilize the ship in TNG after the Traveler flung them across the galaxy?”

He laughs. “Yes!! We are both serious nerds.”

He looks her in the eyes again. “Anyway. What I was going to say is: Whenever I look into your eyes, or… kind of like, experience your personality… it feels as if you have a tractor beam in there somewhere.” He touches her face gently. She rests her forehead against his shoulder.

“That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she says. His hand moves slowly through her damp hair. Beyond the runway, the restless ocean continues to churn.

***

ZOE

They reach the bungalow early in the afternoon, pulling the Toyota up to the driveway. The scent of wet earth is heavy, the air thick and cool, their steps on the gravel quietly echoing in the lingering hush that follows the tropical downpour. The bungalow sits quiet, wrapped in the slow drip of water from the trees, droplets sliding off the leaves in fat, deliberate drops.

She stretches, arms overhead, her pants damp and clinging to her thighs. “This is refreshing,” she murmurs, tilting her face to the sky. He walks past her, his hands gently grazing her lower back. The wooden steps creak beneath their weight as they climb up to the veranda. Their sandals leave dark wet prints on the planks. She sits down in a chair, gazing into the wet jungle.

“Do you want to eat something?” He is loading the small cooler by the door with the loot from the grocery store.

“I’m good, thanks. I want to work up an appetite for dinner, you know.”

He appears in the doorway and hands her a can of coconut water. “Please hydrate. Long, hot day.”

She looks up at him, as his eyes settle on her. Your eyes are gentle and honest. I know you want to make this work as much as I do.

Later they sit inside the bungalow. He leans against the bedframe, her head rests on his lap. The bungalow smells of wood and salty air, the windows let in the breeze, the ceiling fan rotates lazily. A single mosquito floats in a wide patch of faint light near the doorway, its movements drowsy with the heavy air. She flips through the pages of her e-reader, looking for a quote.

“Remember I told you about my travels with Kundera?”

“Yes, The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I used to love that book, though I haven’t opened it since high school.”

She looks up at him with a playful smirk. “Angsty high school students, were we?”

“You have no idea! The Doors. Beatniks. Movies from Jarmusch and Hartley... Lots of weed.”

“Ha! I knew we had many things in common.”

She sighs wistfully. “Anyway. Wanna hear my favorite part?”

“Yes please.”

She smiles, her tone turns a bit more serious. “OK, here goes:

‘Kitsch causes two tears to flow in quick succession. The first tear says: How nice to see children running on the grass! The second tear says: How nice to be moved, together with all mankind, by children running on the grass! It is the second tear that makes kitsch kitsch.

The brotherhood of man on earth will be possible only on the basis of kitsch. … And no one knows this better than politicians. Kitsch is the aesthetic ideal of all politicians and all political parties and movements.’”

She pauses, glances at Martin. He is looking at her dreamily.

“Wow.”

“Do you like it?” She tilts her head up. “OK so then check this out. ‘Kitsch excludes everything from its purview which is essentially unacceptable in human existence.’”

He closes his eyes for a second. “And.. this is your favorite passage?”

“Yes… I am learning more and more about this part as I get older.”

She puts down her e-reader, and folds her arms across her belly. She continues. “When I was traveling with this book in Europe, I mostly just understood this section to be a searing critique of bullshit. Now I realize it’s bigger, you know.”

Martin opens his eyes. “Bigger how?”

“It’s about our innate ability for self-deception, which is more than just bullshit.” She sits up, feeling more animated and energized. “I think Kundera is saying that self-deception is a necessary part of dealing with the weight of life. Which, you know—is perfectly fine.”

She reaches for the can and takes a sip of coconut water. “Let’s take my story as an example. I left home as a teenager, right?” He nods. “By then I had seen many unbearable truths. Lots of drinking and yelling, mom’s aggro boyfriends… her inability to protect me from the shitstorm that was her life at the time.”

She takes a deep, shaky breath as Martin reaches for her hand. “Instead of hiding in self-deception… drugs, drinking, partying… I stepped out and went my own way. You remember Sabina and Tereza, the two main female characters? One of them, I think Sabina, was more about lightness, rejecting constraints, seeking fleeting, playful connections.”

She takes another sip, passion driving the words she has been contemplating for years now. “I have Sabina in me. But I also have plenty of Tereza. Her longing for weight and meaning, for something more than just… transitions, you know.”

He nods, then moves closer to her. She feels electrified as he puts his hands on her face.

Am I Tereza or Sabina right now?

She swallows, feeling the weight of his gaze settle into her chest. His mouth closes on hers slowly and deliberately, as his hand reaches around her neck and all five fingers burrow gently in her hair. “This is beautiful,” he whispers, the warm air from his words grazing her mouth with electricity. “You know… this is how I think of the perfect kiss.”

She looks at him with a mix of apprehension and playfulness. “Oh? How so?”

“Well, the perfect kiss is equal parts light and heavy.” His face moves closer, their mouths millimeters away, noses slightly grazing and eyes locked in sync.

He continues. “The perfect kiss is like a transition from lightness and playfulness to something deep and meaningful.”

His fingertips gently trace the back of her head. Something deep and warm stirs in her belly, her lap. Her flicker of apprehension is losing the fight against the magnetism of his warm lips and eyes.

“We crave depth, but we also fear it,” he says. “Life is a continuous balancing act between the two.”

Zoe swallows, exhales, and lets herself lean into him. He holds her hand a bit stronger now, his fingers again deep in her hair. “A perfect kiss allows us to experience both at the same time, in the micro-universe we create at that moment.”

Magnetism wins I guess. She reaches up, fingertips grazing the stubble along his chin.

“So, can we make this micro-universe real?” She smirks, teasing.

He smiles as she pulls his face closer, their mouths traversing the remaining millimeters of space between them. Their lips find each other and land together in a soft, warm space. The jungle birds screech and shout through the lazy afternoon as their bodies land on top of the bed in a passionate embrace.

***

MARTIN

He is on a slow journey, his mouth gently moving over Zoe’s long, slender neck, shoulders, and arms. His hand gently rests on her thigh, joining the exploration. They kiss, and then they kiss some more. Seconds become minutes, then hours, as they lose themselves in the process of learning each other’s touch, sound, breath, movement. The afternoon breeze drifts in and cools the heat radiating from their skin: she is glowing, blushing, a combination of excitement, joy, and desire—he can feel it even with his eyes closed.

And then, her face flickers out of focus behind his eyelids. He stops for a second, his mouth still on hers, opens his eyes—and freezes. It is the face of a different woman. Warm, almond-brown eyes look at him, with a smooth and radiant deep bronze complexion, thick dark hair, full, curved lips, and a gentle, hesitant smile. His eyes widen and his hand stops moving. Something shifts. A name vaguely forms at the back of his mind. A half-memory slips away before he can grasp it. Her mouth opens and she whispers, “I keep finding things.” His thoughts turn static, breath caught mid-inhale as everything sharpens around him: the flicker of light in the window, the hum of the fan. Who are you? And what happened just now?

The cool sensation of her rings against his palm settles him. He blinks twice—and Zoe’s face, her amber eyes, return to his.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Not quite there yet.”

Still wrestling with leftover confusion from the previous moment—what was that?—he looks in her eyes, then touches her face and kisses her mouth. Very gently, their lips connect.

“It’s OK. We go as slow as we need to.” Her skin blushes in tiny patches above her cheekbones.

“Thank you. You have no idea..” she swallows, then continues in a shaky voice. “You have no idea how much I appreciate you respecting my… tempo.” She chuckles, equal parts relieved and tearful. “Such as it is.”

He smiles at her silently, his hand on her face. A few minutes pass as they stay close to each other, their physical contact almost unbearably sweet behind the curtain of their self-imposed restriction. They exchange nervous laughter as they rearrange their wrinkled clothes, then return to their original positions, this time with his head resting on her lap.

“Let’s change things up,” he says. She looks at him with a warm, gentle smirk, her body still tense. “I think it’s time for me to tell you about my favorite book.”

He reaches for his phone, realizing he has barely looked at it since arriving on the island. The cell signal at the bungalow is very weak, it takes forever for emails and websites to load. He pulls up an e-reader app, and opens one of the books there.

“Here we go... Do you know Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert M. Pirsig?”

“I’ve heard of it but not read it. I thought it was… well, about motorcycle maintenance?”

He grins. “It is, yes. But also much more. Listen to this:

‘ The real cycle you’re working on is a cycle called ‘yourself.’ The machine that appears to be ‘out there’ and the person that appears to be ‘in here’ are not two separate things.”

Quiet settles in, disturbed only by the canopy still dripping from the heavy rains.

She looks outside, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “So… fixing the motorcycle is fixing your… soul?”

He smiles. “I think this passage is about more than just ‘soul’.”

He goes on. “Somewhere early on in the book, Pirsig talks about being fully absorbed in the act of maintaining a motorcycle. He says something like, when being present in what you do, caring deeply about what you do, you enter a kind of a flow state. And the entire person is in a flow state, not just their soul—their mind and body too.”

She nods slowly, then leans back against the wall, resting her hand on his shoulder. “I think I got it. Like yoga... While practicing, ideally you don’t think about what you are doing, you just… do it. In a perfect session, you become one with the mat, the space, the others around you.”

“Exactly,” he says. “Or like meditation. Meditation is about presence. Pirsig says if you’re really caring and paying attention, everything, like fixing an engine, reading a book, even this conversation, can be a kind of meditative practice.” He flips to another page. “This is my other favorite section:

"'The place to improve the world is first in one's own heart and head and hands, and then work outward from there.'" Something grows heavy inside as he hears himself read the quote aloud, probably for the first time in his life. He goes quiet as she looks at him, her eyes deep in thought. “That’s pretty amazing.”

“I think so too,” he responds. “It feels to me like an extension of what you described as Kundera’s lightness versus weightiness. Pirsig has a more definitive view—life requires attention.”

She presses on. “You mean Sabina from Kundera’s book is wrong? That lightness, that letting go is just an illusion?”

He pauses. Is it time to talk about Mela? Should we open that book as well? “I don’t really know. I used to think fixing something—like sticking with it—was the only way to prove it mattered.”

He hesitates, then continues. “But at some point, I guess I stopped believing things could be fixed. And then I learned to let go.”

She looks worried. “But that should also be part of caring, no?”

“You mean the ability to let go of something? Or someone?”

She nods. “Yes, exactly. I think there came a moment when I was ready to let go of my mom. And it was out of love for her. Even though I knew she was hurting… if I had been around for her to worry about, she would have hurt much more.”

A quiet moment settles on the room. The air is still thick with humidity, permeated by the echoes of conversation. Their words linger like the fading scent of the rain. Outside, the world continues in slow motion; the distant hum of the ocean and the sharp cries of the birds cut through the afternoon lull. In their small pocket of stillness, time stretches and folds, pressing against the bungalow walls.

***

ZOE

They’re back in the rickety old Toyota, weaving through the drenched road, dodging potholes the size of small lakes, swerving around dogs and pigs lounging by the roadside. The sun sinks behind the trees. She’s driving this time, relishing the quiet focus of the road, the steady weight of the wheel in her hands. The discussion they had about Pirsig and his vision for being present reverberates in her mind. Driving a car is a seemingly simple but complex task, which in which one can and should get completely absorbed. Her focus sharpens, precise as in yoga. Is this what Pirsig had in mind? She never thought of seeking peace while carrying out mundane, everyday tasks.

She realizes that peace is increasingly important to her. Her accelerating heart rate echoes in her ears like tribal drums as she remembers the passionate half-hour intermezzo they shared, right before the conversation turned to Pirsig. She lost herself in his touch, his kiss, his body; she relished having his complete attention. And then, for just a moment, she saw Brian’s face again. Why have I not had these flashbacks before? She has had many adventures since they had parted ways, yet never experienced the intense moments of recall that had swarmed her since she met Martin on the plane. Something is different now; something beautiful and strange that stirs her deepest demons.

Including Brian. The scars on her right thigh itch as she recalls the sound of the window being shattered; she can hear his animalistic howling, can see his face contorted with anger. She takes a shaky breath and exhales long and slow.

“I enjoyed our book club this afternoon,” she says, something churning deep inside her, thinking back to their time atop the covers.

He smiles. “Ik geniet ervan om bij je te zijn.” She raises an eyebrow.

“That sounds very romantic... what does it mean?” He blushes and Zoe can’t suppress her smile.

“I enjoy being with you. Saying it in my own language feels stronger, more authentic.”

Her heart flutters—not with anxiety, but with a soft weightlessness. “Thank you.” To reflect his authenticity, she says quietly, “Eu também adoro passar tempo contigo.”

His eyebrows lift. “Wait—you speak Portuguese?”

“I spent a summer in Brazil during college. I volunteered in São Paulo as a youth mentor in some really crazy areas of town. Had to catch up on my Portuguese really quickly.”

They arrive at Richard and Nicole’s house as dusk settles over the island. It’s a well-kept wooden structure on stilts along a quiet road in Lelu Island. The corrugated metal roof is obscured by banana and breadfruit trees, a taro patch in the front. They park the car in a muddy spot, right behind the remains of a gutted Chevy, currently home to a pack of local dogs. She gets out of the car and walks with a large box of cookies in her hand, baked by Rebecca’s mom, which they bought at the resort.

She waits for Martin and reaches for his hand. “Come on, I’m famished.”

They follow the scent of grilled fish to an outdoor dining area behind the house, under an awning, surrounded by thick bush and the sounds of the awakening night forest. The table exudes an ethereal glow that radiates from flickering lanterns. Nicole is setting the table as two of their three children sit on the stairs leading up to the door, huddled over a phone watching Peppa Pig.

“You guys made it!” She smiles and rushes over for a hug. “Richard! They’re here!”

Richard walks out from the house. The opening door reveals a neat interior with wooden furniture and hand woven mats. He carries a big plastic bottle in his hand, full of gooey brown liquid.

“Well hello there, kids,” he beams. “Let’s start with a sakau, I’d say.”

He waves them over to a small clearing right behind the house. A flat rock lays in the grass, surrounded by a few small chairs. Exactly like the one the woman in the clearing showed me.

“Sakau used to be a big thing in Kosrae, just like in Pohnpei,” he says. He settles into one of the chairs and motions to the others. They all sit as Nicole walks over with a few small cereal bowls.

“This land has belonged to Nicole’s ancestors for as long as we can remember,” he continues. “The rock in the grass is where they used to grind the fresh roots for the traditional sakau ceremony.” He chuckles. “We still do it that way in Pohnpei. Super messy, but nothing beats the taste.”

Nicole sits with them and pours the liquid into bowls. “Ever tried the stuff?”

Martin nods. “I had it in Pohnpei, yeah. Also in Vanuatu, very similar.”

Richard nods, and turns to Zoe. “What about you?”

“Nope, never. What should I expect?” Nicole smiles and hands her the bowl.

“Why don’t you just try?” After a moment of hesitation she accepts the bowl. The liquid looks like something out of a fresh puddle and smells faintly of earth.

She looks up to see Nicole and Martin grinning at her. In a calm voice, Richard says: “Go for it. I promise you won’t be seeing dragons.”

She raises the bowl to her mouth and takes a sip. The liquid is as flavorless as it looks, with some hints of the dirt smell it emits. Her mouth immediately goes numb, then a warm buzz fills her chest. It is not a heady high like alcohol or weed; a deep, warm sensation simply spreads through her body. After a few sips she downs the contents of the bowl and hands it back to Nicole.

“Like it?” she asks.

“Like is a stretch,” she smiles, wiping her mouth. “But the effect is pretty amazing.”

Richard nods. “Every place does it differently. In Kosrae, sakau is not as prevalent. This stuff, I brought from my cousin’s in Pohnpei,” he says, pointing to the bottle. “I would love to grind the roots on this rock myself, but this is Kosrae and folks do not drink it around here.”

“It’s because of the Christian missionaries,” Nicole adds. “Kosrae is very religious, we even have a Sunday law—you are not allowed to be outside on a Sunday other than to go to church.”

Zoe realizes she actually has no idea what day it is—nor does she care. She closes her eyes for a moment, enjoying the sensation of the moment stretching on and on, like an endless rubber band. Everything around them is calm, quiet. Even the nocturnal birds seem to have turned down the volume.

“A sakau ceremony is all about the community and respecting the drink.” Nicole pours the second bowl, and hands it to Richard, who hands it on to Martin. “It’s like liquid tradition, you know?”

Richard adds, “The first drink goes to the guest of honor, then the next one to the chief.”

“Ha!” Zoe exclaims. “Hail to the chief I guess.”

The buzzy sensation spreads through her limbs. Martin grins, lifts the bowl, and downs it in a single gulp.

“That’s how it’s done, brother.” Richard beams, taking the bowl back while Martin settles back in his chair with a calm smile.

Zoe moves closer to him, places her hand gently on his knee, and he puts his on top of hers. It’s Richard’s turn. He drinks slowly, deliberately, and hands the bowl back. Nicole puts it on the ground and sits down.

“Are you not having any?” Zoe asks.

Nicole shakes her head. “No. In my community, women usually don’t drink sakau.” She smiles gently.

Zoe raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you feel—I don’t know, excluded?”

Nicole shakes her head, still smiling. “Nah... this is how I grew up. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy drinking it every now and then… but tonight I am just not feeling it.” She leans back in her chair, reaches for Richard’s hand.

“Traditions are very important to us. And yes, some of these are outdated, or just straight-up weird.” Nicole continues. “In Kosrae, it is us women who own the land. This is how it’s been for generations. But we are not part of community decisions or politics; those roles are reserved for men.”

Richard nods slowly. “We do realize the world is changing. We get visitors from the US and other countries, and they look at us like we are stuck in the stone age. But that’s not true.” He shakes his head. “Things are changing here, too. We now have women in the legislature, we have women running businesses. We have lots of women signing up for the Army or the Marines—I even served under a female sergeant from Kosrae for a while.”

“Interesting,” says Zoe. She hesitates for a moment, then decides to press on. “And… how do you feel about these changes?”

Richard and Nicole look at each other. Nicole answers. “I like and respect our traditions. They are thousands of years old, and are as much part of me as the sakau is a part of Richard now.” She waves at her husband with a smile. “But these changes are important. I want my daughter to get a good education. I want her to grow up and be a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer.”

She goes on. “At the same time I would also like to think that we don’t have to lose our identity, our values, and traditions for her to have the same opportunities that men have.”

They sit quietly for a few more minutes, enjoying the warm evening. It is quiet aside from the occasional giggles from the kids sitting on the stairs. The night sky peeks through the drifting clouds, and the crescent moon shines brightly over the forest. Zoe sits in deep peace, feeling connected to the gentle vibration of the universe around them. Martin gently strokes her hand. She looks in his eyes, her soul plunging into his. Something heavy falls from a nearby tree into the underbrush, suppressing the gentle noise of Nicole pouring another round into the bowl.

Ik geniet ervan om bij je te zijn.

Eu também adoro passar tempo contigo.

***

MARTIN

They eat while chatting in hushed voices, the quiet evening surrounding them. The kids devour their meals and go back into the house to watch TV. His head is slightly buzzing from the sakau, but not in a bad way—he feels calm, quiet, and connected to the others around the table, as well as the forest outside their little circle of light. Scents of grilled reef fish, chicken stew, taro, and breadfruit mix with the salty air that drifts in from the ocean. He looks at Zoe, her shy but radiating smile, her relaxed posture. An invisible bond has formed between them over the past few days, and he finds himself marveling at its strength and depth. They are two quanta in the universe, entangled.

He reaches for more breadfruit. Nicole smiles at him. “Glad you like it.”

“Are you kidding? Your breadfruit is amazing.”

Richard says, “We have a goddess of breadfruit, did you know? She was believed to reside in the Menke Valley.”

Nicole continues. “We had a temple there to keep her happy. Otherwise, she might bring a typhoon to kill the harvest.”

Richard chuckles, looks at Martin. “You know, when I married this Kosraean girl, I married her superstitions too.”

He looks at Nicole lovingly. “We might be from the same country, but we are also very different. In Pohnpei, we worship very different spirits and gods. Have you guys been to Nan Madol?”

Martin nods. Zoe says, “I haven’t been but I have read about it. That’s where there are ruins of that dynasty that ruled the islands, right?”

“That’s the one. So these guys, the Saudeleurs, were our first colonizers. Nobody knows where they came from. They arrived in the 13^th century, built Nan Madol, an insane city on the water, and ruled the islands with an iron first. Then we had enough and overthrew them.”

Nicole adds, “It wasn’t Pohnpeians, it was Isokelekel. And I keep telling you, he was from Kosrae!”

Richard laughs and looks at her cheekily. “Nah… Isokelekel wasn’t from Kosrae. Your people had no idea how to sail a canoe!”

Nicole playfully punches his shoulder, and turns to Zoe. “This is one thing in our marriage we will never agree on.”

Richard continues. “Long story short, Isokelekel was this demi-god hero-warrior. Like the Saudeleurs, nobody knows where he came from.”

Nicole whispers: “…Kosrae!”

Richard gives her a side-eye, with a smile. “At any rate, according to our legends, the Saudeleurs pissed off the thunder god, Nahn Sapwe.”

Nicole cuts in. “The way I learned it, it was the thunder god who had sex with a Saudeleur lord’s wife.”

Richard rolls his eyes. “Whatever. The point is that we think most of our ancient rituals were put in place by the Saudeleurs. The sakau ceremony, for example, started out as an offering ritual for our rulers.”

“That’s beautiful,” says Zoe, then quickly adds, “Not the part where the lord’s wife cheats on him with a thunder god, obviously. But it’s wonderful how these stories and traditions have been preserved through so many years.”

Richard nods. “It wasn’t easy when the missionaries arrived. They did a pretty thorough job, you know? We are all Christians now. These guys here,” he points at her wife again, smiling. “Super religious, conservative protestants. In Pohnpei, we are more chill.”

Nicole gives him a knowing look. He adds, “I am Catholic, but I go to the congregational church with her here. Otherwise her family would disown me!”

The rain starts again, a gentle patter on the tin roof that covers the outdoor dining area. Nicole goes inside to prepare fruits. Zoe reaches for Martin’s hand, almost unconsciously. She smiles at him, and he smiles back, getting lost for a moment in her eyes.

Richard’s voice brings him back to Earth. “So how long are you guys on the island for?”

He thinks for a moment. “Not sure… I have a job to do in Majuro in the coming weeks, but it can wait.” And that’s when it hits him that he has not actually asked Zoe about her onward travel plans.

“You?” A look of surprise spreads across her face.

You didn’t think about this either, did you? After a moment’s hesitation, she answers, “Well.. I only had a ticket to Kosrae. I was planning to buy the next one here, but I haven’t thought about where I would go next.”

Nicole arrives with a heaping platter of bananas, papaya, mango, and a tub of ice cream. The children appear immediately, their noisy dynamics a welcome distraction. He doesn’t want to talk about plans—especially since there don’t seem to be any yet.

After dessert, the quiet settles back over them. He realizes he has not craved a beer since making an ass of himself with the Germans last night. He looks at Zoe. Things change very fast—and very fundamentally. She is chatting with Richard and Nicole’s twelve-year old daughter, Christine, who wants to be an engineer.

“And where do you want to live?”

“Hmm… not sure. All my cousins are in Guam, they have a big house there. I want to stay here though. Kosrae is better for us.”

Richard proudly nods. “Well, we sure raised you right … I just hope you will get a job!”

Christine smiles. “I bet I will. You will always need people to build roads and buildings!”

“Especially in our crazy weather,” Nicole adds.

Richard hesitates for a moment, then continues. “I have this theory about our culture that is a bit wacky.”

Nicole jumps in. “I think they have had enough of your wacky stories for one day, Rick.”

“No, please, I’m curious!” says Zoe enthusiastically. “OK, here goes,” Richard begins.

“Remember how I told you our traditions are important to us? Well, the thing is… unlike Westerners, we don’t have any written history. None.”

Martin says, “Yes, that’s common throughout the Pacific. It’s all oral traditions.”

Richard nods. “Right. But I actually think our customs have survived so well precisely because we lack written traditions.”

Zoe raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Richard continues. “A history book tells a war’s details. But does it hold the war itself? The politics, the pain, the suffering—the lives lost, the lives changed. A book can’t carry all that. But a story, retold and lived, might.”

Martin considers the idea, then nods. “Written word is subject to interpretation. This is why there is a whole industry of lawyers out there.”

Richard chuckles. “Thank God, right?... Anyway, with oral traditions, the storyteller becomes part of the story. And every time you tell the story, you tell it a bit differently.”

A moment of silence settles while they digest Richard’s words. Zoe looks around, then asks, “So, how do you ensure a story is accurately told?”

Richard shakes his head and says: “You can’t. But you can’t ensure accuracy with a history book either. Look at the hard-right assholes in the States trying to rewrite the history of slavery.”

“Or all the Nazis in Europe constantly trying to rewrite the history of the Holocaust,” Martin adds.

“Exactly,” agrees Richard. “In oral traditions, you can only be a good storyteller if you respect a story’s story. You know what I mean?“

Zoe looks confused, so Richard continues: “Take the Saudeleurs and Isokelekel. It really doesn’t matter where he came from.”

“...Kosrae!” Nicole whispers, Christine giggles.

Richard rolls his eyes, again. “Okay, girls… Kosrae it is. But he could have come from anywhere, right? The moral of the story is that the Saudeleurs oppressed our people for far too long, eventually setting off a spark, and we chased them away.”

Martin thinks about this. “So, what you are saying is that the details of the story are beautiful but almost irrelevant?”

“Exactly,” Richard nods. “For example, legend has it that on his way to Pohnpei, Isokelekel stopped at a Pohnpeian atoll called Ahnd. There, he got breadfruit kernels from the chief and had a fling with a native woman. What does this tell us? Strong alliance against the oppressors between him and the Pohnpeians. Whether the kernels were fresh, or the couple took romantic walks on the beach in Ahnd are not relevant.”

After a moment, Richard continues. “Our traditions are important to us. Not only because of the details or their beauty, but because they help us figure out who we are as Pohnpeians or Kosraeans, and how to live a good life. Since the Saudeleur times, we have been colonized by the Spaniards, the Germans, and the Japanese. Right now, we are technically an independent country, but we are slowly being colonized by the Americans. Without these stories, our people and our society would have disappeared many centuries ago.”

He sighs. “But these stories kept helping us live happier, more fulfilling lives. We need to be able to continue telling them to our children so they can know who they are and live happily.” He swallows, his eyes deep with emotion. “They need these stories more than ever, in a world that is just downright crazy.”

The raindrops drum on the roof as they slowly eat their fruits in silence. Martin and Zoe look at each other in the quiet evening, fingers intertwined, their skin connecting. He thinks of the manta ray that breached the ocean’s surface in his vision, how it swam through the air and splashed back into the water. She thinks of Susan and her quest for finding things. They gaze in each other’s eyes, losing themselves, while the warm island evening absorbs them fully.