The island is only thirty acres in size, with a small tropical forest packed into the center that was ringed by bleached white sand sprinkled with perfectly intact shells. From almost the water’s edge, a coral reef thickened as the water gradually deepened, and then the reef abruptly dropped off a cliff into a two-thousand-foot abyss. It was a diver’s paradise. Pristine soft corals waved their long fingers and fanned the marine inhabitants with the gentle sway of the currents. Like Haight-Ashbury in the 1960s, the reef was a psychedelic collage of apple-green scales, purple velvet-tipped fins, and giant eyes outlined in Day-Glo orange. Color combinations my mother told me didn’t go well together were boldly displayed by curious fish. Feather duster worms retracted their long lashes in the blink of an eye. And the turtles, big smiling turtles, came from below, rose out of the water with dreamy eyes, and submerged to fade into the deep blue distance. There were no words to adequately describe this place.
I was there for five days. I had heard about it from some Australians who passed through the wildlife sanctuary where I was collecting skin samples from the wild cats of Borneo—the clouded leopard, flat-headed cat, marbled cat, leopard cat, and the rarer bay cat. My lab director and the Malaysian wildlife department worked out an agreement; we would do the genetic analysis if they would provide the samples. I had waited to do field work almost my entire graduate career, and had already used samples from zoos. Of course they could send the samples, but allowing me, a graduate student, to travel to the jungles and work side by side with the researches in Borneo was part of the deal—even if it was just a glimpse at their world. When I overheard the Aussies talking about the majesty of Sipadan, I drove my hosts crazy until they connected me to Borneo Divers so I could spend my precious days off there.
Chris was one of the smiling faces on the dock. Those no longer dying from the journey joined the unaffected in the dining hut, and I, being the last, asked him if there was anywhere that I could go to die.
“I suggest that you choose another activity here. You don’t really want to spend a lot of money to get here just to become fish bait.”
“No, guess not. I suppose you’re here as part of the welcoming committee to tell me my options.”
“Yes and no. I’m not officially part of the operation, but I help out the best I can.” He extended a tan arm, covered in hair bleached by the sun and sprinkled in sea salt. A margarita came to mind. I was feeling better. He helped me up and we walked to the dining hut. As I sat down to introduce myself to a few of the other visitors, he disappeared into the palm trees.
The dining hut was right out of an Annette Funicello beach party movie, with a single large open room framed by bamboo and palm fronds, but unlike a Hollywood set, it was built to withstand heavy tropical winds. Two rows of long tables up front offered prime ocean views for our dining pleasure. A long bar lined one side wall, the other side wall was open, and a buffet table in the back offered a Malaysian feast. A door on the back wall led to the kitchen where steam billowed from pots kept ready. We were to make ourselves at home, writing down anything we drank from the bar in the little book; they would tally on the morning of our departure. There were four kitchen staff who sat patiently all day to fix us whatever we wanted. Eggs collected from the chickens roaming the grounds, scrambled, over easy, soft boiled. Mangosteen. Coconut. Durian. Jackfruit. Papaya. Rambutan. Starfruit. Soups for lunch, noodles, and rice, always rice. Each night a buffet dinner was prepared; staff standing behind boiling heating trays were eager to serve fresh fish caught each day.
Sign up for a fishing trip, learn to dive, or venture out on my own. Two dive masters and an island manager ran the place and were there for anything we needed.
Only thirty people total were allowed on the island at a time, which meant that there was room for only twenty guests. Workers could radio the mainland, and there was a speedboat that brought supplies in twice weekly and was available to shuttle a weary guest back in little over an hour. The diesel stinkpot that brought us here and would take us back came once a week.
I could walk around the island in twenty minutes, keeping watch in the evenings for a swath of disturbed sand, signs that a female turtle came ashore to nest. Step carefully to avoid pancakes making their way to the sea. At night with flashlights in hand, researchers rotating from the university on the mainland led small groups to witness a female turtle, exhausted from digging, drop seventy or eighty eggs into her open nest. She ignored us in this, her sanctuary.
And there was entertainment. Several evenings a week the staff shared their culture with local songs and dance. Guests were invited to share their own talents and willingly participated once enough alcohol was consumed.
My room consisted of a grass A-frame hut with a double bed, a little table, a stand for my duffle bag, and a lamp. The door was covered in opaque linen, and woven palm fronds could be pulled closed for privacy. I slept ten feet from the sea. A Biblical paradise. I needed nothing more.
Chris spent his afternoons under sail shuttling guests to the outer edges of the thickest part of the reef on the other side of the island, docking as the colors of the setting sun blended with Australian wine and local cheeses. On my second morning he sat alone in the dining hut, coffee cup in hand, writing in a notebook. I didn’t want to disturb him so I filled my cup, picked up a banana and sat on a bench on the outer edge of the hut. My back to the table and him, I faced the water and massaged the sand with my toes.
“It’s always interesting to try to guess what someone is like based on that first encounter on the dock. I figured you for the more friendly type.”
I was surprised and admittedly intrigued by his directness. Not turning around, I said, “You would be right, but I’m also the type to respect people’s privacy so I was giving you some space.”
“Ah, you don’t have to do that here. I get all the privacy I need.”
I found that odd as he must spend so many hours entertaining island guests on his boat. Wasn’t privacy a daily nutrient for solo sailors? I turned to look at him and felt my heart rate increase. “May I join you then?” I asked.
He closed his notebook and stood up. “I’ll join you.” He had on bathing trunks and a tee-shirt from Borneo Divers. He straddled the bench facing me, tempting my personal space and me. His directness boarded on being forward, but I kind of liked it. He extended his hand. “Chris. We were never formally introduced.”
“Hi, Chris, I’m Claire.”
“Yes, I know, from Virginia.” He smirked as color rose on my face. “I review the guest list before folks get here so I have an idea what I’m facing.”
“We’re that bad are we?” I asked.
“Rarely. But it helps to know if there are families or couples or singles travelling alone.”
Ah. Now I understood. He gets to know the guests so he can figure out ways to connect with them and thus increase his tips.
“I want to try to avoid saying something stupid.” He adopted a character expression. “So, would you and your daughter like to take a sail around the island?” he said, turning to the imaginary people sitting across from us. “Oh, this isn’t my daughter sir, this is my wife! That kind of stuff.” He turned back and fixed his stare, challenging me to react.
I blushed again at my misjudgment of his motives. My heart rate quickened. He was younger than I realized, closer to my age, and with a rugged attractiveness softened by sky blue eyes. His thick, wavy brown hair had a personality of its own. I felt like a school girl who bumped into the most popular guy in the class and dropped her books. A common reaction which I was sure he had experienced.
“Are you interested in a sail?”
“No, I’m not interested in anything—that didn’t sound right—I’m most interested in doing nothing, for once.”
“Busy life?”
“I’m finishing my degree so I’m in the last leg of a data-collecting marathon.”
“A sailing trip might help.” He swept his arm across our view to his boat quie
tly swaying and speaking to us in its rigging-clanking language.
“Despite making my way here to paradise, I live the life of a poor grad student.”
“Ah, the operative word being poor,” he said. “I don’t have any bookings this afternoon, so it’s at my invitation. No charge.”
I stared blankly at him. He was not easy to read, though his smile was light, his manner affable, and he seemed genuine in his offer.
“It’s free,” he emphasized.
“Won’t your employers be unhappy?” I looked over to the office hut.
“Oh, them?” He tossed his head over his shoulder. “They’re not my employers actually. I sailed over here one day and we reached an agreement that I could stay in exchange for helping with the guests. They get a cut of each cruise, I get fed, the guests don’t go bonkers.”
“Here? Go bonkers with what?”
“Boredom. You’d be surprised. Folks think it is paradise until about the third or fourth day when they have seen their thousandth parrot fish, finished War and Peace, and completed their shell collection. Unless they have learned to relax, which few people do, they are looking for something to do. And they start dri- . . .”
“Driving you and other staff crazy,” I guessed.
“Yup.”
We set sail around two. It was quiet, and gentle, and exquisite. So was he. He moved from line to line like a brachiating gibbon. He was easygoing and accepted me as crew after I neatly coiled the line when we shoved off. He exuded the confidence required of a captain, but seemed to lack any sense of ego or need to be in control. Our bare feet scrambled on the deck as we changed tack; we made a great team.
We talked about the places we’d been, current world news, and the island. He knew a lot about the local ecology, ocean science, science in general. We steered away from talk of personal lives, and jockeyed around weighty issues until we determined that our politics leaned the same way, as did our ideologies. I felt we had a synergy.
We stretched out on the bow enjoying some of the fruit he had gathered from the dining hall for our foray. We were a relaxed fit and I felt emboldened.
“So, I imagine that you lead the perfect life. No one stays for long, you provide the perfect image of the solitary man in need of comfort, and have your pick of the young women.” It seemed a natural and inevitable question for me to pose.
“Imagine all you want, but I can tell you that is far from the truth.”
“Which part?” I asked.
“All of it. I am not the lonely man who travels the seas looking for a place or woman or life that will save me from myself. Most days I meet some nice people, nice families, and learn something new from them. Most nights I read a book on my deck, maybe share a drink with someone new, and go to sleep alone.”
“Most nights?” I couldn’t help myself.
“Why does that seem to be the most intriguing part of my story? Interested?”
“Um, no, sorry, I guess I just . . .”
“It’s the image again. It’s not me though. And besides, I don’t think my hosts would find it acceptable, but rather distasteful, if I made sailing trysts one of their special offerings.”
I must have looked disappointed.
“Everyone always wants to believe what fulfills their fantasies, not mine. Not that I don’t get approached more often than I would like, but it is a bit predictable and not really appealing.” He was not boastful, just factual.
We sat in silence for a while. A comfortable silence, made uncomfortable only by my realization that I was completely content.
“So what’s the rest of your story Chris? You’re American by your accent, and you’re obviously well educated. Is it self-taught or did you do time in an academic institution?”
“Both I suppose, but I’m actually currently committed to an institution. I’m on sabbatical for a year.”
“Oh. So you . . .”
“So I am not what you imagined, again. Sorry, I’m not a societal dropout. I’m simply a college professor who always dreamed of spending his life sailing but was not committed enough to give up the life of luxury that a high-paying professorship supports.” I laughed at his sarcasm. “I finally got on a tenure track, and decided I could risk being away.”
“So what is your field of expertise? Let me guess, aerospace engineering.”
“Marine biology, thus the diving, the fish knowledge. Made this place an easy fit.”
We talked of careers. He was only five years older, but was ahead of me since I had worked for a few years before going to graduate school and he had flown through his dissertation. His current research was on the Chesapeake Bay, mine in cat genetics. I told him of the postdocs I was applying for. He avoided acknowledging any of them as his. Both East Coasters, both scientists, there were no limits to our discovery of topics of interests we shared. He had flown to Australia, chartered a boat, made it as far as Borneo and Sipadan and had one month to go before he had to head back to the States and his parallel life. We talked deep about perspectives on life, opinions on science and politics, but left the personal details of our lives a mystery.
We swam, we snorkeled, and dived. He was a master diver, I a novice. My eyes widened and I gave a bubbly thumbs up to surface as we paddled out over the reef’s edge. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“My brain is saying cliff!”
“You won’t fall,” was all he said as he took my hand. We dropped slowly along the wall for thirty-two feet, just enough for my ears to pop and for all color fade to blue, but also enough so we could peer into one of the caves that burrowed beneath the island. The sun was setting when we surfaced; he scrambled up the ladder and pulled me from the water. The physical contact felt natural and right.
We sailed back around the island, joining the other guests for dinner and entertainment. Traditional rebana ubi, or hand drums, hypnotized with rhythmic beats. Dancers grabbed a partner for the joget and native voices sang the traditional Ulek Mayang, telling the story of the Bomoh (shaman) who tries to undo a spell placed on a fisherman by a sea princess in love with him. She calls for her sisters to help her, until the high princess tells them all—Enough! Those from the sea return to the sea, those from the land return to the land.
Stomp by stomp the bamboo poles dared our feet to keep up. Eyes closed, I drifted side to side, transported to an island in the Pacific a million miles from reality. Chris sat on a stool towards the back of the bar watching me, laughing as I whirled with one of the Malay women, and spun off balance. He caught me with his smile.
As the party disintegrated into guest karaoke, he slid in next to me at the table, chatted with the other guests, and leaned in whispering, “Care to join my private party on the boat in fifteen minutes?” Not looking at him, I nodded yes.
I stopped by my hut first to change out of shorts into a long dress that flowed as the evening wind began to pick up. From a distance, I could see light and movement on the boat. I arrived to find two other couples and another woman; the not so private party already in progress. He smiled as he took my hand to help me aboard and announce my arrival. It was a delightful night, really, despite my initial disappointment in our different interpretation of the word private. He had chosen like-minded people from Australia and Canada, and a woman from Argentina. Conversation flowed with the tide, we told stories and laughed at our differences despite our similarities. The couples retired sooner, Gabrielle gracefully conceded shortly thereafter. I was to learn later that she had invited herself.
As she receded into the darkness, he extended his hand, inviting me to join him on the long transom bench. I stretched my legs alongside him, and leaned back as he enveloped me in his arms. We lay like this for an eternity: talking, and listening, and being one.
The morning was overcast and cooler. I woke slowly, registering sound first, then light, then my surroundings. Chris was down below. Like a groundhog, he popped his head up when he heard me move, then disappeared again. He emerged with two cups of coffee, m
ine cream no sugar.
I took a sip. “How did you know?” I asked.
“I’m a quick study. I was watching closely yesterday morning.”
“Ah. Sorry I fell asleep on you, literally.”
“My pleasure.” He sat down and looked out over the ocean. “Every morning that I have been here I try to let this setting take hold in my mind. It’s a world away, isn’t it?”
“It is.” I relaxed in the moment until I realized the sun had risen to full-on morning. “What time is it?”
“Unfortunately, time for me to start getting ready. I have a sail scheduled this morning and probably another at noon.” He must have registered my faint pout. “Would you like to spend the evening together? I should be back around six.”
“Sure, I'd love that!” I said with more enthusiasm than intended.
He grinned and leaned in, kissing me gently but only briefly. I gathered my arms around his neck and pulled him to me. He joined me in the transom and we enjoyed each other for a few minutes before he pulled away and mumbled, “It’s going to be a long day,”
Chris found me around noon reading on the steps of my hut. “Hey, my noon cancelled.”
“They found a more exciting option?”
“No, the wife is already fearful of the water and is too worried about the storms. Want to head out for a sail?”
“And the storms?”
“Sounds like there will just be some small squalls early this evening, clearing up overnight, then the fun stuff will move in tomorrow afternoon.”
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