White Horses

THE VANISHING ISLANDS

From the window seat of the small aircraft, the islands 13,000 feet beneath us looked like uncut emeralds poking out of an azure pool. I pressed my nose up against the Plexiglas to study the contours of each one. Dense forests covered the isles, bisected by winding rivers. The only signs of human development here in this remote region of the Solomon Islands were small clusters of houses along the palm-fringed coastline, their corrugated tin roofs reflecting the sun back at us.

Across the aisle from me, my friends had their eyes glued on trails of whitewater below. They were pointing out the seemingly endless number of breaking waves, feverishly tapping on the windows at the sight of any potential setup.

“Mate, look at that one over there,” yelled Torren over the roar of the engine, spotting an offshore reef pass that was reeling amid the solid

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