Batch 87 — Paje at Perigee

Thursday, first light. The perigee moon set at 5:41 and the lagoon emptied like a held breath released. Fourteen of us went out in blue — the colour the lineage has worn at harvest for as long as anyone remembers, the colour of deep water against the sky — and by seven the baskets were already heavy.

The shelves east of the sandbank gave the best moss: thick-fronded, copper-gold, snapping clean at the stem the way it only does in the two days around the full pull. Asha, who is carrying her first child, walked the shallow channel and gathered only what her hands told her was ready. This is how the next generation learns — the unborn child at the harvest before it can walk.

We lay the moss on coconut fronds above the tide line and let the afternoon sun begin the cure. No ovens, no fans, no hurry. The wind off the ocean does what machinery cannot: it dries the moss slowly enough that the minerals stay bound in the frond.

By Sunday evening the batch was washed in spring water, blended cold, and poured. Batch 87 filled fewer jars than we hoped — the best harvests always do. What the ocean gives in quality, it withholds in quantity. We have never once argued with the ocean about this.