Several minutes pass while I watch the shoreline and marina become smaller until they evaporate. The view becomes nothing but blue sea and sky, the shadows of seagulls flying toward the beaches. My hat flops around in the breeze, so I hold it down with one hand.

Louis remains quiet for some time; the only noise comes from the boat’s motor underwater.

I remember Los Angeles’ traffic, the car horns, sirens, and occasional gunshots that became less scary each time. I also think of the people I would interview chattering for the fun of it. L.A. was a city of noisy “angels” in a constant choir of empty words.

There’s a sense of relief from being away from the city, at least for the time being. The clean, smog-free sky and the calm, clear water below bring me more peaceful than my recent massage. Ironically, I have the urge to talk with Louis, a genuine conversation that none of my interviewees had.

“So,” I start, “Louis, is Pink Island a nice place?”

Louis scratches his left hairy leg with his right one and answers.

“Of course, anywhere along the Mediterranean coast has a certain charm. Even slums look gorgeous to tourists.”

I nod and continue. “Have you ever explored it before?”

“Only a little bit,” he says, “but I don’t go far exploring; it’s a private island. The owner lives there year-round. She doesn’t allow visitors unless they have invitations.”

“Does the flamingo I saw deliver them?”

“If she doesn’t eat it first!” Louis laughs.

“Does it like paper?”

“Sure, if it piques her interest.”

“It seems like a nice bird, letting me touch the beak.”

“Huh, I never hear anyone saying the flamingo wants to be touched. I tried once, and she bit me.”

“Oh, did it hurt?”

“Of course, it did. At least Fizz is not a shark.”

“Fizz is the flamingo’s name?”

“Oh yeah, she’s the pet. They’re very close and live together on the island alone.”

“May I ask who the owner is?”

“She’s solitary but pleasant. I don’t really know much about her myself. She’s a tall woman whose name is Jessica.”

My heart skips a beat when I hear ‘Jessica.’ “T-thanks, Louis. I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

Silence returns, and I wonder if this is the same Jessica from before.

I remember following every story Jessica wrote and wanting to be like her, a reporter who is confident, devoted to her work, and undeterred by emotional problems.

No, it isn’t her. My mind repeats, but doubt remains because several years ago, Jessica went off to investigate a story in the Mediterranean and never came back.