The Island Day

The day started with a low tide and a cooler full of snacks.

Isla’s father had promised her a special outing: just the two of them, a boat, and their little island a mile off the coast. It was barely more than a sandbar with a few stubborn shrubs and a ring of driftwood, but to Isla, it was magic.

Her mother insisted they take everything: sunscreen, bug spray, water, extra towels, and — most importantly — his medicine. Isla watched her father slip the pill bottle into his coat pocket. “Just in case,” he said with a wink.

He had gotten out of the hospital three weeks ago. The surgery had been long, the recovery slow. His voice still carried an edge of tiredness, and his steps were more cautious than they’d once been. But this trip — this single day on their special island — was all he talked about during those dull weeks of recovery.

They pushed off in the small motorboat just after sunrise. Seagulls wheeled above them, and the sea was a deep gray-blue, calm as glass. Isla stood at the bow, arms spread wide, the salty air filling her lungs like wings.

When they reached the island, it was just as they’d left it last summer. The old log they used as a bench. The shell path Isla had started years ago. Even the rock painted with “ISLA’S ISLAND – NO ADULTS ALLOWED (Except Dad)” was still there, though the paint was peeling.

They spent the morning collecting shells, building a sand fort, and reading side by side. Her father dozed for a bit while Isla poked around the tide pools, watching crabs dart beneath her shadow.

At noon, they ate peanut butter sandwiches and orange slices. Her father took his medicine, washing it down with cold water from a canteen. Isla watched him carefully.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He smiled, reaching across the driftwood table to tousle her windblown hair. “I’m with you on our island. That means I’m better than okay.”

They sat quietly for a while after lunch, staring at the sea. A seal popped its head up near the rocks and vanished again. The breeze carried the scent of salt and kelp, and time seemed to pause.

“I wish we could live here,” Isla said.

Her father chuckled. “Too many mosquitoes. And your mom would definitely miss her coffee.”

“She could come too,” Isla said. “We could all just stay forever.”

He looked out at the horizon. “Maybe not forever. But every summer, every time we can — let’s promise to come back. All of us. No matter what.”

Isla nodded and squeezed his hand. “Promise.”

That afternoon, before heading home, they buried a tiny time capsule — just a seashell, a drawing Isla made of the two of them, and a note that read: "We were here. We were happy."

As the boat pulled away and the island grew smaller behind them, Isla leaned against her father and smiled.

Some places don’t cure you — not in the way medicine does. But they remind you why you want to get better.