This is that time I was in a Gauguin painting, except it was a photo, and it was on Viti Levu in Fiji instead of Tahiti, and it was a couple of months ago instead of in 1890. But there I was, slipping down a trail of disconcertingly red earth on the heels of a guide whose name I could not pronounce, then following him off a sharp rock at the base of a waterfall into the exotic unknown. He warned me it was cold, and he climbed out of the water shivering; I hesitated for a long minute and jumped as far as I could holding my breath, expecting the bright, brain-tingling shock of a Canadian lake, and landed in the sweet embrace of a pool of water so warm and fresh and innocent that I laughed out loud. We jumped in again and again, standing under the waterfall’s torrent, and watched as the flower floated, little by little, to shore.
story © Dianna Carr image © Chris Fair