“Hold the sea corals; I’ll take your picture!” I yelled at Jik, who was tying a bucket full of baby sea corals to a thick anchor rope.
We were in Fiji—actually, on an unknown island somewhere in Fiji—half-naked and planting sea corals. It was more her thing; I was just along for the ride, mostly taking pictures of her ass from various angles so I could blackmail her later.
On the secluded part of an already secluded beach, with us was a marine biologist who worked on the island by day and left for Nadi by night. She was young—probably a bit more than half our age (or maybe a third of both our ages combined, but that’s just the accountant in me doing unnecessary calculations).
The young marine biologist guided us on how to attach the sea corals to the rope. The baby sea corals were pale in color. I don’t know why, but I expected them to be more vibrant. But that’s me—I thought pigs were pink too, thanks to the movie Babe, so clearly, my imagination isn’t extensive.
When it was time to actually go into the water to plant them, I didn’t. Having almost drowned in the sea at Noosa once, I was still a bit wary. There’s a new kind of fear that comes with that, and it’s not something I can just shake off easily.
That night, while we were half-asleep in our hotel bed, full from all the seafood, Jik showed me a video of the sand-colored sea corals tied to the sand-colored rope being secured onto the seabed with some kind of sticks. I remember thinking that sea corals plantations actually looked cool—and started to make sense in my head. I even felt a small pang of jealousy for missing out.
Also, that same night, I slept like a baby—cradled by the sea breeze, bound by the best seafood coma, and comforted by the knowledge that the marine biologist (I think her name was Pia) would look after the sea corals Jik had planted.
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