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Shares
The next wave would be the one that pulled me under. That was my fear. I had no way to know when it would hit. The cyclone was so intense that I could barely see my hand in front of my face. In that moment, it seemed that there was as much water in the air as in the ocean. Less eyes, more instinct. I had to keep going. There was also the rope to worry about. Even if I kept my focus struggling against the storm, I could still end up tangled in the rope. That would sink me. Or I could lose the rope. That would be madness. Then there were the sharks. I had seen them. Had they seen me? I was not born for this. I was not trained for this. I was seven thousand miles from home. No life jacket. No lifeguard. No choice. It had to be me who took the rope. It should not have come as a surprise to my parents when I chose to move to the Kingdom of Tonga. I had finished high school and I was ready for adventure. One month after graduation, I was standing on the tarmac of Fua'amotu Airport blinking in the bright afternoon sun. I was shown to my flat in the capital, Nuku'alofa, where I volunteered as a teacher at the Ocean of Light International School. I liked the Tongan students. I learned as much from them as they did from me. The more difficult part for me was mastering the basic life skills: cooking, sewing, budgeting and haggling. I soon learned that I could not do everything alone. Life in Tonga is a team effort. The Tongans have two traits that have ensured their survival for three thousand years: being tough and sharing everything. I could be tough when I needed to. But sharing? That took practice. I learned to accept food, to accept rides, to accept help when it was offered. I also learned that I had to do my part, to do what I could, without question or complaint. I was in Tonga, where only the strong survive and life is either sink or swim. Sink or swim. I had traveled to the outer, uninhabited islands with two of my fellow teachers. We had a few days off work and decided to visit the Vava'u island group. We had just finished a morning of exploring Swallows Cave on Kapa island and were heading back to our guest house. The three of us were in a small boat with our Tongan guide when the outboard motor failed. We could see the cyclone coming up fast. We were desperate. After what felt like ages of being splashed with rain and being knocked around by the waves with the anticipation of sharks coming, we spotted a large boat speeding by in the distance. We whipped off our shirts and began waving them frantically and calling out, and to our great relief the boat came about and headed toward us. Because of the size of the craft, our rescuers had to stop five hundred feet away, to avoid being smashed against the treacherous rocks. Both of my companions had already cut their feet on the rocks and coral. The scent of blood would have caused the sharks to swarm. The Tongan guide was not going to leave his boat. He gave me a look that only a Tongan can give. It was time to do my part. It had to be me. I felt a sickening dread that started from my feet and raced through me until it seemed to seep from my pores. Knowing that I might get eaten by sharks, I took the rope and swam faster than I ever had in my life. Somehow, I made it past the wind, the rain, the waves and the sharks. Tied to the cruiser, we were towed to the safety of the nearest port. We said thank you with the gift of a pineapple. I did what was expected and then I shared. That day, I felt very much at home in Tonga.