There is nothing more painful than being hit on the head with a falling coconut.
Manaia jolted awake at the sudden throbbing of her head. A few feet away laid a coconut, innocently nestled in the sand. Her hands flew to her forehead, which was already swelling. With delicate fingers she massaged the lump, a grimace stretching across her lips.
The distant sound of cawing birds echoed as waves splashed the shore. Pure white sand emitted faint warmth as the sun shone down mercilessly, causing the turquoise water to sparkle with the refractions. Manaia stood up, a hand still pressed to her forehead. She shook the sand from her legs and took a few long strides to the waterside and crouched down. She dipped one hand into the water as it lapped at her feet, dampening the hem of her skirt. She pressed her wet hand against her injury, sighing as the cold soothed her pain.
She quickly stood up again and walked briskly towards the edge of the island and turned around one last time. A small mountain draped in vegetation occupied the entire island, only a few lengths of beach surrounding it. She had scaled it's sides countless times, much to the chagrin of her parents. By the time she was 14 she had been permanently banned from this island, her parents worried that she would fall one day and have no one around to help her. She returned her attention to her front and observed the path.
A small sandbar connected this island to the next, only ankle deep water separating the land. The trick to crossing without losing your balance was walking slowly, one foot in front of the other. The sandbar served as a balance beam, and each time Manaia snuck over she was careful to not tumble into the shallow cove.
The turquoise water on each side of her hid schools of tropical fish and small sprigs of coral. Though it was shallow and posed no threat to a girl who had been born in the ocean, if her parents saw her return drenched they would know certainly that she had not been out picking fruit, but rather sneaking across the sandbar to the forbidden island.
Each step was calculated, and she made it across with ease. Lifting the hem of her skirt slightly she began sprinting. She had fallen asleep under that coconut tree and lost track of time. She didn't need to be home right away, but she needed to have some fresh fruit for her believable excuse.
She hurried up the gentle hill and ran deep into the forest. The sand under her feet had given way to dirt and rocks, and trees shaded her from the brilliant sun. The forest vibrated with the sounds of insects and the brushing of foliage as Manaia stepped over ferns and grass. Deep on the east side of the secondary island was a grove of mango trees that had yet to be found by the other villagers. The mangos were especially sweet, and each time she brought back an armful the children would swarm her and beg for just a single bite.
She pushed back a bush and stepped into the grove. It was enclosed by a boulder on one side and the thick jungle on the other. Some branches hung low with the weight of the fruit, and others had already been plucked clean by her in the earlier weeks. She approached the lowest branch, barely straining to reach the plump fruits. As she pulled off mango after mango her hands became crowded and the sun began to dim.
She cradled the mangos in her arms and began the trek back to the village. She had to make her way out of the jungle and across the bridge to the main island before sundown, or her parents would become suspicious.
Her bare feet were calloused and used to the harsh underbrush, the thorns and twigs causing her no pain as she leaped back down the hill towards the beach. She skipped along the waterline as the sky faded from blue to orange. She quickly reached the bridge connecting the secondary and main islands, and she slowed down as she crossed, the wood creaking dangerously beneath her.
Half the sun had dipped below the horizon by the time she made it back to her home. The thatched roof of the communal hall sagged slightly, and the walls had signs of erosion, but the building still stood proudly as the focal point of the village. Other buildings had smoke rising from their chimneys or tightly bound doors, but the sounds of laughter and conversation all seeped through the walls of the village hall.
As she entered she was bombarded with a group of excited children.
"Sister, sister! We want mangos!"
Small hands grasped at her skirt and tugged at her top, reaching for the fruit she cradled in her arms.
"Hey, hey, wait your turn! What do you say when you want something?"
A chorus of 'please' filled the room, and some adults turned to watch the interaction. Curious eyes watched as Manaia distributed the fruit, the giggles of children and the scent of mango filling the air.
After each fruit had been taken, Manaia made her way across the hall towards her family's sleeping area. There was an old woman, sitting on a woven mat wrapped in a light shawl she watched as Manaia approached. Her face was wrinkled and her body bore the marks of time, but her eyes twinkled with youth.
"Moko, come sit."
Manaia lowered herself to the mat and smiled gently.
"Good evening, Grandma."