was a minefield. He moved forward slowly, picking his way around and over the coconuts. The probability of twisting an ankle and flopping embarrassingly onto the ground was exceedingly high. Then he remembered reading that more people were killed each year by falling coconuts than by sharks. He immediately looked up for incoming head smashers. Hugh passed by, completely ignoring the coconuts and Tristan’s strange slow-motion dance as he tried to avoid the hazards on the ground as well as ones that could crash down from above at any minute. Tristan was thankful when the pathway cleared and gigantic green ferns lined the trail. The curling fronds were nearly as tall as Hugh. They heard running water and saw a small arched bridge up ahead in the distance.
Tristan ran ahead. There were no feet-grabbing coconuts on the path, yet as usual, he stumbled and nearly fell.
Hugh just smiled in a friendly, it could happen to anyone sort of way.
After regaining his footing, Tristan tried to act casual, as if he hadn’t nearly done a nosedive onto the trail. He gazed down into the water flowing beneath the bridge. “Hey, check out the fish.” He pointed to two big, fat, cobalt blue fish that were nipping at rocks. “They’ve got big buckteeth.”
Hugh joined him. He looked down, squinting in the sunlight. “I know what those are. They’re parrot fish. They live on coral reefs. I read that they eat algae and scrape up the coral. And then, when they—you know—defecate, they produce sand for beaches.”
“Yuck! A poop sand beach,” Tristan said with an expression like he’d just stepped into a really big, stinky pile of dog doo. They both looked totally disgusted.
“This must be one of the streams for snorkeling,” Tristan said, wanting to jump in right there.
“Yeah,” Hugh said, moving back from the edge of the bridge.
“You can swim, can’t you?”
“Sure, yeah, no problem. I’m just not that keen on swimming with other things in the water.”
“You sound like my sister,” Tristan said. “Uh, how come you’re here then? It’s a camp about sea creatures and all.”
“I like to learn about ocean animals, just don’t want to swim with them. My mother said I don’t have to go in the water with them if I don’t want to.”
Tristan thought about telling Hugh about his swim with the sharks, but figured Hugh, like everyone else, would think he had just been lucky or that he was ready for the loony bin.
From the bridge, the two boys quickened their pace, not wanting to be late. They went through an area thick with plants and trees. Stringy gray moss hung from the trees’ branches and there was a cool drizzling fog. Water droplets hanging off the moss sparkled like teardrop-shaped crystals. They passed a large, shallow pond with sea turtles swimming in it. On a small grassy island at the pond’s center, a flock of shockingly orangey-pink flamingoes ambled about. Tristan thought of the tacky hot pink plastic flamingos one of his neighbors had in their yard. They really looked nothing like the real thing.
Further along the walkway they came to another stream with a deep curving bend. Tristan could see something dark and shadowy moving in the water. It resembled a giant shape-shifting football. He moved closer, bending down to get a better look. The sand at the path’s edge was loose and like a bee to honey his foot found it and slid. No preventing it this time. Tristan tumbled right into the water. He thought: Why is it always me?
Smiling again, Hugh just nonchalantly asked, “How’s the water?”
Red-faced, Tristan climbed out of the stream and shook the water from his hair and clothes. “Feels kinda good. Did you see that moving ball thing? It was hundreds of small fish swimming all together.”
A little further down the trail, the quiet of the closed park was interrupted by the sounds of laughter and talking. Tristan and Hugh followed the noise. It led them out of the winding rivers and gardens to a building similar in construction to the bungalows, but much bigger and at ground level. They saw two other campers going in through the bamboo doors. A sign overhead read Conch Café.
As they entered, Hugh said, “Hope its name doesn’t mean we have to eat conch. That’s a giant slimy snail you know.”
Inside the Conch Café, Jade and two of the other older campers were directing things, telling the incoming teens where to sit. Seeing Tristan and Hugh, Jade gave them a lively wave and pointed to two tables up front.
Tristan whispered to Hugh on his way to the table, “I think someone went a little overboard on the theme.”
Everywhere they looked there were shiny pink conch shells. They were painted on the walls and strung up on old nets attached to the ceiling. At least twenty sets of chimes were hung around the room, each made of gleaming pink pieces of shell. The tables had the shape of conch shells carved into them and sitting on top were pitchers and glasses decorated with spirals of pink paint.
Hugh rolled his eyes. “My mother would think it was darling.”
A group of four girls came in and sat at the table next to them, looking over at Tristan and Hugh. Two of them were identical twins and hard to tell apart. Tristan thought he heard them say something about him being all wet just before they fell into a fit of giggles. A few minutes later a tanned, very good-looking blond boy (in that California surfer-dude sort of way) strode over to their table. “Man, do I really have to sit at the kiddies’ table?”
A couple of girls at the next table put their heads together whispering.
Looking briefly at Hugh, the boy nodded his head. “Hey.”
“Oh, hi Ryder. This is Tristan. He’s in our room too.”
“Hey,” Ryder said, giving Tristan the cool head nod. “Dude, what happened to you?”
Before Tristan could say anything, Hugh jumped in, “Uh, he kinda helped someone who fell into one of the streams.”
Tristan thanked Hugh silently. He shifted his weight, trying to look cool and give Ryder a head nod back, but only ended up nearly falling off the bench. This sent the girls at the next table into another fit of giggles. Tristan turned tomato red, slumping as low as possible on the bench.
Just then there was a noise like someone trying to blow a horn, only it came out as a spluttering honking sound instead. The older campers laughed and a boy up front holding a conch shell to his lips shrugged. He then laughed along with the others and sat down.
A sandy-haired man with a rugged pockmarked face walked to the front of the room. He was about average height, very fit, and wore khaki shorts with an all-too-clean white shirt that had the shark and wave logo on it. “Good try there, Carlos. I’ve heard worse.”
“Hello everyone. Welcome to Sea Camp. For you first-timers, I’m Mike Davis, the camp director. Here’s a good one for you: how come clams don’t like to share their food?”
The older kids looked at one another, shaking their heads.
“Because they’re shellfish!” Director Davis exclaimed.
The room was silent.
“Oh come on, that was a good one. Shellfish,
