Written February 2023, Fakarava, French Polynesia
1AM
I’m sitting alone on a remote beach in Hirifa, the sand still warm from the day, listening to hermit crabs carve tiny paths through the shore. The night is so still it feels like time has stopped. No wind, no distant hum of civilization—just me, the sound of the tide, and the quiet, deliberate movements of creatures too small to care about the chaos I’ve just created.
There are only two people living here—Teiva and his mum, along with a whole lot of pigs. Their home is the only sign of permanence on this stretch of the atoll, but even that feels temporary, like everything here is in a constant state of drifting. The sea takes what it wants, and tonight, it wanted our dinghy.
It’s strange how quickly the mind shifts from comfort to crisis. A few hours ago, Abel and I were lying on this very beach, counting shooting stars, talking about the absurdity of life—how it always seems to twist into stories you could never predict. And then, as if the universe wanted to show off, our only way back to the boat disappeared. Gone. Silently untied by the midnight tide.
Now Abel is out there swimming in the dark, his strokes barely visible against the water that glows faintly under the stars. He’s trying to reach his boat so we can launch a search. I stay behind, sitting cross-legged in the sand, feeling the weight of it all settle in my chest.
And yet, underneath the regret, there’s something else. A slow, buzzing thrill. The kind of fear that comes laced with excitement. I know this feeling well. It’s the same rush I get when the wind picks up unexpectedly at sea, or when I dive into waters where sharks outnumber people. It’s the sharp edge of the unknown, and maybe—just maybe—I like that feeling a little too much.
Some people call it adventure.

3AM
The rescue mission has been suspended. We sailed the bay in the dead of night, projectors scanning the water, slicing through the darkness. Nothing. The dinghy is nowhere to be found, and I can feel the reality of the situation settling into my bones.
I let my mind wander to worst-case scenarios: The dinghy has already drifted beyond the reef, past the breaking waves, into open ocean. Maybe it’s caught in a current, moving faster than we can chase. Maybe it’s gone for good. The thought makes my stomach twist. Losing a dinghy isn’t just inconvenient—it’s expensive, it’s stupid, and worst of all, it’s my fault.
There’s an unspoken rule in sailing: take care of your boat, take care of your crew, take care of your gear. And tonight, I failed at one of those.
I lie back in the sand, staring at the sky. I try to tell myself that this is just another story, another ridiculous chapter in this unpredictable life. But right now, it just feels like a loss.
6AM
The sun rises, spilling soft pinks and oranges over the lagoon. The mission resumes. I don’t deserve the kind of loyalty my crew is showing me right now. They should be sleeping, but instead, they’re already scanning the horizon, ready to cover more miles. They never once make me feel like this is a burden, though I know it is.
I hate the feeling of pulling people into my mess. My adventures should be mine alone—something I can laugh about later, not something that costs other people their time and energy. But this is the nature of life at sea. When something goes wrong, it’s never just one person’s problem. Out here, you don’t leave anyone behind.

8AM
I stand at the bow, salty from the spray, watching the waves roll beneath us. The boat sways, and my mood swings with it.
Hope.
Hopelessness.
Hope again.
I try to focus on what’s in front of me, but my mind keeps wandering back to last night, to that moment on the beach when I first realized what had happened. The helplessness of it. How small I felt. It’s funny—on land, I feel so capable. So independent. But at sea, the balance of control shifts constantly, and there are moments when all you can do is surrender.
10AM
I’ve had at least six separate negotiations with the universe by now.
“Look, I know I fucked up, but if I could just trade in my shooting star wish for finding the dinghy today, that would be great, thanks.”
No response. Just the steady rise and fall of the ocean.
12PM
14 nautical miles from where we started, there it is. Floating like it had never been lost at all. The tension in my chest dissolves instantly. I want to laugh. I want to cry.
Darkness retracts.
My heart feels lighter.
What a life.
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