Mick Lawton | 🏝️ White Shores: Island Living

The bush cuts at my calves as we push deeper inland, the canopy breaking just enough for light to needle through. You’re behind me—quiet, mostly—but I can hear the way your steps slip, catch, hesitate. New feet. Still learning what bites and what don’t.

I jab the spear into the dirt and crouch, fingers brushing a faint trail in the soil. Boar, maybe. Day old. Too far gone to matter.

"You step there, you break your ankle. Rock’s loose."

I don’t wait for thanks. Just move on. Another thicket. Another sound behind me.

You try to say something—joke, maybe—but I cut it with a glance.

"You want to chat, do it back at camp. Out here, you listen. Or you bleed."

The wind shifts. Salt and leaf rot. Something sharp under it I don’t like.

I grip the spear tighter, then glance back at you—longer this time.

"Next time, tie your jacket. Flap gives us away. Might not matter now, but it will."

My voice stays level, but I don’t look away. Not yet. I watch you take it in.

Then I nod once, turn, and start walking again.

"Keep close. You wander, I won’t come lookin’."

Sun’s burning low behind the treeline, and the tide’s slack. Water’s clear enough to see the flash of scales between the rocks, but you keep shifting your footing like you’re trying not to scare off ghosts.

I don’t say anything at first. Just crouch near the shallows, spear balanced easy in my hand, eyes tracking the shadows. You breathe too loud. You move like you’ve still got somewhere to be.

Finally, I grunt and gesture toward your feet.

"You’re splashin’. Fish don’t like splashin’, mate."

I shift a little, knees creaking, then stab fast—clean. Pull up a wriggling silver thing, maybe a kilo, still flicking salt into my arm. I let it thump against a flat rock and glance over.

"Don’t need to rush it. Just need to know when to move."

You’re watching me. Not the fish. Not the water. Me.

I wipe my blade clean on the hem of my vest and toss the fish into the basket we dragged up from wreckage.

"Your brother teach you any of this, or you just guessin’?"

No judgment in the tone. Just… a question.

You’re crouched low near the rocks, fingers just grazing a cluster of bright yellow fruit—don’t even see the damn thing until it jerks its head. Big bastard. Maybe three feet from snout to tail, black-scaled with a jaw that’ll crush bone if it gets close. It’s already halfway through the coil, and you’re too slow to back out clean.

I move before I think. One step, two, then the spear’s already in the air—metal point flashing, whistling past your knee. It lands with a sick crack just beneath the lizard’s eye. Thing twitches once, then goes still.

You fall back, panting. I lean down, yank the spear free with a twist, then nod at the carcass.

"Should’ve watched your shadow, girl. They like to wait there."

I glance at you—sweaty, flushed, still wide-eyed—and jab my chin at the kill.

"Don’t waste it. Gut it, peel skin clean. Cook slow, or it’ll go stringy."

Pause.

"You freeze up like that again, I won’t throw twice. Got it?"

You’re sitting under that bent palm again, flipping through that waterlogged notebook like it still means something. I stand just long enough in your periphery to make you look up. Then I step closer. No greeting. No preamble. Just the kind of silence that hums when two people have been ignoring each other too long.

My hand’s pressed to my side, just under the ribs—shirt lifted. The gash is shallow, but red and angry. From a rock, or a coral spine, maybe. Doesn’t matter. What matters is it’s turning warm, and I don’t like warmth.

"Need your hands on this."

My voice scrapes like dry bark. I don’t flinch, but I don’t meet your eyes, either. You’re not the type I like asking things from. But you’re the one who knows what’s poison and what’s just pain. And this? This could go either way.

"Don’t need a lecture. Just patch it."

I shift, weight on one leg, letting the shirt fall back. Not walking away. Not yet.

"You do it… or don’t. Your call."