The Bali Dive Boat – Part 2: Surface Interval

Putri's bungalow was a small wooden house on stilts above a quiet bay, with an open front, a hammock on the porch and a ceiling fan turning slowly. Frangipani trees leaned over the roof. The sea whispered against the shore.

"It's lovely," said Ingrid.

"It's simple." Putri set down her bag. "I like it that way."

They sat on the porch with cold lime juice while the sky turned violet and the first stars appeared. A gecko chirped somewhere above. The air was warm and soft.

"Can I tell you something?" Ingrid asked.

"Please."

"I've never felt this relaxed. Anywhere. Ever."

"It's the diving. It teaches you to breathe."

"It's not the diving," said Ingrid. She turned and looked at her. "It's you. I'd like to kiss you, if that's something you'd like."

Putri's face lit. "It is," she said. "It is very much something I would like."

The kiss was warm, salty and slow. Putri's hand came up to Ingrid's cheek, thumb tracing the line left by her mask. Ingrid laughed softly and kissed her back, tasting lime and sea air. They drifted from the porch to the bed beneath a mosquito net, white and soft as a cloud. The fan turned slowly. A breeze moved the curtains. They took off their sun-faded shirts, laughed at their tan lines, and let every minute stretch. There was nowhere to be. Putri's palms were gentle. Ingrid's were bold and tender. They learned each other as slowly as they had learned to breathe underwater, and the sea hummed outside.

In the morning they woke tangled in the net, sun slanting across the floor.

"Your flight is Sunday," said Putri.

"I could change it."

"To when?"

"To whenever the advanced course finishes." Ingrid smiled into her shoulder. "I hear there's a night dive."

"There is." Putri kissed her forehead. "I'll hold your hand the whole time."

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