Sublime

In the middle of the holidays the war started. Aunt Emilia and Borja could not go back to the mainland, and Uncle Álvaro, who was a colonel, was at the front. Borja and I, caught by surprise like victims of a strange ambush, understood that we would have to stay on the island indefinitely.

Straw-hatted, barefoot, swinging their sandals, Shay and Felice set off walking along the hems of the incoming waves, in coral sand so fine that their footsteps leave milky clouds in the warm transparent shallows. Tiny ghost crabs, almost invisible, scatter in mincing crowds as they proceed, and the sea breeze of the rising tide ruffles the sea

Off the southeastern coast of Iceland sits a low barrier island called Papós. Treeless and rocky, perpetually clobbered by gales howling off the North Atlantic, it takes its name from its first settlers, now long gone, the Irish monks known as papar.

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A number of those shipwreck survivors were introduced to the beauties of the atoll-like paradise in such a manner, and many of them stayed on to make a life there. The bounteous local waters supported thriving industries in fishing, shrimping, sponge diving, and even turtle raising.