Page 73 of Winging It with You

The shoreline in front of us reveals some of the bluest water I’ve ever seen. Miles and miles of beautiful Indian Ocean stretch before us, blending in with a nearly cloudless sky. A lovely contrast to the lush greenery lining the water’s edge. Since setting up shop in Bali, everyone has groaned about the heat and humidity, but I don’t mind it. Especially since the coastal breeze seems to stir up a sweetness in the air wherever we go.

“To the semifinals?” he asks, pulling at his wet suit collar.

I nod. Dalton is already on his mark, not so subtly hiding his irritation while we all make our way down toward our designated spots. I’m sure if he had it his way, the cameras would always be on him. I swear I’ve seen him roll his eyes more than once as contestants, myself included, were the subject of a crew member’s focus.

“ ‘Shocked’ would be an understatement,” he says, and then quickly leans up to plant an unprompted kiss on my cheek.

But even that can’t calm the wave of uneasiness as we head into whatever challenge production has planned next. It seems that each one proves to be more and more harrowing. I get the whole shock value of it all—fear and drama—and everything that comes with pushing someone outside their comfort zone sells, but it doesn’t make it any less grueling.

A man I don’t recognize stands next to Dalton, and judging by his half smile—and the fact that he seems incredibly antsy with all the commotion—I take it he’s ready for this to be over.

Asher and I, sandwiched between Jenn and Ellie and Bianca and Jackson, halt and stand in a half circle around the semi-raised platform Dalton and his companion are on.

“And we’re rolling in three, two…”

“Welcome back, trekkers. We’re here for this season’s semifinal challenge episode ofThe Epic Trek. As always, I’m your host, Dalton McKnight…”

I roll my eyes, not even caring anymore if Arthur captures it on film. Dalton’s announcer voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and while I know I could never do his job, every time I see him, I wonder how the hell he’s still in this industry considering how he behaves when the camerasaren’trolling.

“Our contestants have been traveling the world for the last three weeks, and today,” he continues, ensuring every syllable is as enunciated as possible, “we’re standing on the shores of southern Bali, where the calm waters between the islands of Nusa Lembongan and Ceningan have created ideal conditions for generations of local seaweed farmers.”

Seaweed?

I glance past Dalton. Just beyond the contestant staging area are three rows of what look like floating flower boxes in the shallows of the clear water. Each row consists of four of these boxes and they appear to be anchored in place, bobbing up and down in the subtle sloshing of the water.

“As the world’s largest seaweed producer, over one million coastal farmers in Indonesia, like Bima and his family here,” he continues, patting his companion on the back, “rely on the growing industry to make ends meet during fluctuations in tourism.”

Bima steps forward now. “For years, my family and I have cared for and harvested these waters. The seaweed before you,”he says, briefly turning toward it, “has been growing for just over a month and has reached its ideal weight for harvesting. Today, each team will collect the seaweed from their floating seabed and hang it by hand so it can be dried and eventually sold.”

Both Dalton and Bima step down from their platform and walk toward the water’s edge, causing the camera crews to reposition themselves.

“Contestants will alternate using a paddleboard to harvest each seabed. Once you’ve removed all the seaweed from the bed, you will paddle back to shore to your waiting partner and work together to hang the seaweed out to dry.”

There are rows of triangle-shaped drying racks in the distance where I’m assuming we’ll hang it all.

“Allthe seaweed from each bed must be hung before the waiting partner can move on to the next,” Dalton adds.

I bump Asher with my shoulder. “Seems simple enough, right?” I whisper.

“Famous last words,” he hisses back.

He’s right. Nothing about anything we’ve done together has been simple, but I’ve done my best to remain optimistic.

“Here, take these,” I say, handing Ash a pair of rubber gloves and shears. “Why don’t you go first?”

“And why is that?” he inquires suspiciously, holding the gloves like he’s ready for them to bite.

“Because there are four seabeds and if we’re alternating, the farthest one out will be mine.” I know he’s not the strongest swimmer, and while I don’t know how deep the water is, it’s not worth risking it. Plus, I hate watching him struggle.

“Good point,” he says, failing at hiding the smile now forming.

I place both hands on his shoulders and lock my eyes with his, doing my best to block out Arthur’s quick spin around to ensure he captures my precompetition pep talk.

“You’ve got this. Just try to gather the seaweed and paddle back to shore as quickly as you can, and I’ll be waiting right here ready to help you get it all hung up.”

“Sir, yes sir.” He’s mocking me, and he even adds a half-assed salute in the process.

“Let’s just take this one seabed at a time,” I add, ignoring him.

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