Page 18 of Still See You Everywhere

“Chris. Injured her ankle last week. Requires real medical attention.”

“Last week?” I’m trying not to sound too shocked by the transportation delay.

Brent smiles ruefully. “This flight is hardly a daily commute. Once a week is the goal, however…”

“Because the island is so far away?”

“Distance is definitely a factor, but also the runway is nothing but a crude strip of crushed coral. No lights or tower, which limits when we can land or take off. Also, given its short length, there’s only one jet in all of MacManus’s fleet nimble enough to make that touchdown.”

“This one?”

“Exactly. I’d like to add, also only two pilots in the world skilled enough to make the landing.”

“You and Captain Marilee.”

“Now you’re getting it. Add to that factors such as weather systems, no radio comms for most of the flight, and other random variables—we make it to Pomaikai when we make it to Pomaikai.”

“Regardless of a crew member’s status.” I’m getting it now, though it is definitely crushing my vibe.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure everything will be fine. How much bad luck can one place have?”

“What?”

“We got about an hour,” he continues brightly, “before Captain Marilee begins her descent. I’ll let you know when we’re in sight of the atoll, but it’ll be pretty hard to miss.”

Brent disappears back into the cockpit. I’m left alone with increasing levels of worry. Information is power, so I boot up my phone, discover this close to land I still have a signal, and take advantage of my gargantuan data plan to read all about atolls. Based on the explanations, I almost understand what Twanow had been saying earlier. An atoll starts with an underwater volcanic eruption that gushes lava onto the sea floor, building a seamount that eventually breaks the surface. Coral grows on the edges of this new island, forming a ring. As the seamount then slowly subsides, the barrier reef creates a lagoon, now surrounded by lush trees growing on top of the coral walls. And voilà, a mere thirty million years later, you have an atoll.

Most of the pictures feature gorgeous white and green circular to horseshoe-shaped islands with incredible aquamarine water in the middle. Exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find lifestyles of the rich and famous. No doubt about it, I should buy my very own atoll, right after my first private jet.

But none of this quells the dark tendrils of anxiety that start to creep up my spine. My job has taken me all over the country, but always on the fringes. I’ve been to Boston, but it was inner city Mattapan. I’ve done New York, but a housing tenement in the Bronx. I spent an entire year in Alabama in a mobile home, which was still nicer than the no-tell motel I had in Miami.

I pride myself on being able to live anywhere. Having said that, this plane alone is so outside my experience it might as well be another planet. Now, looking at these pics of absolute paradise, a future destination for jet-setters everywhere, I’m more than a little freaked out. This I don’t know how to pull off.

Just in time to feel the plane begin to descend. The deep blue waters growing closer and closer.

“On your left,” Brent yells from the cockpit.

I quickly shift sides of the plane, and there it is.

It’s less a symmetrical circle, more a sprawling, irregular, ghost-shaped island with brilliant white and deep green edges and startling turquoise water in the middle. I press my face against the window, as if that will help me take it all in.

It can’t be done.

Pomaikai, the gift.

It defies expectation, definition, any single word I know. It also sits completely alone in the middle of the vast ocean. The last time I went on such a remote search, off the grid, beyond reach of rescue, it didn’t go well. I feel a familiar pang for people I’d barely known but then grew to care for, only to lose them in that wilderness.

I sit back, much less enthralled with Pomaikai’s incredible beauty and much more concerned about what could happen next.

TRUE TO BRENT’S description, the runway turns out to be nothing but a narrow strip of crushed white coral, precariously placed at the atoll’s farthest edge. One wrong bounce, endless ocean here we come. Captain Marilee is clearly a pro, however, touching down light as a feather before braking so hard my stomach nearly spills out of my throat. Almost immediately, the plane is powering down, and First Officer Brent is back in the cabin.

“Excited?” he asks me as he yanks back the locking mechanism on the external door.

I’m officially too terrified to answer but scramble to unfasten my seat belt and get moving.

There appear to be a dozen casually dressed people milling about below us, which surprises me. That has to be the entire population of the island. I’d expected to meet everyone, but not necessarily all at once.

“It’s a tight turnaround,” Brent explains as he lowers the stairs. “We gotta get everything they need off, and everything we need back on, before daylight fades or weather hits.”

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