Estelle held Pippa’s hand as she clambered from the boat. They embraced. “We didn’t know how much to share. What would hurt. What wouldn’t.” She kissed the girl’s cheek. “But now that you’re here we have so much to catch up on.”

“I can see that.” Pippa turned to face our house. The glass glittered with secrets and history even though it was so new.

It knew what we’d survived here. It knew how much this land meant to us.

We’d lost, we’d won; we’d scarified, and celebrated.

We would never have a second chance with Conner.

But Pippa had returned.

One day, she would be able to visit without hurting from scars that bled so freely.

One day, she would be able to say goodbye to grief.

But until that day happened, I would be there for her.

And I wouldn’t waste a moment.

“Come on, Pippi.” I slung my arm over her slender shoulders. “Time to go home.”

.............................

THREE YEARS LATER

Considering we’d crashed with no expertise, no knowledge, no hope of surviving apart from sheer determination, Estelle and I hadn’t done too badly.

We’d not only survived, we’d excelled.

We’d created life.

We’d lost life.

We’d learned about life.

And life had almost killed us.

But we’d won.

We’d won so triumphantly, I’d never been so happy, so settled, so sure of my place than I did right here on our beach.

Once the Fijian government agreed to lease the island, we’d officially given it a name.

Yanuyanu ni le Vitu na Vonu.

Island of Seven Turtles.

Vitu na Vonu for short.

Seven people had arrived.

One soul had been born.

One son had died.

Four people left.

And three returned.

Those first few months beneath the stars were the best nights of my life. We shed our city attire and slipped into the half-nakedness we’d embraced. We fished together. We lit a fire together (cheating with the lighter rather than damage my new glasses) and spent the days remembering the bad times, the good times, and the sad.

We were finally able to finish grieving for Conner. For Pippa. For each other. Coming to terms with what we’d embraced and lost.

As the months turned to years, I returned to the mainland often, hiring local workers to help build the infrastructure required to keep us safe and secure for the many decades to come.

Coco stopped being grouchy and cross and blossomed into a brilliant, helpful child. As her birthdays ticked four, then five, now six, she became entwined with the Fijian nationals and culture. She would never fit in with the concrete jungle of a city. And I worried about that. But at the same time...who cared?

She learned the value of hard work and the sacred connection of hunting for your own food rather than ignoring the cruelty and sacrifice of mass marketed meat.

She hung around with my construction worker’s children, being ferried from island to island and attending a local kindergarten.

Soon, she would start primary school a few islands over. Estelle and I would speed over the waves every morning to deliver her and again every night to collect her. We would never own a car but what a way to commute over the aquamarine atolls of our chosen home.

We’d contemplated the idea of using the helicopter taxis that now flew regularly, but I couldn’t get over the fear of what’d happened. I doubted fate would be cruel enough to crash us twice, but I wouldn’t risk it.

Eventually, Coco would head away to university if she was inclined or stay here and do whatever she wanted. But that was far enough away not to be an issue.

We learned, once we’d returned, that our island was located on the boundary of the Fijian archipelago. If we’d ever had a chance to paddle on our kayak, our chances of surviving the current rushing out to sea would’ve been slim.

Our island was classed as dangerous, which was why it’d been uninhabited when we’d arrived. However, the journey to other islands, unseen in the distance, only took forty minutes or so by boat.

The glistening jewels of our neighbours were hidden through sea mist and heatwaves, but we’d never been as alone as we’d feared.

Money was no object (thanks to Estelle), and together, we installed rain tanks that stored years’ worth of liquid; we’d planted an orchard, sugar plantation, and every edible we could grow.

We’d seeded root vegetables, leafy greens, fruits, even medicinal foliage, loving the way they grew like wildfire thanks to the heat and humidity.

The avocados and limes were yet to give fruit, but we were hopeful next year would yield a crop. However, along with the produce we introduced, we still ate island fare.

Turned out, the taro leaves that we boiled and ate in a salad (when we had nothing else) were used for that same purpose on the mainland. And the food we often ate (that we had no name for) were local delicacies such as curry leaf and bush ferns.

One thing we hadn’t sampled was nama, also known as sea-grapes. The delicious seaweed polyps were often eaten here and an abundance grew in our reef. If only we’d known. We’d been surrounded by more food than we realised.

We asked the wives of the construction workers to come and educate us on flowers and other plant life, finally learning their true names and capabilities.

The yellow bark-stringy flowers on the beach were called Vau in Fijian and beach hibiscus in English. The leaves were also good for sprains and swelling, just like the plant with furry leaves we’d used, called Botebote Koro (goat weed).