Motu

Lilac
Cerulean
Azure

Sapphire

Cobalt

The palette of blues goes on and on

in the waters around me

This patch of Tahitian sand in the middle of French Polynesia they call a motu.

Moorea can barely be seen from the edge of this pristine shoreline. A tranquil paradise. Palm trees and other tropical plants cover much of this tiny island. I sit cross-legged in the wet sand at the shoreline. I dip my hands into the heavenly liquid, spritzing droplets on my neck and chest. I watch our guide, a spry young man of less than twenty. His beaded dreadlocks swing as he moves gingerly in the water, his muscled body tight. He opens the folding table and chairs and digs them into the sand in the shallow water ten feet away from me. His name is Salu.

A palette of more than ten different shades of blue swirl around the metal legs of the table.

Salu wades back to the Zodiac raft which is parked on the edge of the sand and hoists a vinyl cooler bag over his shoulder.

“Fresh fruit and snacks, he calls out. “You like the Calvados?” He holds up a bottle, his smile broad, his face alight with temptation.

“Is that some kind of liquor?” I grin.

He waves his beige canvas sunhat in the air, dips it in the sea and places it back on his head. His white teeth glisten against his brown skin. Streams of water glide down his chiseled face from his drenched hat. The perfect postcard to beckon the traveler to the islands of Polynesia.

“You drink alcohol?” Salu asks and shakes the bottle above his head.

“Yes,” I say. “Absolutely.” I point to my husband Greg who is dozing under a palm tree. “Him, too.”

Greg’s tanned body laid out on a red and white striped towel, his hands folded on his hairy bare chest. I can see that he is enjoying the motu in his own special way.

The guide nods. “Calvados, liqueur from France!” he says. “Apple flavor. Very good.” He runs his tongue over his lips and leaps over the side of the Zodiac into the water. His legs move like a gazelle from the boat to the lunch table even though he carries a heavy cooler and a full bottle of booze.

“After lunch, I take you swim with stingrays,” he says as he moves to the table and drops off his goods.

Stingrays? Would I have the guts?

Salu comes up close to me and playfully kicks sea water in my face. I laugh. He bends down and brushes my cheek with the palm of his hand.

I awake to the sound of my dog Barney barking.

By Linda S. Gunther