Society Man

Manny got off the spaceport shuttle in the heart of Papeete and checked into the cheapest hotel on Scooter Bay. A quick change into shorts and a clean T-shirt and he headed out onto New Tahiti's famous beach boardwalk. He looked just like a university student vacationing on the cheap, which was partly true.

On his right, copper sand stretched to turquoise water. On his left, lush lawns and tropical gardens rimmed hotels and mansions. Strolling between parallel lines of golden-leafed sacred palm, he gazed with all the nonchalance his 24 years could muster at the crowds of beautiful women drifting along the boardwalk and sunbathing on the beach. He just hoped his sunglasses kept him from looking like a complete dork.

As he opened his notebook for the first interview of the afternoon, Manny was being watched. Had he not followed the flight of an indigenous vermilion gull as it passed over the boardwalk, he would have missed her. She was standing on a nearby hillock leaning against a tree looking straight at him.

Her piercing green eyes sparkled from a full face framed by strawberry-blond, shoulder length hair. Manny's palms began to sweat. She was wearing a loose fitting pale blue top and ankle-length floral sarong. Here feet were tanned and bare, as were her long arms and fine shoulders. Manny stopped breathing. She smiled-just for a second-and disappeared down the backside of the hill.

Manny sucked in a long lung full of air. He blinked hard a couple of times, plopped himself down on a park bench and began scribbling in his notebook.

Manny is a writer. Or, at least, that his latest occupation goal, something to keep him busy in his off-hours. The goddess vignette was just one of many he'd put to paper in the last few weeks. With a parting glance at the empty hillock, Manny got back to work.

At several spots along Scooter Bay, the boardwalk climbs low hills where gaggles of eco-tourists with cheap binoculars gather to scan the sea and sky for exotic species. Manny ignored them. He was looking for naturalists, that hardcore breed of amateur scientist. They were few but easy to spot-always off to the side, hunched over expensive, computer-assisted opti-scopes.

Naturalists, he knew, love to talk. And as they chatted on, Manny took notes using an old fashion pencil and notepad. That old-fashioned act of physically writing never failed to impress. He recorded their rambling stories about the plumage of the fluorescent nightjar, the hunting tactics of the barking shark, and other local oddities. But, he always steered the conversation to scooters and scudas. They were why he'd come.

He worked his way along the boardwalk from one observation point to the next, talking and writing, following to a set schedule. He wanted to arrive at the Blue Lagoon lounge just ahead of the evening crowd so he could get a rail-side table on the top terrace. He got the last good table.