I had to sit down—the long walk and steep climb finally caught up with me. My legs trembled so badly I wasn't sure they would hold me another minute. But there was still work to do.
The shells… fresh, alive, promising.
I looked around until I found one of the sturdier pots we had fired a few weeks ago. It was wide enough, strong enough, good for boiling. Perfect.
I poured a little fresh water inside, added the shells, and set it near the fire. Then I placed the second pot—filled with seawater—at the edge of the flames to slowly boil out. If I was lucky, salt would crust the sides by evening. Even a small amount would change everything.
Soon the fire crackled brightly beneath both pots.
The shells clicked and shifted as heat reached them.
Villagers began gathering around me. Some murmured to each other, shaking their heads. One woman stepped closer and pointed at the pot with a worried expression.
"Shella… bad," she warned, tapping her belly with a grimace. "Make hurt."
I nodded. I understood. They had eaten them wrong before; of course they feared them. I stirred the pot carefully with a wooden stick.
"Cook long," I said, gesturing with the stick. "Long fire. Good."
I tried to smile reassuringly.
More villagers came to watch, whispering. A few children crouched beside me, wide-eyed, peeking over the pot as if expecting the shells to leap out and chase them.
Kehnu stood a little behind the others, arms crossed, observing everything in silence. His gaze moved between the pot and me—curious, skeptical, but also trusting. He had seen enough of my strange ideas work out.
Steam rose. The water bubbled harder.
Then pop—one of the shells opened.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. A few stepped back. One little girl squeaked and hid behind her brother.
I smiled. "Good," I said softly. "Food."
Another shell opened. Then another. Soon the pot was full of white, tender meat peeking out from the steaming shells.
The smell was rich, salty, comforting.
I reached in with two sticks, pulled one open shell out, and set it on a leaf to cool. People stared like I had placed a magical object in front of them.
I waited a moment, then took a bite.
Warm. Soft. Perfectly safe.
Delicious.
I looked up at them and nodded. "Good."
The villagers watched me closely. I swallowed—no pain, no burning, no sign of sickness.
Slowly, very slowly, an older man stepped forward with his coconut bowl. His hands trembled a little—not from fear, but from the hope that maybe this food wasn't cursed after all.
I placed one opened shell into his bowl.
He hesitated… then tasted it.
A long pause.
Then his eyes brightened, and he gave a surprised laugh.
That was all it took.
The others moved closer, excitement replacing fear.
A new food, a new skill, a new step for the whole tribe—born from a pot, a fire, and a long walk to the sea.
A few shells didn't open, and I tossed them aside carefully. "Bad," I said, pointing, making sure the villagers understood—they shouldn't eat these. Most of them nodded slowly, some curious, some cautious.
I held up one of the opened shells, showing them the tender meat inside. Soon, several villagers edged forward, holding bowls, eager to try. A few stayed back, hands crossed or hiding behind others. Perhaps they were waiting to see if anyone got sick first. I smiled gently, trying to reassure them.
As we shared the shells, the fish Kehnu had caught earlier was ready, and we each had a small portion. Warm, smoky, familiar—and a little taste of success after so many days of cautious survival.
I thought quietly, letting my mind wander. If coconuts were available here, I could try combining seafood with coconut, maybe even make something similar to the dishes I had seen on TV back when life was modern and predictable. For now, it was just an idea, a spark of hope and creativity.
The villagers ate slowly, tasting, murmuring to each other. Some began pointing at the shells, then at me, as if asking questions about this new food. I nodded, smiled, and gestured—showing them it was safe. Today, we had a feast born from sea, fire, and a little courage.
As the next day came, I woke early and checked the pot of seawater. The water had mostly evaporated, leaving a thin layer of salt clinging to the bottom. I took a small stick and scraped a little toward the middle. There wasn't much—but enough to show the elder lady and Kehnu.
I approached them, holding the tiny pinch of salt in my hand. "Salt," I said, trying to convey the idea. They just stared at it, curiosity in their eyes. I picked a smaller chunk of meat, baked it slowly over the fire, and sprinkled just a bit of the salt on top. I handed small bites to both of them.
As they chewed, surprise spread across their faces. "Good," Kehnu said, smiling. Relief and excitement bubbled in me. This small discovery, so simple in modern life, felt monumental here.
Soon, other villagers gathered, talking among themselves. Their gestures showed understanding—they wanted to try this new idea with seashells and the tiny "salt" for meat. A few volunteers set off toward the sea, carrying containers and bamboo bottles.
Kehnu returned to me, nodding. "They are going to gather seawater and shells," he said. I smiled, my heart light. If we had plenty of salt, so many new things could be made. So many possibilities for cooking, preserving, and sharing with the village.
I gathered a few shallow, elongated pottery dishes and set them in a sunny spot near the village. "Salt," I said, pointing at the dishes, then mimicking pouring water. The villagers watched curiously as I slowly poured the seawater into the clay vessels, letting it settle.
"Sun," I said, gesturing to the sky, and showed them how the water would slowly disappear. Kehnu and a few others leaned closer, clearly trying to understand. I explained through gestures and demonstration: pour a little water, let it dry, scrape the crystals carefully, repeat.
Each day, as the sun climbed high, we added more seawater to the dishes. Small, glistening salt crystals began to form along the bottom and edges. I scraped them gently into piles, showing the villagers how to collect it without spilling.
Meanwhile, others still used fire to boil seawater in pottery pots. I demonstrated the slower sun-drying method as a gentler alternative, especially useful when fuel or time was scarce. Some villagers began trying it themselves, carefully pouring and scraping, while I encouraged them with nods and smiles.
It was slow, methodical work—but rewarding. By the end of the first week, we had enough salt to season several meals, and the villagers' eyes shone with understanding. They were beginning to see how even a small addition like this could change their food, preserve meat, and make life a little easier.
Even my daughter, Kate, giggled as she helped sprinkle tiny crystals into one of our cooking pots. "Mom! See! Salt!" she whispered, thrilled at the tiny, magical transformation of seawater into something useful.
This simple, patient process—sun, patience, and careful collection—felt like a quiet revolution. The village, slowly but surely, was learning to harness a resource they had never truly understood before.