Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Traveling doesn’t just broaden the mind—it cracks it wide open.
Until all that’s left is a raw, astonished sort of curiosity.
Because here’s the truth: it changes you to witness a place that exists entirely without you.
A tide that rises and falls without your presence.
A coast that doesn’t notice you arriving, or leaving.
You start to understand that the world is not yours to own, only to witness.
This is precisely the feeling I have as I walk off the boat after nearly two days of planes and ferries to reach the Galápagos Islands with the rest of the group. And, let me tell you, I’ve attained the highest peak of raw, astonished curiosity there is.
Our first landing was on San Cristóbal, where it quickly became clear that the sea lions are the true locals.
They populate the beaches, the piers, the empty bus shelters, even the steps of the harbor cafés.
We watched them swim beside our boat, agile and unbothered, darting through the water like liquid muscle, chasing fish or one another in play.
I’d already fallen a little in love—first with the animals, then with the clarity of the water, then with the sudden understanding that I was somewhere where ecological balance had a fighting chance.
But here—this island, our base for the week—is among the most extraordinary places I’ve ever set foot on.
Floreana is home to fewer than 150 people; the rest is designated for wildlife, and it shows.
The island pulses with biodiversity, from the dense, endemic flora reclaiming every possible inch of land to the darting flashes of movement beneath the surface of tide pools.
The water here is almost unreal—deeper and more luminous than anything I saw in Hawai‘i, shifting between saturated cobalt and translucent turquoise depending on the angle of the sun. Along the shoreline, jagged bands of basaltic lava frame the coast—remnants of the island’s volcanic origin—creating stark contrasts between the dark rock, the gleaming water, the lush green canopy, and the iron-rich, reddish soil underfoot.
This week’s research focus is deceptively simple: assess coral recovery and adaptation in the Galápagos.
After the catastrophic El Nino events of the 1990s—which raised sea surface temperatures enough to bleach and decimate over 95% of local coral—ecosystems here were left destabilized.
Some reefs have shown signs of slow, patchy regrowth.
Others remain skeletal. The question isn’t just what’s survived, but how, and what for.
Our job is to document those shifts. Which coral species persist, which substrates support successful recolonization, and—more importantly—what physiological or ecological adaptations have emerged in the absence of structural reef complexity.
The long game, of course, is to determine whether these adaptive traits might offer insights for reef recovery efforts in similarly degraded systems worldwide.
I’ll admit, this isn’t exactly groundbreaking research.
I’m almost certain Dr. Kymbert herself has already published on this, along with a dozen others.
But I also suspect that’s beside the point.
This trip isn’t about discovery in the eureka sense—it’s about exposure, field fluency, and the irreplaceable experience of observing a fragile system in flux.
Take Mateo, for instance. I’ve spoken to him maybe twice, but I know his thesis is on dermal photoprotection in sharks—the compounds they naturally produce to avoid UV damage.
The waters around Floreana are teeming with sharks.
I imagine this trip is like Disneyland for him.
Another student, whose name I haven’t committed to memory yet but will try really hard to over the next week, is researching seafloor composition, particularly the calcification patterns in post-bleaching reef structures.
The benthic fields surrounding Floreana—rich in fossilized coral and unconsolidated rubble—are ideal for his work.
So maybe none of us are here to reinvent marine biology. Maybe what we’re doing is closer to scientific pilgrimage: coming to a place that exists at the intersection of survival and collapse, just to learn how to see it properly.
About fifteen minutes' walk from the wharf, we reach the small field camp that will serve as home for the next week. It’s lovely, really—simple and sun-worn in a way that reminds me of home.
Five modest wooden cabins line up side by side, along with a long open-sided tent labeled Espacio Común, and two smaller canvas tents marked Enfermería and Equipo.
The washrooms are in a sixth cabin, set apart to the side.
It’s nothing luxurious, but we didn’t come all the way to the Galápagos for turndown service.
The woman who greeted us back on San Cristóbal steps in front of the group. She has a bright smile and a lilting accent that makes the language sound like music.
“Okay, everyone,” she begins. “My colleague and I will let you know which cabin you’ve been assigned to. You can settle in before dinner.”
She glances down at the clipboard in her hands and frowns slightly.
“But first… is there a Taylor here? Taylor, Coralie?”
I raise my hand, and she motions for me to step aside while her colleague begins calling out pairings. We move a few feet away, and she gives me a small, apologetic smile.
“Originally, we had you in your own cabin,” she says. “There are only three women in your group, and we didn’t want to assign you with a man without asking. But… the fifth cabin had some water damage last week. It’s not safe until we can repair it, which might take a few days.”
I nod. No big deal. Until she keeps going.
“So, that leaves us with two options. We can ask your instructor to swap and room with one of the guys, which would open a space for you with another guy here. Or…” She hesitates.
“You could room with Mr. Wilkes. He’s very well known here and respected, of course.
But only if you’re completely comfortable with that. ”
She looks at me the way women do when they understand the complexities they’re asking another woman to swallow. I know she’s trying to give me agency. But either way, someone ends up displaced.
I glance toward the other cabins. Emma and Chloe are already dragging bags inside theirs, faces flushed with sun and excitement.
I won’t ask them to separate so I can squeeze in.
And truthfully, I don’t mind any of the guys here.
I’ve conversed with most of them in the lab or on campus, and we’re barely going to spend time indoors.
I’m about to say I’m fine with whoever—leave it up to fate—when Holden steps up beside us.
“Everything alright?” he asks, looking between the two of us.
The guide fills him in. His brows pull together slightly as he listens, then he nods once and turns to her.
“She can room with me,” he says. No hesitation. Just the usual Holden certainty, clipped and calm.
I blink. I want to protest. I really do. Because if being around Holden for a week is already pushing my limits, sharing a room with him? That’s like signing up for a masterclass in emotional masochism.
But at the same time… he’s right there. Solid. Respectful. The one person here I can actually predict, at least in this context. He’s never once crossed a line, and—if anything—he’s made it painstakingly clear where his own lies. Academic. Platonic. Professional.
That makes him the safest option. Logically.
I don’t have time to overthink it before she beams at Holden and turns to me for confirmation. I nod—once—and follow them both toward the first cabin.
Inside, it’s about the size of the dorm room I share with Maya.
Narrow bunk beds in one corner, a small wooden table in the other, and a shared chest of drawers that looks like it’s seen salt and sun and at least a decade of field students.
There’s a single window with slatted shutters that opens directly onto the shoreline.
Even here, the air smells like seaweed and nature and volcanic stone.
I huff a quiet laugh under my breath. If I had Wi-Fi—or cell service—I’d text Kai that, despite all odds, the so-called inn comes with two beds, and that if this were a romance novel, readers everywhere would be fuming.
But I’m not. I’m fine. Grateful, even, that we don’t have to make this more awkward than it already is.
Besides, Holden’s not the type to offer if the arrangement weren’t clean-cut and unambiguous. He’s many things—brilliant, unreadable, frustrating—but careless? Never.
The woman reminds us that dinner will be in the shared tent in half an hour, then closes the door behind her.
Holden sighs, sits on the lower bunk, and runs a hand through his hair before looking up at me.
“Come here,” he says, crooking two fingers.
I blink. “Why?”
His brow lifts, just slightly. “Because I want to have a serious conversation with you. And you’re currently trying to merge with the wall.”
I step forward slowly, stopping just in front of him. It still throws me a little, how eye-level we are when he’s sitting. How close this feels, even with a full foot of space between us.
“Are you okay with this?” he asks.
“Are you?” I toss back, because it feels safer than answering first.
He studies me, expression flat but his eyes scanning every inch of mine. Like he’s trying to find the thing I’m not saying aloud. He doesn’t answer, not directly. Instead, he gestures toward the cabin door with a quick thumb.
“I stepped in because I know where I stand. I trust myself with you. What I don’t know is how I feel about you rooming with one of the other guys. I don’t know them well enough to judge their character.”
The words are simple. Offhanded, almost. But there’s a flicker of something—tight in his jaw, faint in his voice—that makes the back of my neck warm.