Smith’s Resort, Micronesia 

The end. This time it meant more than shutting the pages of her favorite book for another year. Total relaxation in paradise would be over soon. In this place, the sun measured time. It plunged in and out of the watery horizons like a cosmic metronome. Without technology, not even a watch, Bella adapted to the earth's rhythms without protest. Another swim, followed by another twilight dinner under torchlight, and then a long, dark, lonely night. Lonely unless she counted the geckos. Not exceptional companions but their amusing antics reminded her of children playing Red Light, Green Light. With that thought she remembered, boredom has a terminal velocity, and she had reached it.

The rich natural darkness of her skin had doubled during her stay. Tonight, she would wear a white sundress to the dining room. Not because it would be radiant, but it was the only dress she brought. This night in the primitive paradise, like all the others, would be uneventful. No fancy drinks, no dancing, no men. She wasn’t here for that. Bella got what she desired—forced relaxation. 

Two weeks to unplug. A ritual started by her parents. Where they got it, she had no clue. But year after year it worked like a charm. This was her place to decompress. No family, no coworkers, no phones. This place insisted that she do all the things she loved—swim, sun, read, sleep, and eat. The sameness of each day was part of the draw. In the mornings a cacophony of birds, God’s alarm clock, would wake her. She’d spring out of bed, slip on shorts and a light blouse, and watch the sunrise while sipping the darkest coffee imaginable. A walk, a swim, a good read under the pergola until brunch. Siesta, read, swim, read, sun, read, swim, cocktails and dinner, chat with other guests. Interrupt, “Please, excuse me, I’ve got a big day tomorrow,” then duck under mosquito netting into a comfy bed and fall asleep with a smile.…

Five years ago, she found this place the old-fashioned way—eavesdropping. While part of a student contingent of marine biologists, she overheard a couple older attendees complaining about stress. A third, rather relaxed-looking gentlemen said, “You need to go to Smith’s Resort. It’s on a tiny island in Micronesia and just the place to unwind.” 

Smith’s Resort… A straightforward conversation to remember, but the place had been almost impossible to find. This particular Smith’s Resort didn’t have a website, email, or even a phone. It did, however, have a small following, and she found a few mentions online. The one that convinced her to keep searching said, Trade five stars for LIVE STARS! It’s like the Amish figured out how to relax. No electricity nor the presumption of such high expectations. After six weeks of snail-mail correspondence, they confirmed her reservation. Every year since, she was not disappointed. 

But tomorrow she’d have to return to her problems. It would take seconds to pack. All she had to do was throw her string bikini, salt-speckled sarong, and the sundress into a beach bag, and drop by the office to book her dates for the same time next year. There, she’ll collect her valuables and passport and leave her books on the lending shelf. Then, a stroll through the camp-like complex with weathered thatched roofs to say goodbye to the resort’s staff. She’d leave each with a kiss on each cheek and a tip. Most years she was eager to leave, but anxiety found its way into paradise when she thought about returning to the life she left behind. 

 Her stomach growled but would have to wait until after sunset when the dining room opened. The food was not the reason she came, but she always gained a pound or two. Kasian had never left the island and had no formal training as a chef, but he mastered local flavors—coconut, sugar, cinnamon, allspice, salt, vanilla, and cloves. He turned each meal into mouthwatering delights.

She imagined her parents and how they would react to a meal in their particular way. Her mother using her heaviest Norwegian accent, This food is so good it’s toxic. Then her dad would deepen his voice like the lead in a telenovela, You ought to know. They would both laugh. She loved her parents, but their humor was beyond her ability to understand. What she did understand looked back at her in the mirror. Her parents’ tumultuous relationship produced her—Isabella Maria Johansen Espinosa. She was the genetic equivalent of a mashup of her parents. Her raven-black hair, deep brown eyes, and equatorial complexion revealed her handsome father’s contribution. But no one in her father's gene pool came close to her height. Her maternal Nordic genes blessed her with a regal neck, slender waist, and long legs. 

In a practiced maneuver, she reached behind her head, grabbed the top of the beach lounger, and did a sit-up, clicking it into an upright position. She sipped some tepid water from a glass. There was no condensation on the sand-etched tumbler or its mismatched water carafe. In keeping with the ethos of the resort, guests had no access to ice cubes. Bella longed for a cool drink of water, but the resort’s owner was little help. Upon arrival, Mr. Smith repeated his weekly mantra. We serve white wine at forty-five degrees, beer at fifty-five degrees, red wine at sixty-five degrees and water? Well, that’s served before it turns to steam. The new guests would laugh while the veterans cringed. 

The waning intensity of the sun caused her to peel off her floppy hat and sunglasses over an hour ago. She readied herself for a last swim and stepped onto the cooling sand. 

“Por favor, Bella. Don’t swim. The sun — es going down. The sharks, they eat now. They think you are food,” pleaded Lucia, in accented English.

“Oh my gosh, Lucia! You startled me,” Bella laughed. The beach attendant must have been lurking, waiting for Bella’s move toward the sea. “I like to swim with sharks. It makes me feel alive.” What the matronly woman would never understand was that Bella did like to swim with sharks. 

The air had matched the water temperature, making for a unique sensation as the water surrounded her legs with no cooling effect. Her careful steps negotiated a ribbon of sand edged by sharp coral until she was thigh deep. With arms stretched out in front of her, she dove into the water without a splash and disappeared. A minute later, she emerged in ripples far from shore.

Bella knew Lucia would not be looking as she surfaced. She’d be facing heavenward, crossing herself and praying. Lucia had told Bella that she prays to Saint Francis each time Bella took to the water. She would say, “That is why you live,” and then add, “I pray to Mother Mary, too. I tell her to send a husband for you. One that can tame you.”

It’s not right to tame wild things, Bella thought as her long, hard strokes pulled her farther from shore. She turned toward the sun and bisected the crescent-shaped cove and reached her spot, far out of sight from anybody on the beach. Not over a dozen feet down sat a flat stone pressed against the coarse sand. She piked at the waist and plunged headfirst straight down. To reach the stone in the buoyant saltwater, she purged the air from her lungs and grabbed down into the water, adding a kick. As she lifted the stone, its mass held her on the bottom. 

Bella had mastered her routine and slipped out of her bathing suit, placed top and bottom under the stone, and returned to the surface like a wild creature. She hurried, swimming farther into the sun, not because the darkness worried her, but she was eager to see her old friend one last time. She had never been a competitive swimmer, but she raced through the water with rhythmic precision. If the sun got too low in the sky, the crevice that suited the colorful snowflake moray would darken and her opportunity would be lost. She had been visiting the eel since her first stay and named him Frosty, more for his personality than because of the common name for the species. He was getting bigger each year and seemed friendlier as he grew up. Still, the relationship was complicated. Sometimes he would swim to her and let her pet him, and other times he would scurry into the dark when he caught sight of her. 

She swam on, breathing every other stroke. Her heart pumping ever faster until she floated over the underwater outcropping and rested. It didn’t take long to catch her breath, and she piked again at the waist and swam downward toward the eel’s haunt.

A flash of white, yellow, and black spun in its own length. She smiled as he seemed to show off his beauty. She swam closer, and he undulated toward Bella, but then turned, leading her further down and into the dark water. Bella could not follow and surfaced, drawing a deep breath. Half the sun showed above the red horizon, and the looming darkness forced her down again. This would be her last dive, her last chance to say goodbye. She started looking in the dark shadows where she left the handsome eel. Even with her goggles, she couldn’t see him. She swam farther into the twilight, hoping he would meet her halfway.

But all she saw was a blur. An underwater scream, an unrecognizable sequence of expletives and an eruption of bubbles left Bella’s mouth. It was a painful bite—her punishment for thinking a wild animal could share human emotions.

It’s not right to tame wild things. She chastised herself as she surfaced and raised her hand above the water to see blood dribbling out of a half dozen shallow puncture holes. At least, the wound would be clean by the time she made it back to the beach. 

Bella kicked and pulled at the water harder than usual and became self-conscious about her nakedness. When she reached her spot, she dove and weighed herself down with the stone to retrieve her bikini. She surfaced and clumsily tied her top while she cried salty tears into salty water. She wanted her dad. His powerful arms around her would help. Her mind raced. Why did she want her dad? Gregory could hug, but she found no comfort in that thought. She doubted Gregory, her boyfriend, was the man Lucia had been praying for, the man to tame Bella.

Why did I take the ring? flooded into her head. She didn’t want to end her vacation this way—no clarity and now even more tears. Confusion worked its way into anger, and she swam harder. 

The flames from the torches guided her toward the resort and she was thankful she didn’t have to focus on navigation. She reached the sand and looked at the painful, swollen fingers of her left hand. No blood spilled from the tiny holes left by her friend. Bella composed herself, stood straight up, and emerged out of the water like nothing had happened.