And it worked.
The bugs had been a constant pain in the ass, but who knew ash was a natural repellent?
Along with nature slowly giving up her secrets, the imminent scare of not having enough to eat faded. Our injuries were no longer a detrimental deterrent, and being free from such a harsh master like hunger meant our time was free to try other things.
Things we hadn’t dared attempt because of injury, uncertainty, and frankly...the impossibility of such a task.
A life raft.
Estelle and I had had many conversations about what was attemptable and what was not. Estelle played the Devil’s Advocate—pointing out how suicidal it would be to bob around with no compass or destination. She pointed out lack of water and food and shade. She layered complication upon complication:
We weren’t just two people; we were four.
The raft would have to float securely with no chance of tipping over.
The children could swim, but if we capsized, the life-jackets had holes and wouldn’t inflate.
What would we do if we were washed out farther to sea with no islands to cling to?
There were so many unknowns.
It terrified both of us.
But on the other hand, I played Promoter of the Cause:
We weren’t two people; we were four. Therefore, we had more hands to paddle, more chance at travelling farther, more hope at finding civilisation.
The raft would have to float securely, and I wouldn’t leave our island until I was sure it was seaworthy. I would create storage for food and water. I would build a canopy for shade. (I didn’t utter how heavy such a vessel would be or that I had doubts it would float).
As for not having life-jackets—that was a drawback but not a deal breaker.
The only thing that sat in my gut like undigested rocks was the thought of losing against the tropical currents and being claimed by the ocean just as Estelle said.
If a rip took us, we wouldn’t be strong enough to stay in the archipelago of Fiji. However, that chance only existed if we lived on the outskirts of the three hundred plus islands and weren’t (by some slim chance) slap-bang in the middle of other inhabited homes.
Despite our many discussions, the drive to protect my family never left, and one day, I couldn’t wait any longer.
I enlisted Conner’s help, and together, we hacked as much bamboo as we dared (leaving plenty to regrow) and spent our time shredding the stringy bark found on the creeping yellow flowers by the beach line and knotting vine and flax rope to build with.
I was an architect not a boat engineer. I didn’t know buoyancy requirements or how to make wood watertight. As much as I hated to admit it, I wouldn’t be able to build a yacht. But I could build a floating platform. And with transportation, we might be able to unlock the vast prison gates keeping us stranded and find something that could save us.
Conner and I worked steadily but not stupidly.
Some days, we worked from sunup to sundown. But some days, we took off, swimming in the ocean, indulging in naps beneath our umbrella tree. And not once did anyone mention the unmentionable that if we did this; if we willingly sailed away from our island, we would never come back.
If we found rescue, we wouldn’t know the coordinates to return to. If we didn’t find rescue...we’d die a lot sooner than we would if we stayed.
Those thoughts kept me up far too many nights.
.............................
“They’re hatching! Come quick!”
My head wrenched up from Conner’s excited shout. I placed the Swiss Army knife on the log I was leaning against while doing my best to carve a plaque to hang above our bungalow.
I’d taken the day off from raft building to spend the day doing odd jobs around our home. The roof needed an extra flax or two, the flooring a replaced panel, and our hut still needed an official title.
Pippa tore after her brother, sand flying like smoke from her fast feet. All day, the sun had played peek-a-boo with the clouds, granting us some much-needed shade and the freedom to work outside—to air our bedding, take stock of our salty reserves, and swim without fear of our skin peeling off our faces from sunburn.
However, it also meant that Estelle’s phone hadn’t charged, which apparently wasn’t a good thing the way she yelled in despair and tossed the dead device onto the flax blanket beneath the umbrella tree.
Jogging to catch up with her as she sprinted after Pippa and Conner, I asked, “What the hell is going on?”
“Didn’t you hear him? They’re hatching.”
“What’s hatching?”
She threw me an incredulous look. “Seriously? You’ve forgotten already? Even with what we did after we watched the turtles lay their eggs?”
My body warmed.
I flashed her a smug smile. “When you put it like that, I completely remember.” I tried to grab her mid-jog, but she shied away. “We can relive that night if you’re up for it. Minus the bad ending, of course.”
Ever since that night, she’d trusted me. I’d been inside her more times than I could count and not once had I come in her body.
I wanted to more than anything.
I wanted to finish while feeling her clench around me.
But I also didn’t want to get her pregnant.
Not because I didn’t want a baby (my ideals on children had changed drastically in the past few months), but because I was bloody terrified of Estelle going through that with no medical assistance or specialist care.
She swatted my hand away, changing direction to the vegetation where the turtles had chosen for their nests. “Do you always think with that part of your anatomy?”