THE FORTIFICATION OF FLORA FISHER/ #ONC2024

Chapter 2 - A Perfect Pitch

The sand is white. White and soft. It's like walking on icing sugar. I'm not kidding! And don't even get me started on the water. Wait. Let me try and paint you a picture. You know those photos you see online of Caribbean paradises, and the water is bright turquoise, and you can see all the way down? Yeah, well, they weren't kidding. You totally can. And then, there's the temperature of said water! It's perfect. It's refreshing, but it doesn't give you that Wim Hoff "Oh my God, am I experiencing cardiac arrest?" moment that everyone talks so much about. Not me, of course, because when I post videos of myself cold plunging on my deck (in my vintage white crocheted bikini, of course), that water is capital "L" lukewarm, with a couple bags of ice thrown in two seconds before climb in. Now, before you come at me for misrepresentation, know that I absolutely WOULD submerge myself in ice-cold water if I were overweight or inflamed. But I am neither of those things, so it doesn't really feel like a lie. And I've inspired hundreds of people to "take the plunge" (pun intended), so I really am doing a good thing.

But back to the beach. This one is totally deserted! It isn't a surprise, because when Lucy booked it, she'd wanted two weeks of nothingness, just for her. It was supposed to be her first break from momming and wife-ing in three years, and she'd planned to do three things and three things only: read, walk, and sleep. Man, I feel so back for Luce. She is literally the best human I know, and if anyone deserves a break from life for a few days, it's her. She never stops. She's the most thoughtful wife, mother, friend and sister in the world. I swear, if I ever start making serious cash again, I am sending her to Mars for a month.

But here I am, in Bora Bora, just outside my bungalow, the one with the thatched roof, orange batik curtains that billow in the soft breeze and a bed that is four feet high and covered with a sheer linen canopy, in my fuchsia sarong with my legs dangling over the last step down to the water.

I'm on the last dock (there are five in all), and wouldn't you know it? There is only one other bungalow on this dock and it is E.M.P.T.Y! So, I am "far from the crowds" and near to the white sand beach.

I peer down at my feet and smile as a school of tiny yellow fish flash past in a beautifully synchronized flourish. A few minutes later, it happens again. And then again. And I am mesmerized, captured by the sight of them, the smell of the ocean, the feel of the warm Caribbean breeze on my bare shoulders, and the sound of birds calling in the distance—birds whose calls I don't recognize.

I raise my face to the sun, feeling my body suddenly relax after months of tension, frustration and angst. Months of worry that my account is flailing, that my competition is too steep. I can't remember when I last felt so, I don't know, present? Which is ironic, given the things I post about thrice daily.

I blink, take a deep, cleansing breath, and gaze at my toes again. One little yellow fish investigates the toe ring on my left foot. It tickles, and I wiggle all my toes, which only makes the little fish even more curious. Seconds later, the whole damn school is swarming around my feet. It's completely adorable.

"Careful," says a male voice. "Those are piranhas, and this is when they like to feed."

I blink, momentarily disoriented, and look up to see a tall thirty-something guy in purple board shorts standing only inches from me. He looks vaguely familiar, but his words suddenly register, and my heart stops beating in my chest!

"Wait. WHAT?!" I jump to my feet, and my sarong snags on the dock as I do so, making a sickening ripping sound.

"Whoa! Steady there!" says purple shorts, but I'm dizzy from the sun. My balance is shot, my sarong pulls me backwards, and before I can utter a word, I pitch off the dock into that perfect, turquoise, PIRANHNA-INFESTED water!