Originally Posted on Nov. 9, 2021

In October 2020, I was offered the chance to work in Qatar. For three months, my suitcases lay open in the floor with the contents—tubes of toothpaste, cans of hairspray, and bottles of lotion—spilling from the sides.

A year later, I’m sitting in a swing with my legs dangling in the waters of the Persian Gulf.

Lying in the sand on the shore of Banana Island is my backpack—the same one I took on hikes in Southwest Oklahoma.

On the ride to the island, I stared out the window of the luxury boat and watched as the skyscrapers of Doha became small blocks in the distance that eventually disappeared into the blue sky.

For miles, I only saw the sea from all directions. Thirty minutes passed. I saw a strip of land ahead.

The boat approached an island where three birds stood at the edge.

“Are those real?” I asked my friend as I pointed to three birds standing still. Two stood at attention, while the other had its wings wide open.

After the boat docked, I walked down the steps and onto the bridge where a tour guide dressed in all white said, “Welcome to Banana Island.”

“I feel like I’m on a TV show,” I thought, “—and I’m about to appear on Survivor or the Bachelorette.”

I gazed at the golden sands—nearly empty—that spanned from one end of the island to the other. Before me towered a wooden building with triangular windows. Surrounding me were palm trees and colorful flowers. Along the shoreline were docked white boats, and in the sea were navy blue beach houses on stilts.

The island exists as a world of its own—like a magical paradise in a snow globe.

During the welcome briefing, the tour guide said, “In your booklet, you’ll find vouches for activities and restaurants.”

“What should we do first?” I asked.

For the next 8 hours, we swam in the ocean with tiny fish at our feet, rode down water slides, ate triple cheeseburgers, drank milkshakes, explored a plant wall, took turns steering a paddleboat, and snapped photos of the statue-like birds that turned out to be real.

In between conversations about life in the UK and US, there were moments when no words were needed. The only sounds were the faraway laughter of children and light splashing of water. In these moments, I’d lie back in the water, close my eyes, and sift through my own thoughts.

At sunset, the sky lit up purple and pink with palm tree silhouettes in the foreground. At 6 p.m., I boarded the boat to go back to Doha.

My half-wet hair, sore feet, and sun-kissed skin reminded me of the end of a hot day at the waterpark with my niece, Makayla.

“I wish I could bring her here,” I thought.

As I moved my backpack from my lap to the floor, I remembered the seashell tucked away in the side pocket.

Instead, a part of the island is going to her.