Of course, the magic of the sea doesn’t solve everything, and the job list wouldn’t work itself away on its own. And so it was that Contadora, island of blooming frangipani and shy roe deer, became Contadora, island of frangipani and the clogged toilet pump. Hoses were disconnected, parts cursed over, but night fell in sweet silence, with sparkling bioluminescence imitating the stars above, all the clearer without a city’s dimming effects. The outgoing morning tide exposed a beach with enticing caves at the foot of steep bluffs, just the place for Nicky to dig for buried treasure. The archipelago had served as a pirate’s den since the 16th century, but I was beginning to suspect that buccaneers spent more time here tarring the rigging and repairing torn sails than counting their treasure.