Low tide, four minutes past six in the morning. The reef flat breaks the surface, and the island opens the back garden it has kept hidden half the day. Walk out barefoot a few hundred metres and the tide pools are full of stranded lodgers: hermit crabs changing houses, a clownfish fretting in a small pool of water, a starfish spread open into the shape of a slow, unhurried word. The best hour for a walk on the island, the butler says — a two-hour lease, and it waits for no one past its time.
Flood tide, ten in the morning. The water begins to take the reef flat back, inch by inch, as though someone were slowly laying out a blue tablecloth. This is the hour for snorkelling — the fresh-risen water brings the cool of the open sea and the shoals of fish, and the visibility is at its best. Along the house reef, the current nudges you gently towards shore; even swimming is a favour granted by the tide.
High tide, half past one in the afternoon. When the sea is at its fullest, the island looks smallest, the loungers only a few steps from the waves. A time fit for doing nothing at all: the sea has filled everything, and one need only lie beside it, and be a footnote.
Ebb tide, five in the evening. The water withdraws, the beach growing wider by the minute, like a slow curtain call. The wet sand laid bare is a mirror, replaying the sunset exactly as it is. The dinner table is set out on this ever-widening stage.
Low tide, eleven at night. From the distant reef edge comes the muffled boom of the waves; nearby, all is quiet. The butler has left a lamp and a note: “Low tide at 6:50 tomorrow. Your back garden opens on time.”
That note summed up the day: on the island, time is not arranged for you; it is lent to you by the tide.