Sarah and I are neck deep in the South Sea, in our gym clothes, looking at Piyangdo, a little hill of an island sitting behind a haze that lays on the ocean, coats the low-sitting sun, and becomes wisps of cloud over our heads that the wind has taken to like an eyelash curler.
The fingernail-crescent moon is visible and cut by a jet trail and the waves go by in warm and cold layers of current. There is a school of little fish that every so often will leap in unison entirely out of the water. We look at each other and say: ‘This was the best idea ever.’
We are not yet worried about what will happen when we go home and we have so little time left that there is no more worry to be had for what will happen here; we are floating.
We ride uneventfully back into town (minus the speed bump that jars my water bottle out of the basket and into the weeds beside the road) drying on Sarah’s yellow motor-scooter in the coolish, pre-dead of summer evening dusk. We go to the corner fast food joint to order waffles to ruin our dinners with and say: ‘If the weather is this nice tomorrow, let’s do it again.’