“I’ll risk it.”
He stands, and suddenly I have to tilt my head to keep looking at him. He’s close, tall, solid in a way that makes the tiny cabin feel even smaller. But the tension in the room isn’t fear. It’s not discomfort. It’s the weight of knowing exactly how much of him I trust.
“Coralie,” he says, voice low, “tell me whether you’re okay with this or not. I don’t want assumptions. Just the truth. Use the wide range of vocabulary I know you have.”
I swallow. Not because I’m unsure—but because his voice is so gentle. Because he’s being so careful with me.
“I’m okay with this, Holden.”
He nods, once. His right hand twitches, like it wants to do something—reach for me, maybe—but doesn’t.
“Top or bottom bunk?” he asks.
I glance at the rickety wooden frame. “I feel like if you took the top, it’d collapse on me in the night. Which would be… less than ideal.”
That earns a real laugh from him, lowand short. “Fair.”
He tosses his bag onto the bottom bunk, then lifts mine easily onto the top. There’s something almost domestic in the way he does it—quiet, smooth, like it’s second nature.
The next twenty minutes pass in silence as we unpack. I keep catching myself glancing his way, half-expecting this strange calm between us to break.
But it doesn’t. Not yet.
Dinner passes in a bit of a blur.
When Holden and I joined the others in the tent, the sun was setting just beyond the water, casting rays of molten orange and soft pink across the surface—only to have them swallowed up by the jagged black lava rocks lining the shore. It felt unfair, how beautiful it was. Like a trick of light too good to be real. I might seriously never want to leave this place.
The food was unbelievable. A seafood stew thick with coconut milk, fished near the islands and customary to the region, served with fried plantains and fruit so ripe it tasted like it had been grown just for us. It’s simple. Fresh. The kind of meal that fills your stomach and then lingers on your tongue for a while after. Food isn’t the reason I’m here, obviously—but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find some kind of joy in trying something entirely new.
There aren’t many of us—just the seven students, Holden, the two local guides, and a pair of assistants handling food and gear over the week. Which means that now, with the meal over and most people either engaged in quiet conversations or, in Emma’s case, an intensely competitive game of Uno, there’s space to just... be.
Holden’s across the tent talking to one of the guides, probably going over tomorrow’s schedule. His brows are slightly furrowed, focused,but there’s an ease in his shoulders I don’t always get to see. I watch for a beat longer than I should, then slip out of the tent without a word.
I know tomorrow will be hours and hours spent by—or in—the ocean. I know I should wait. Be patient. Conserve the energy I’ll need for the long dives, the transects, the data collection. But the water’s only a short walk away, and honestly? Waiting until tomorrow feels impossible.
On the boat earlier, I spotted dark silhouettes drifting just under the surface—some small, some long, some almost too big to be real. I could’ve sworn I saw a spotted eagle ray breach once, maybe twice, though the spray from the bow made it hard to be sure. And now? Now the tide is low, the air is warm, and the entire coastline hums with the promise of something alive and ancient just below the surface.
I can’t sit under canvas lights and pretend the ocean isn’t calling. Not tonight.
I make my way toward the lava rocks, following an uneven path that’s probably not human-made, until I stumble onto the jackpot—a perfect natural formation carved into the shoreline, rimmed with shallow basins and glimmering pools.Tidepools.
It’s a few minutes from the cabins, just far enough to feel like my own private slice of coastline. The lamppost by the campsite barely reaches this far, but it’s enough. That, and the moon—nearly full tonight, casting silver light across the water like it was painted for this exact moment.
Gosh, have I ever mentioned how much I love tidepools?
They’re like nature’s pressure chambers—extreme little ecosystems where only the clever, the tough, and the endlesslyadaptable manage to survive. Crashing waves, searing sun, cold nights, predators, still they hold on. They’re not just surviving in the margins. They’re thriving there.
In all honesty, that’s what I find comforting. Even when the ocean pulls away, tidepools cling to what’s left. Even when they’re exposed, cracked open under the sun or salt wind, they adjust. They make do. There’s a quiet lesson in that, I think.
One I haven’t quite learned yet. But maybe I will. Maybe this is the place to start.
I crouch near one of the larger basins, peering into the still water, waiting for it to come alive. It doesn’t take long. Tiny movements catch my eye—gastropods grazing algae in slow, determined arcs, their bodies gliding like soft punctuation marks over the rock. Spiny urchins nestle in crevices, unmoving but ever-watchful, while chitons cling like ancient armor along the basalt edges.
In the shallower rim of the pool, a few flickers of movement make me lean closer, hands braced on my knees. Small, darting fish flit from shadow to shadow—four-eyed blennies. My breath catches.
They’re rare even among rare things—fish that breathe air, that “walk” on land with modified pectoral fins. True liminal creatures, adapted to survive between worlds. It feels like a strange kind of poetry to find them here, in the place that inspired Darwin’s theory of natural selection.
I move from pool to pool with a quiet focus until a splash of color stops me—an entire basin crawling with Sally Lightfoot crabs, their shells glowing crimson in the moonlight like molten glass over obsidian. They scuttle like they’re dancing—quick, precise, uncatchable. My fingers itch with the urge to touch one, to feel the segmented shell beneath my hand.
