Diving With Tigers — Part 4

A volcanic reckoning, a sky-splitting truth, and the promise that changes everything.

Happy Sunday, friend.

This is the fourth and final installment of Diving With Tigers — thank you for being here. If you missed it, here’s part 1, 2, and 3.

Like I did with The Angler, I wrote and published this series one piece at a time. What’s that like? Imagine you’re piloting a plane. You know the destination and have a general sense of the route… but you’ve never actually flown the path before. That’s what it feels like.

Somewhere in the middle, I had a familiar moment — looking around the cabin, realizing I had passengers on board, and wondering if I could stick the landing.

But here we are! We’ve arrived. And I’d really love to know what you thought of the journey.

I’ve left a ‘comment’ button at the end of the post, and if you’re a subscriber, you’re always welcome to reply directly to the email. Whether it’s general thoughts or specifics — what landed, what didn’t, what you wish I’d written more about, less about — I’m all eyes and ears.

Most of all, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for going on this ride with me. Thank you for your time, your attention, your trust. I don’t take it lightly. I never will.

And now… the end of Diving With Tigers.

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Guest House Arrival

I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. The property looked like it was being reclaimed by the tropics — palms, ferns, and flowering trees cascading in every direction, massive leaves unfurling in slow spirals. Bright blooms burst from the greenery like exclamations.

I’d booked the Airbnb late the night before, deciding I didn’t need to be near the marina anymore. I chose a remote place — a hideaway on the island’s southwest side.

As I reached for the door handle, a man emerged from an open-air workspace tucked beneath the main house. Shirtless, barefoot, lanky. Board shorts slung low on his hips. His dark curls were tied back, and his skin gleamed like someone who lived outside — which, judging by the setting, he probably did.

He waved. “You must be Liv.”

“That’s me,” I said, stepping out.

“I’m Sunny,” he offered, extending a hand. His grip was warm. Easy.

“Your place is beautiful.” I smiled, or tried to.

“Thanks!” He stared a second too long. “Yeah, you lucked out. The guest house is usually booked months in advance, but we had a last-minute cancellation. As soon as we listed it, you grabbed it.”

“Ah. I had a last-minute change of plans too,” I said, dodging specifics.

“Well, I’m biased,” he grinned, “but this is the best part of the island. Let’s grab your bags and I’ll show you around.”

I pulled my duffle from the Jeep and handed it to him. He led me around the side of the house, down a shaded path flanked with banana trees and wild ginger. He pointed out a small garden, a bee box, and a row of papaya trees leaning like they were in conversation.

“My wife and I took over the land from her folks,” he said. “Turned it into a working farm. We’ve got three kids. One’s special needs. You might hear them up by the main house, but they won’t bother you.”

“Oh, I love kids,” I replied automatically — though that wasn’t entirely true. I loved some kids. Who was I kidding — I loved my kid and a few others. I never understood why I didn’t get the baby-adoration gene.

We rounded a corner and there it was: a Bali-style hut nestled in the arms of a colossal tree.

It looked less like something built and more like something grown — wood-shuttered windows, a wraparound lanai, and every beam and floorboard seemingly embraced by the branches. The whole structure was screened in and elevated high above a floor of ferns and rich red earth, as if the forest had lifted it up for safekeeping.

Weathered just enough to prove it had withstood storms, but cared for so precisely it felt sacred — a place suspended between earth and sky.

We climbed the stairs and stepped inside. It was simple, but thoughtfully considered — a low platform bed with crisp white sheets, a sturdy couch, a carved wooden table, a tiny kitchenette. Everything was intentional. Someone had loved this space.

He pointed to a second structure just down the path. “Bathroom’s over there. And the shower’s outdoors — totally private. You’ll love it.”

We stood quietly for a moment. The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled. I could see the ocean shimmering like a band of silver through the canopy.

It’s perfect.

I didn’t realize I’d slipped into such stillness until Sunny turned toward me.

“Hey… I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but whatever you’re going through — I just want to reassure you… you’re going to get through it.”

I blinked. Startled by his knowing.

I thought I’d played it cool — made small talk, admired the plants, smiled the right amount. But maybe the cracks were visible.

Or maybe a woman paying to sleep in a tree, alone, for three nights wasn’t much of a mystery.

“Oh. Thanks,” I said. My voice thinner than usual. “I appreciate that.”

A lump rose in my throat. I wasn’t prepared for that kind of kindness or connection. I nodded, afraid if I said anything more, I’d lose it right there in front of him.

He smiled. “You’ve got everything you need, but if not — just let me know.”

And with that, he was gone. Down the stairs, back along the path, swallowed by green.

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Trying Not to Feel

After Sunny left, I wandered the property. The sun was low, casting gold light across the farm. The plumeria blossoms glowed, their scent drifted through the warm air. A couple of chickens darted out from the underbrush, flapping and squawking like I’d interrupted something.

It was gorgeous. Every inch of it. But once I got back to the tree house, I couldn’t settle.

I tried to read. Tried to stretch. Tried to just… be. But my body wouldn’t cooperate. I shifted on the couch, then the chair, then the edge of the bed. Everything was perfect, yet nothing felt right.

I knew the Wi-Fi password was written on the welcome note clipped to the mini fridge. I refused to look at it. Opening my phone would be like opening a door I wouldn’t know how to close. So instead, I opened the fridge and found a bowl of fruit left by Sunny’s wife — mango, pineapple, papaya. Perfectly ripe. I ate the whole thing standing up, staring at the ocean.

Then I spotted a jar of macadamia nuts. I brought it to the couch and started in on them. First a few. Then a handful. Then another. Then straight from the jar. My stomach warned me. I didn’t care.

I wasn’t hungry. But I couldn’t name what I was trying to feed.

I curled up on the couch, willing myself not to think about them. Not to go there. But the thoughts crept in anyway, like smoke rolling under a door.

The carelessness to post photos of the two of them.

Our friends would see. My mom. His mom. Our co-workers. My mentor. Anna’s friend’s parents. All of them, squinting at their screens, trying to piece it together. Just him. Her? Wine glasses. Sun. Smiles.

Maybe what I hated most — more than the fact that she was his go-to for LSD and ketamine — was that she was a marriage and family therapist.

I remembered reading her bio just after our wedding:

My purpose is to help couples experience more love and joy.

I almost choked on laughter. Like I could die from the irony.

And now, our coupledom was in free fall — and there she was, definitely helping.

I hadn’t heard from him since he left. We’d both agreed things weren’t working. That we needed space. A plan. That under no circumstances would it be wise to involve someone else.

I didn’t believe him when he agreed to it. Didn’t even let myself hope. His words had become hollow. Like his eyes, black and soulless.

We were still supposed to travel to his parents’ house in two weeks. Spend time with his siblings, their kids. Let Anna run wild with the cousins while we played family. Flights purchased. Reservations made. Lies to be packed neatly alongside our swimsuits.

What a house of cards.

I shifted on the couch and winced. My stomach was a tight fist of acid and regret. The macadamias sat like stones in my gut, pressing against everything I didn’t want to feel.

I curled tighter, wishing I could fold in on myself and disappear.

Wishing it would all just go away.

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What Keeps Singing

I must’ve dozed off for a bit — a small mercy.

When I woke, the sky outside had deepened to a velvety black. The treehouse glowed faintly from the soft lamp I’d left on.

I got up from the couch, clicked off the light, and crawled into bed.

The night sounds surged — a living, breathing orchestra. Leaves whispering to each other. The low hush of the ocean. Insects ticking and whirring. A pulse of unseen life.

Then I heard it.

Two notes. Clean. Strange. In the tree.

“Co-kee… co-kee…”

I held still. Listened harder. Another voice echoed the call in the distance.

“Co-kee… co-kee…”

What is that? A cricket? No.

A long-forgotten memory surfaced — me and Anna curled up in bed, watching Dora the Explorer. The episode was about a frog that had lost its voice. The coquí.

“Co-kee… co-kee…”

I smiled to myself. The sound was oddly specific. Charming — at first.

Then came the others, scattered like invisible bells throughout the forest.

The chorus grew sharp. Shrill. Relentless.

I kicked off the sheet and got up, moving to the screened-in door to peer into the dark.

“Shhhh,” I whispered.

The sound in the tree stopped.

I stood still. Waited.

Nothing.

I crawled under the sheet.

“Co-kee… co-kee…”

Back it came, with no intention of quitting.

I closed my eyes.

That sound — persistent, impulsive, incapable of being satisfied.

It was just like him.

The calls to mate. His ravenous need to be admired. Desired. Seen.

It was in his DNA. A reflex.

Like the coquí, he would always be calling out for something more.

More attention. More excitement. More applause.

He would always need an audience.

I shoved a pillow over my head. The sound cut through anyway.

And with it came something I hadn’t let myself feel fully.

Sadness. Deep sadness.

The kind that sucks the marrow from your bones.

He would never be the man I wanted or needed him to be.

But that wasn’t the saddest part. The saddest part was that I saw the signs. I knew the risks.

And I still said yes. With my daughter in hand.

I built a life on hope and charm and delusions — with a man whose nature was always calling outward, never home.

A chill moved through me.

Fear.

That I wouldn’t have the means to leave.

That I didn’t have the resources to rebuild.

That I wouldn’t be strong enough for Anna.

That I’d never find happiness.

That this two-note song would never stop.

“Co-kee… co-kee…”

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Louder Than Lies

I woke early. Showered in the open-air, the water and morning breeze cool against my skin. I dressed, gathered my things, and headed out, catching Sunny near the garden.

“You’re up early,” he said.

“I’m heading to the heliport — gonna do a ride over the island.”

His eyes lit up. “Nice! Perfect day for it.”

I smiled, nodded.

Just before I rounded the corner he added, “Hey Liv. We’re gonna barbecue tonight. You’re welcome to join.”

I stopped and turned around. “That’s really sweet. Thank you. I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but I’d love to if the timing works.”

“You know where to find us.”

I climbed into the Jeep. The sun was clear over the horizon. Light spilled across the road, dew drops on the leaves were glistening. I drove slowly, winding along the coast, stopping for gas and a coffee. I wasn’t in a rush.

About twenty minutes in, my phone lit up.

It was him.

My stomach flipped. I pulled onto a gravel shoulder, turned off the engine, and answered.

“Hey,” I said.

There was a pause. “Hey Liv. How are you?”

“I’ve been better.” What a dumb question. “How’s Spain?”

“It’s great. I’ve been having a good time. Needed a little fun, ya know?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Look, Liv. I need to tell you something.” He paused. “I’m with Holly.”

I said nothing and just let his announcement hang in the air.

“I wanted to tell you now because… I don’t want to lie about it.”

And because it’s already on social media?

“She gets me, Liv. She doesn’t expect me to be different.”

A bird swooped down just in front of the windshield, wings flashing silver in the sun.

He continued. “And I don’t know if you’ll believe this, but we didn’t cross any physical lines until this trip.”

“Other than that weekend in Mammoth,” I said. “And the one in Vegas.”

“Liv, that was when you and I were dating.”

“Right. When you were just friends.”

He groaned. “Liv, I don’t want to fight anymore.”

Another bird landed nearby. Pecked once at the gravel, then took off. Like it had better places to be.

“You know, in some weird way… I think you kind of helped me see how much I actually like her. All your jealousy — and suspicion — it pointed me toward her. Like, you knew it before I did.”

I bit my tongue. The absurdity. The gall. The reframing of betrayal into a fate that I fueled. As if I’d manifested it for him.

“I’ve felt so judged by you, Liv. And everything I’ve done for you — it’s just never enough. I feel like you’re waiting for me to change who I am. And with Holly, I don’t have to. I can just be me. That feels… healthier. For both of us.”

His voice was full of conviction. Righteous, even. Like he’d finally won a debate he’d been having with himself for months.

And beneath it all, I could hear it — the hum of meth in his bloodstream. That manic clarity. The high-octane confidence of someone sprinting through delusion and calling it truth.

“I think we both know it’s just not going to work,” he said. “Let’s figure out how to unwind things. When I’m back in San Francisco, we’ll figure out logistics. Holly is supportive of my relationship with you and Anna. You and I will be good co-parents.”

I almost spit out my coffee.

Holly is supportive? Co-parents?

The casual way he said it — like he hadn’t stood in front of hundreds of people less than a year ago, vowing his love and commitment to us. Like he was some kind of role model. The kind of man Anna should admire. The kind of man she should someday choose.

I wanted off the phone. Immediately.

“I’ll see you when you get back,” I heard myself say.

I hung up.

I sat completely still. No movement. No breath. Just the sound of tires buzzing past on the highway next to me.

I was stunned.

But also — unmistakably — relieved.

It was over.

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Over the Edge, Into Myself

I moved through the motions. Signed the waiver. Watched the safety video. Smiled politely and exchanged pleasantries with the family of three I was sharing the helicopter experience with.

A ground crew member ushered us onto the tarmac. I ducked under the blades, climbed into the front seat next to the pilot, and buckled in. He handed me a headset.

After a quick briefing, we all gave a thumbs up.

The engine roared to life.

We lifted from the ground.

At first, I tried to take in the landscape — the lush coastline receding, the deep greens of the island giving way to black, scorched earth as we flew toward Hawaiʻi Volcanoes National Park.

But the anger was coming.

Thick and hot, rising up through my chest and into my throat.

The pilot was narrating — something about lava tubes and ancient flows — but all I could hear was a replay of our conversation.

I’m with Holly. She is supportive of our relationship. We’ll be good co-parents.

The sheer fucking audacity.

I gritted my teeth. His success and wealth had enabled him to move through the world like rules were for other people. Like we were all just orbiting his gravity.

Even on our wedding night, I’d walked up just in time to hear him telling a group of guests how much he’d spent on the whole thing. Even her dress, he said, throwing his arm around me. Everyone chuckled, uncomfortable.

I swallowed hard, blinking out the window as we curved inland.

The pilot pointed out lava rivers from the last eruption. My body was shaking.

I hated how he peacocked — always dressing and optimizing for attention. Always scanning for the next admirer.

But what I hated most — what turned my stomach bitter — was how he positioned himself as the kind of man Anna should look up to. Like he was the example.

That was it. The fault line that finally gave way.

Because if she deserved more, someone so much better — why the hell didn’t I believe that for me?

We banked north.

The Kohala Coast came into view — raw and staggering. Waterfalls spilled from thousand-foot cliffs, ribbons of white unraveling against black rock and lush emerald chasms. The sunlight skipped across the ocean like it had something urgent to say.

That’s when the tears came.

They weren’t graceful. But they were grateful.

I cried for the version of me who thought love had to be earned.

I cried for the way I had shrunk to the size of one of his accessories.

I cried because I’d been handed this wild, exquisite life — and had spent too much of it trying to be enough for someone who never cared for anything but himself.

But I also cried for something else.

A truth that cracked wide open in that sky-splitting moment:

I was never unworthy. I just kept swimming in waters that demanded I prove it.

I thought back to the tiger sharks. How powerful they were. How close they’d come. And how no one had forced me to stay in that water. I had chosen it.

But I didn’t need to stay and endure the danger.

I could claim my worth by walking away from what was trying to take it.

I wiped my face.

And then I made a promise — to myself, and to my daughter:

I would show her not how to stay and shrink for the sake of appearances, or out of fear of being judged — but how to walk away with dignity. How to name a mistake without shame. How not to numb or escape the pain, but to stand in the wreckage and still choose to rebuild.

I would show her what it looks like to ask for help. What it means to tell the truth. How to hold your own hand through heartbreak. How to find your way back to yourself after you’ve been lost.

I would show her that a beautiful life isn’t measured by how polished it looks — but by how free it feels. How honest. How peaceful. How full of laughter. And warmth. And adventure.

I would show her that life is beautiful not because it’s perfect — but because it’s yours.

.

And that’s exactly what I did.

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