The Girl and The Lost Aviators

July 2, 1937 , Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean

High above the churning waves of the Pacific Ocean, a sleek, silver Lockheed Electra cut through the air, engines roaring defiantly against the vastness of the sky. Inside the cramped cockpit, Amelia Earhart, her eyes narrowed with focus, gripped the controls as turbulence rattled the frame. Behind her, navigator Fred Noonan scanned the endless expanse of blue, his charts and instruments struggling to make sense of the erratic compass readings.

Static crackled through the radio, hissing and popping. Suddenly—a sputter, a cough—the Electra shuddered violently. The right engine choked, coughed once more, then fell silent.

The gauges dipped, needles trembling as if fearful of what lay beneath. Fred’s fingers danced over the controls, eyes wide.

"Right engine’s out," he murmured, voice tight with urgency. Then with a choke and a shudder the left engine died.

“We are going down! Mayday! Mayday! I repeat we are going down!”

The only answer to radio static was the howling wind, a symphony of impending doom. The ocean, vast and indifferent, loomed closer with every heartbeat.

Commander Earhart valiantly held the yoke, said a prayer, and nosed the plane towards the closest island.

They were running out of sky.

*****

July 2,1937 , Christmas Island

The scent of sea salt and sun-dried coconut drifted on the breeze, as Anahera strolled along the shoreline, her nimble feet leaving shallow imprints in the cool, damp sand. The tide was low now, revealing a mosaic of tidal pools teeming with darting fish and scuttling crabs looking for shelter in a crevice.

At fifteen, Anahera was at home on this half-moon shoreline. The ocean had raised her, alongside her grandmother, and through trial and error she had learned to predict the storms by the way the wind sighed through the palms, and pluck darting fish from the shallows with a sharpened stick. She was an avid hunter, keen-eyed, and fearless, traits that had earned her both admiration and caution from the elders in her village.

Kiritimati was a tropical island paradise where the towering coconut palms rose, like sentinels, their rustling fronds whispering ancient island secrets. The turquoise shallows glittered under the relentless sun, stretching toward the reef where waves foamed and crashed rythmically, a barrier between the safety of home and the vast unknown. Beneath the surface, a labyrinth of rainbow coral—some as sharp as razors—sheltered a dazzling array of marine life, but also sheltered lurking predators.

The land was ruled by the kaka, large, terrestrial crustraceons with inpenetrable claws strong enough to shatter bone, which lurked in the jungle shadows. Their scuttling forms emerged with the twilight, eerie, clicking legs a familiar yet unsettling sound in the stillness of the island nights.

Now the afternoon sun was high above her as Anahera strolled down the white, sand beach, her hand-woven te raurau, laden with fish, slung over one shoulder. As she began collecting fallen coconuts, her machete raised and ready to crack open the hard, hairy husks, something in the distance caught her eye.

A metallic glint just beyond the reef’s break. It flashed in the sunlight, half-submerged in the waves, unnatural amongst the endless, rolling blue. Curiosity prickled her skin. She had seen lost nets, and the occasional pieces of a ship’s wreckage wash ashore, but this—was different.

"Taeka n te tia e rikirake, e kanganga n te tai aki rikirake," she said aloud, dragging her small outrigger Te Waa down the beach. (What is lost by one may be found by another, but the sea always claims its due.)

Her people knew that whatever washed up on on these shores was undoubtedly the misfortune of one man, but another’s treasure gained. The glinting thing in the distance could be treasure, Anahera hoped, expertly navigating the fishing vessel closer. She now could see what remained of a small, silver airplane partially submerged in the shallows. The metallic wreckage jutted out of the sea like the mangled corpse of some great sea creature, its silver skin catching the sun’s glare. But this creature, was an offering from the sky.

Then, she saw them. A pale man lay slumped over a twisted piece of metal, one arm dangling into the water, his face bloodied and blistered. His clothes, ragged and crusted with salt, clung wetly to his body. He groaned. A woman was nearby, her body half-submerged, face ghostly pale, framed by a neat, cap of short, blonde hair beneath streaks of dried blood and sand. Hung up, the ocean lapped gently at her legs, as if debating whether to claim her. Her lips were cracked and slightly parted, but she made no sound.

Anahera, unsure if the pale woman before her was even alive, cupped her hands around her mouth and called out,

"Ko na mauri? Ko na riki naba!" (Can you hear me? Wake up!)

The woman stirred, a faint groan escaping her lips. Anahera exhaled in relief. She was still alive—but for how long? The kaka would be coming, and the island did not cater to the weak.

"Tai ni moan!" she urged, nimbly hopping off her vessel to bend down beside the injured pilot. (Do not sleep now!)

A rustling, snapping sound broke Anahera’s focus. Toward the treeline, she could see where the jungle foliage was shifting, leaves shuddering without wind. Then came the familiar, rhythmic clatter of hard shells scraping against rock and wood.

Kaka.

They’d noticed the scent of fresh blood. From the undergrowth, giant pincers emerged, glinting like stained glass in the sun. First one, then two, then hundreds more. Their massive bodies, nearly a metre wide, moved methodically, lumbering with eerie patience, their segmented legs scuttling over the sand. Their feelers twitched, sensing weakness, sensing blood.

Clickity clack.

She had seen them kill. They were relentless scavengers—patient, merciless. She had watched them drag away fallen birds, turtles too weak to reach the sea, even the bodies of whales who had lost to the tides. Their tortured shrieks and eyes frozen wide with horror were tattooed upon her brain as a reminder. Never to be careless. Never to be weak.

“A na kaain te batua, a na kona n te mate,” she remembered.

It was an ancient island proverb meaning he who shows weakness meets death. Her people believed in omens. If the sea had brought strangers to her island, it was not her place to question why. But she did know if she did not act now, the coconut crabs would pick their bones clean before the next tide.

She reached for her machete. Then, gripping the hilt, she took a step forward—between the fallen and the approaching monster crabs— and slammed the blade against the rocks with a sharp CLANG, her voice rising like the wind before a storm.

"Tutu mai tai!" (Stay back!)

The crabs hesitated, but a larger one, bold and determined, advanced. Anahera’s grip tightened on her machete and waved it mencingly.

"Nareau, ko taku teimato!" Anahera cried, seeking protection. (Goddess, give me strength!) The jungle was watching. The crabs were waiting. And the island would not take these pale, injured i-matang without a fight!

Waist-high she waded through the crystalline water, pulling her sturdy fishing canoe closer to the wreckage, Anahera grabbed hold of the man’s tattered shirt and pulled. With a loud tearing sound, he slid limply into the water on a low moan. Anahera was not nearly his equal in size, but she was young, lithe and strong. She wrestled the man onto his back, gripped him firmly under his armpits and dragged him up and over the lip of her canoe. Turning back, Anahera waded over to the woman who was hung up on a piece of the mangled metal, and hoisted her limp body over her shoulder and then waded slowly under the dead weight. Gently, Anahera leaned forward and flipped the ghostly stranger into the boat next to the unconscious man. Then she grabbed her quant and hopped lithely into the vessel all the while knowing the army of souless, beedy eyes had never stopped watching.

Anahera punted through the calm inlet and around to the rocky limestone cliffs where she knew her older brothers would be gathering Swiftet eggs. The sun was waning and she was tiring. She couldn’t carry both strangers. She needed help.

She turned toward the cliffs, cupping her hands around her giant conch and blew. The shell’s haunting, rorqual moan swept through the trees and over the waves, hollow yet commanding, like the wind calling the storm. The echoes folded into the distance, bouncing off cliffs, carrying toward the jungle where Anahera prayed her brothers would hear.

The jungle held its breath. The waves whispered against the shore. Then, from somewhere deep within the trees—an answering call.

They had heard. Help was coming.

Her older brothers appeared at the jungles edge and ran towards her, concern in their dark eyes. Breathless, Beni bent to catch his wind. He saw two pale, lifeless strangers in the bottom of his sister’s fishing boat and lifted an eyebrow.

"Te raoiroi ae te? Ko na tia naba, taanei ni waaki?" (What’s going on? What madness is this, little sister?”

"Ko na raoiroi! E na riki bwa anti!" exclaimed her eldest brother, Taiana, as he stared openmouthed at the ghosts his little sister had collected. (She’s collected bad omens! Grandmother will love this!)

"Ten te moimoto bwa e a tia bwa kaka ma te anganibong," Beni laughed, dark eyes glinting with mirth. (Ten coconuts says the crabs will get a feast.)

Annoyed by their banter, and mindful of the sun’s location, Anahera chided, “Io io, ko moimoto te roro! Ko na tuangi naba ao ko na rairai bwa kaoti?" (Yeah yeah, your brain is a coconut! Are you just going to stand there or help me?)

"E taetae te tinan bwa kaoti ungatoa, ma e aki nanon un te anti aika," teased Beni as the boys each grabbed one of the fallen strangers and effortlessly hoisted them onto their backs. (Grandmother said bring home eggs, not cursed spirits!)

Anahera followed her brothers, dragging her fishing canoe safely up the beach.

"E aki taeka naba n maang nakoia te katoka n te abamwa iaon te bong ni mauri," she chided. (It is not our place to refuse the island’s gifts on this living day.)

The jungle swallowed them, damp and humming with the sounds of unseen creatures. Anahera guided them along an ascending path, until the dark mouth of a hidden cave appeared, it’s opening obscured behind thick vines. It was cooler here, safer—a place where her ancestors had once sheltered from storms.

"Ko na rairai bwa ko na nako bwaka? A aki butimwa te bongi!" Anahera complained. (Do you maybe want to hurry up? We don’t have all day!)

Beni exhaled sharply, adjusting the dead weight he carried.

"I a na nako mai, ko na karikari iai," " he muttered. (Next time, you carry her.)

Resting on a bed of soft fronds, the woman stirred – lips cracked and breathing shallow. The man lay still. Her hands steady, Anahera gathered fresh water from a stream nearby, soaking pieces of torn cloth in the cool liquid before dabbing at their wounds. The salt and sun had already left their skin blistered, and where the man’s leg had been cut, angry red lines crept toward his knee—a bad sign.

She worked quickly, grinding wild turmeric root into a thick paste and spreading it over the infected wound. The man groaned as she tightened a strip of woven pandanus around his leg to keep the poultice in place. The woman’s pale, blue eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused.

"Tai ni moan," Anahera said firmly, pressing her hand against her chest as she tried to sit up. (Do not move.) The woman blinked in confusion, but the words she spoke were strange.

"W—where…Fred?" she croaked staring into calm, brown eyes. "Who are you?"

Anahera understood only the question in her tone.

"I aera Anahera," she said slowly, pressing a hand to her heart. (My name is Anahera.)

The woman swallowed hard, her brows furrowed. "Anahera," she repeated, her voice rasping. Patting her chest, the woman croaked, “I’m Amelia Earhart.”

By that evening, though she was weak, Amelia watched Anahera with wary curiosity, flinching slightly as the girl approached.

"Wai," Anahera murmured, tilting a wooden bowl of cold water toward Amelia. (Drink.)

Amelia took a sip, her parched throat grateful. Her navigator’s condition had worsened, his breath hitching and uneven. Amelia’s gaze darkened as she looked at him.

"We need… a doctor," Amelia whispered.

"Te abamwa e bon buokia." (The island provides.)

Amelia knelt, gripping his arm tightly.

"You have to stay with me," she whispered, fear in her voice. "You hear me, Fred? You have to stay with me!"

Anahera had seen the same fear in her grandmother’s eyes when illness took her grandfather.

"Help him! Please! We can’t stay here," Amelia said, voice firm despite her exhaustion. "There will be search planes. Someone will come for us."

Anahera studied her for a moment, then pointed toward the horizon, where the ocean met the sky in an endless, merciless stretch of blue. After some time she said simply, "The sky loses things, the sea does not."

"I will not disappear on this island!" Amelia snapped.

A crack of thunder rumbled in the distance, as if the island itself were listening. Outside, the first fat drops of rain began to fall.

*****

Five years later…

Anahera watched from a distance, arms crossed, expression unreadable as Amelia combed over the wreckage, making an enormous burn pile on the beach.

"Ko na kakawakin?" she finally asked. (What are you doing?)

"Getting off this damn island," Amelia muttered, striking a rock against steel. Sparks flew.

"You fight the island, it fights back. You live with it, it gives what you need." Anahera counseled, crouching beside the capive. "But, it always takes what it wants."

The dry tinder caught, flaring into life. She smiled, victorious, as thick billowing plumes of black smoke–the scent of burning oil and fish fat– spread thick in the air, curling into the jungle.

Then they heard a familiar sound.

Clickity-clack.

They were out of time.

That night, Anahera sat near the fire in the cave, legs crossed, blade resting on her lap. Amelia stared at the flickering flames, her expression unreadable.

"You still want the sky to find you?" Anahera asked finally.

"I don’t know," she admitted.

Anahera nodded, as if she had expected the answer. "Then you learn. You listen. You survive."

"Teach me."

That night, Anahera climbed to the highest point of the island, standing barefoot on the cliffs that overlooked the endless, hungry sea.

She wondered if the world beyond them had sent these people here for a reason.

And, if it would ever take them back.

Or if, like so many before, they were now part of the island’s secrets.