"But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep."
-Robert Frost
Today, I stand on the sand, staring ahead at the world stretched in two shades of blue. The sky is a light, serene blue—a quiet expanse that feels untouchable, unchanging. The ocean, in contrast, is a darker, restless blue—a chaotic force that churns and roars with life. Sometimes I wish I could be like the sky: calm, steady, certain. But the ocean calls to me, its turbulence mirroring the restlessness I cannot shake.
Tomorrow, I will face the ocean, not as an observer but as a participant. The Kivari ritual will bind me to its depths, etching its chaos into my side and tethering me to the legacy of those who came before. The elders say the ocean is a part of us—that it holds our history, our stories, and our future within its ever-changing tides.
The ritual begins beneath the sky's watchful gaze, but it is the ocean's ink that seals our bond. Luminescent algae, glowing like stars scattered in the depths, will be gathered to mark me. They say the ink is alive, carrying the essence of the sea itself. When it touches my skin, it will forge a connection between me and the waters that have shaped nineteen generations of my family.
My grandfather used to say that the sky is for the dreamers, but the ocean is for the doers—those who brave its tempests and dive into its mysteries. I don't know which I am yet. Maybe I am neither. Or maybe, like the algae that thrives in the darkest waters, I must find my light in the depths.
Tomorrow marks my fifteenth year, yet joy eludes me. I miss my grandfather, and even though it has been well over a year since he passed, I still feel like I haven't said goodbye.
Birthdays here aren't marked by opulence or ceremony. Coming of age is marked by responsibility—the responsibility of the Kivari. But I am not ready. My grandfather was my navigator through the challenges of life, and now I am a wanderer lost in a void.
At fifteen years old, the children of the Esling Atoll must undergo a ritual to become Kivari. Tomorrow night, the elders of my village will lead me to the heart of the atoll. This ritual will bind me to the ocean, carving my grandfather's legacy into my side. Tomorrow will come. Another year will mark its passage, and I will remain—unanchored, uncertain, waiting for the wisdom that seems to have departed with my beloved grandfather. This morning, my mother and grandmother prepared our meager meal—dried fish and taro, the usual fare. I watched them, feeling as empty as the wooden stool where my grandfather once sat. He was more than just an elder; he was the keeper of our family's stories, the wise one who understood the secret language of the sea and sky.
I dread the moment when they might acknowledge my birthday. In my mind, attention is a burden, not a celebration. To be seen is to be vulnerable, and I already feel exposed—a young man uncertain of his path, mourning a loss that seems to deepen with each passing day.
Nineteen generations of my family have lived and died on this tiny patch of land, surrounded by endless blue. My grandfather would have known exactly what to do, how to prepare me for the journey ahead. But he is gone, and I am left with nothing but questions and a growing sense of inadequacy.
4 hours until the ritual, the sun is halfway into the ocean, and it spreads its light through the sky, turning that once calm blue into a vibrant sleepy purple and orange and casting a warm glow over the atoll. Around me, the land is a jagged circle of darkened sand and sharp coral, cradling the center like an ancient guardian. The atoll's heart is a perfect, dark-blue hole, so deep it swallows the sunlight and reflects only the faint shimmer of bioluminescent algae beneath its surface. The algae pulse faintly. I stand at the edge, my toes curling against the uneven ground. The tide is low, and the briny scent of exposed coral fills the air. The quiet is heavy here, broken only by the gentle lap of waves against the rock. My gaze drifts from the sky, now a sleepy blend of purple and orange, to the inky depths of the atoll.
The elders call it the Abyss. They say it has no bottom, that it connects to the spirit world itself. I don't know if that's true, but staring into it now, I can't shake the feeling of being watched—or perhaps pulled—by something older than time.
The algae glow brighter as the light fades, their luminescence painting shifting patterns on the water's surface. I imagine them clinging to the sides of the Abyss, alive and purposeful, waiting for their moment to touch my skin and become part of me. Their glow feels like a heartbeat, steady and unyielding, drawing me closer.
My breath catches as a soft breeze stirs the surface of the water, rippling the reflections. I move my eyes back to the sky. Its colors are fading, giving way to the first stars of the evening. It feels like a transition—a moment caught between the last warmth of the sun and the cold mystery of the night. Between who I am and who I will become.
The Abyss waits, patient and eternal. And I am here, standing on its edge, with nothing but the sound of my heartbeat and the pull of the tides to keep me company.