This fictional story was written in response to the recent Request for Information (RFI) to begin deep sea mining near the Mariana Trench, one of the most unique and fragile ecosystems on Earth, and my ancestral backyard. It follows the beats of every Hallmark Christmas movie ever made, where someone from the city goes to the countryside and has a change of heart thanks to the power of Christmas. I had fun writing it.
For those who want to learn more about this complex issue without the power of the Christmas Spirit, Friends of the Mariana Trench created a resource document to help the community understand the science, economics, and cultural implications of mining in the Trench. We encourage our followers to participate in the public comment period. The most impactful thing you can do is write a unique comment and submit it to the federal register. You can also sign our petition for individuals and our letter for organizations.
Chapter One
The plane touched down at 2:07 a.m., its wheels kissing the tarmac with a muted thud. As the engines wound down, silence settled—a silence so complete it felt sacred. No roar of traffic, no hum of city life. Just the whisper of palm fronds in the night breeze and the distant sigh of waves. Miller felt the weight of it press against her chest, a reminder that she was far from Washington, DC, far from everything familiar.
When the cabin doors opened, the island’s breath rushed in. The air was warm—shockingly warm—and thick with humidity, wrapping around her like a damp blanket. She stepped onto the metal stairs and inhaled deeply. The scent hit her like a revelation: salty and sweet, like a perfume distilled from ocean spray and blooming flowers, but dense, almost tangible, as if she could drink it. It clung to her skin, seeped into her lungs, and for a moment, she felt dizzy, intoxicated by the island.
The terminal was small, quiet, its fluorescent lights casting pale halos on the polished floor. The handful of late night travelers shuffled toward baggage claim, their voices hushed, as if afraid to disturb the night. Miller wheeled her suitcase past a row of plastic chairs and paused by the glass doors that opened to the humid dark.
That’s when she saw her.
The most graceful blue cat sat just beyond the threshold, perfectly still, her green eyes gleaming like twin lanterns. It was too poised, too deliberate—watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. For a heartbeat, Miller felt absurdly certain that the cat knew her name, knew why she had come. Her tail flicked once, slow and deliberate, before she turned and padded into the shadows.
Miller exhaled, shaking off the chill that had crept up her spine. It was just a cat, she told herself. Just a cat.
But as she stepped into the night, the perfume-thick air closing around her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the island was aware—and that something, someone, was waiting.
Chapter Two
When dawn broke, she felt hollow-eyed and brittle, her body heavy with fatigue. Still, she dressed carefully: navy suit, crisp blouse, hair pinned back. Confidence was armor, and she wore it well. As she walked into the government building, the air smelled faintly of salt and disinfectant, and the walls were lined with faded photographs of the faces of the young territory's governors going back to the 1970s.
The meeting room was small, its fluorescent lights buzzing faintly. A long table stretched between her and the governor’s cabinet, their faces carved from stone. Miller set up her laptop, her slides glowing with promises: economic growth, jobs, infrastructure. She spoke with precision, her voice steady, her arguments polished. She told them about the minerals waiting in the Mariana Trench, about renewable energy, about how this deal would put Saipan on the map. She was from the Bureau of Ocean Energy Management, and she was here to help.
She expected nods, maybe cautious optimism. After all, she’d been told these islands leaned conservative, that they loved Donald Trump, that they respected strength and ambition. She thought they would see her as a messenger of opportunity.
Instead, silence.
Representative Santos leaned forward, his eyes dark and unblinking. “You want to rip up the bottom of the ocean,” he said. His voice was low, but it carried the weight of centuries. “The Trench is sacred. It is not for sale.”
Miller blinked, thrown off balance. “We’re talking about responsible development,” she began, but her words felt thin, brittle. “This is about the future.”
“The future?” Santos’s voice rose, sharp as coral. “Our future is the ocean. Our future is our children knowing the spirits of the deep. You do not understand.”
Miller felt the room tilt, her confidence cracking like glass. This was not what she expected. Not at all.
Chapter Three
Vendors lined the sidewalks, their stalls fragrant with smoke and spice. Grilled chicken skewers sizzled over open flames, their juices dripping onto glowing coals. Nearby, steaming bowls of noodles beckoned, their surfaces glistening with oil and flecks of green onion. Miller’s stomach growled, but she kept walking, absorbing the scene like a sponge. Neon signs flickered above doorways, their letters curling in an Asian script she couldn’t read—Japanese? Korean? Chinese? She wasn’t sure. She remembered the promise she’d made to herself after watching K-Pop Demon Hunters on a lonely Friday night: to learn more about Asian cultures. She wasn’t expecting it here, but maybe Saipan was her chance. She already felt out of her depth.
She had expected something like Hawaii, where she’d vacationed years ago—a glossy postcard of leis and luaus, resorts and mai tais. But Saipan was different. It had its own rhythm, its own soul. It was as different from Hawaii as California is from Florida: both islands, yes, but worlds apart in character. Here, the air was heavier, the streets narrower, the history deeper, layered with scars and stories she didn’t yet understand.
Miller paused at a corner where a group of children sang carols in Chamorro, their voices high and sweet, carrying words she couldn’t translate but somehow felt. She watched them sway under lanterns shaped like stars, and for a moment, she felt a pang—a sharp, unexpected longing for home. For fall leaves, cherry blossoms, and cold air that bit her cheeks. For the familiar hum of DC’s beltway.
But here, the hum was different. Softer. Older. And as she turned toward her hotel, she realized the island wasn’t trying to impress her. It was simply being itself.
Chapter Four
Miller smiled softly and slid into a chair by a small table.
“What’s a local breakfast like?” she asked, scanning the menu.
The waitress shrugged. “Fried Spam and rice. That’s what most folks eat.”
Miller hesitated. “Is there… something more traditional?”
The woman’s eyes twinkled. “I’ll bring you something you’ll like.”
Minutes later, Miller stared at a spread that looked like a painting: a plate of fried reef fish, their golden skins crisp and glistening; a mound of garlic rice fragrant with oil; slices of ripe papaya arranged like orange petals, crowned with a wedge of tiny lime—calamansi, the waitress explained. Beside it sat a small dish of dark dipping sauce. “Finadeni,” she said. “Soy, vinegar, onions, a little chili. Goes with everything.”
Then came the pièce de résistance: a plate of sliced raw tuna, ruby-red and glistening like polished stone. “Delivered by a local fisherman fifteen minutes ago,” the waitress said proudly. “Freshest fish you’ll ever taste.”
Miller picked up a piece, dipped it lightly in finadeni, and let it melt on her tongue. It was like tasting the ocean itself—clean, rich, alive. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment.
“Hey,” a voice said, warm and amused. “Fish looks good this morning.”
Miller turned. A man in flip flops stood in the doorway, dripping seawater onto the tile. His hair was slicked back, his skin bronzed, a Washington Nationals T-shirt clinging to his chest. He looked like he’d just stepped out of the ocean—and he had.
“Went for an early swim,” he said, sliding into the small table beside her. “Around the old Japanese tanks in the lagoon.”
Miller blinked. “Japanese tanks?”
He grinned. “From World War II. They’re down there in the water, rusting away. Good place to clear your head.”
Miller smiled, suddenly aware of the salt still clinging to his skin, the easy confidence in his voice.
“You’re a Nationals fan?” Miller asked, surprised.
The man grinned. “Since ever since. Name’s Halu’u.”
Miller introduced herself, and for the first time since arriving, she felt a spark of connection. They talked baseball—the 2019 World Series and those damn cheating Astros. Halu’u’s laughter was warm, easy, like waves lapping against a shore.
When Rufus leapt off the counter and curled between them, Halu’u scratched the cat’s ears. “Careful,” he said with a wink. “She’s not what she seems.”
Chapter Five
Miller slipped into a table in the far corner, craving anonymity. She ordered a drink—a rum and Coke—and let her eyes wander. The walls were plastered with a mix of mismatched memorabilia: old mafia photos, movie posters, dusty trophies, and snapshots of smiling locals from days long past.
The door swung open, and a wave of laughter rolled in with a crowd of locals. They filled the room with energy, their voices bright against the muted hum of the bar. Among them was Halu’u, his hair tied back in a bun, a giant smile glowing under the dim lights. He spotted Miller instantly.
“Hey, Nats fan,” he called out, waving from the bar. “How’s your trip?”
Miller laughed, surprised by the warmth in his voice. “Complicated,” she admitted.
“Then you’re in the right place,” Halu’u said, pointing at a stool. “Come join us.”
Miller hesitated, then slid into the circle of friends. Names flew around like confetti—Tasi, Lina, Mateo—and soon she was laughing, sipping rum, and listening to stories about casinos, typhoons, fishing trips, and local politics. The hours melted away like ice in her glass.
Later, a local band set up in the corner, their guitars filling the air with a rhythm that felt like the heartbeat of the island. Miller found herself on the dance floor, moving awkwardly at first, then freely, her laughter mingling with the music. For the first time since arriving, she felt light, unburdened.
As the night deepened, Halu’u leaned close, his voice low but steady. “Tomorrow,” he said, “let me show you the real Saipan.”
Miller smiled, breathless from dancing. “Deal.”
The next day, Halu’u kept his promise. He drove her north to Marpi, where cliffs plunged into sapphire seas, and the wind carried whispers of history. Then to Obyan Beach, his favorite—a crescent of white sand cradled by jungle, where the water shimmered like liquid glass. Miller stood barefoot at the edge of the tide, the ocean curling around her toes, and felt something shift inside her—a loosening, a quiet awe.
That evening, they sat on a beach as the sun melted into the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson.
“This is what you’re asking us to risk,” Halu’u said quietly. “The ocean is not just water. It is our history, our spirit. The Trench is where our ancestors rest.”
Miller stared at the sea, its surface shimmering like diamonds. For the first time, she felt the weight of what she was trying to do.
Chapter Six
Long tables stretched under a canopy, groaning under the weight of food. Platters of red rice glistened like embers, bowls of chicken kelaguen sparkled with citrus and chili, and whole reef fish lay on banana leaves. There were trays of pancit noodles tangled with vegetables, heaps of taro and cassava, and baskets of fresh breadfruit chips. Coolers brimmed with endless cans of beer, their tops popping like fireworks as hands reached for another round. Everywhere, people laughed—deep, belly laughter that rolled like waves.
Miller stood at the edge, momentarily overwhelmed. She had been to Christmas parties before, but this was something else—a celebration that felt older than Christmas itself, rooted in family and land and sea. Halu’u appeared at her side, grinning. “Welcome to the fiesta,” he said, guiding her toward the tables. “Eat. Drink. Dance. Tonight, you’re family.”
She sat among strangers who treated her like a cousin, passing plates and pouring drinks. Miller noticed a quiet ritual unfolding near the elders seated at the head of the table. Younger guests approached, bent low, and pressed their noses gently against the elders’ hands. She watched, curious, until Halu’u explained.
“It’s called Nginge’,” he explained softly. “A Chamorro custom. You show respect by greeting your elders this way—nose to hand. It’s more than politeness. It’s about connection and receiving a blessing. About remembering who came before us.”
Miller nodded, feeling the weight of his words. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
Halu’u smiled. “Respect is everything here. For our elders, for our ancestors, for the ocean that feeds us. Without it, we lose who we are.”
The music swelled—ukuleles, guitars, voices rising in harmony—and soon Miller was on her feet, her laughter mingling with theirs. She looked around—the laughter, the music, the endless plates of food—and felt something stir inside her. This wasn’t just a party. It was a living tapestry of memory and meaning, woven from threads she was only beginning to understand.
And somewhere in the shadows, Rufus purred, her green eyes catching the light and tail curling like a question mark, as if to say: You’re learning.
Chapter Seven
She groaned, splashed water on her face, and set up her laptop on the small desk by the window. Outside, the island shimmered under a sky so blue it looked unreal, but inside, the glow of the screen pulled her back into Washington’s orbit—a world of deadlines and fluorescent lights.
The call connected, and her boss’s face filled the screen: Manky McJankie, sharp-eyed and immaculate in a tailored blazer, with a framed photograph of the president peering down over her shoulder. But what caught Miller off guard was the hat perched on Manky’s head—a bright red cap with bold white letters: MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.
Miller blinked, unsure if it was a joke. It wasn’t. Manky adjusted the brim with casual confidence, her expression cool and commanding.
“Miller,” Manky said briskly, “how’s Saipan?”
Miller forced a smile. “Beautiful. Warm. The people are… welcoming.”
Manky’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Good. Because we need this deal locked down before Christmas. The Secretary wants a press release ready by the 23rd.”
Miller hesitated. “It’s… complicated. The local government isn’t convinced. They see the Mariana Trench as sacred.”
Manky’s expression hardened beneath the red hat. “Sacred doesn’t pay for schools or hospitals. Minerals do. You know what’s at stake—national security, renewable energy, global competition. China’s already moving on deep-sea mining. We can’t afford delays.”
Miller nodded, her stomach knotting. “I understand. I just think we need more time to build trust.”
Manky leaned forward, the MAGA letters casting a shadow across her forehead. Her voice dropped to a tone that brooked no argument. “Time is a luxury we don’t have. You were chosen because you can close. So close.”
Miller swallowed hard. “I’ll do my best.”
“Do better than that,” Manky said. “And remember—show strength. Show them what we’re offering is power.”
The call ended with a click, leaving Miller staring at her own reflection on the black screen. Her face looked pale, drawn, as if the island’s warmth had been drained away. Outside, palm fronds swayed in the breeze, indifferent to Washington’s urgency.
She closed the laptop and pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. The ocean stretched endless and blue, its surface shimmering like silk. Somewhere beneath that calm lay the Mariana Trench—vast, unknowable, alive. And for the first time, Miller wondered if power was really what these people needed… or what she had come here to take.
Chapter Eight
They slipped into the water, the chill biting at first, then softening into a cool embrace. Miller’s breath echoed in her ears as she adjusted her mask, bubbles spiraling upward like silver beads. The cavern walls loomed around them, ancient and silent, their surfaces etched over eons. Fish flickered in the shafts of light—tiny sparks in an underwater cathedral.
Halu’u gestured toward a spot of underwater light in the distance. Miller followed, her fins brushing against the limestone as they glided through the narrow passage. The water grew darker, cooler, the light thinning until it felt like swimming through ink. Her pulse quickened. Then, suddenly, the tunnel widened, and they burst into the open ocean.
Miller froze, suspended in a world so vast it stole her breath. She had seen many blues on this trip—the soft blue of the lagoon at sunrise, the bright blue sky filled with puffy white clouds—but this was different. This was a color beyond language. The purest blue she had ever seen. Saipan blue, she thought. A blue that belonged to no map, no empire. A blue that belonged only to the sea.
And then the sharks appeared.
The first glided past like a shadow—sleek, elegant, its fins tipped in black like strokes of ink. It moved with a grace that felt almost regal, indifferent to her presence. Then another emerged from the blue, its white-tipped fins curling upward as if sharing a private joke with the ocean. Miller felt a laugh bubble in her chest, absurd and breathless. And then came the third—a gray reef shark, curious and deliberate, circling her with eyes that held no malice, only wonder. Her heart hammered, but Halu’u’s scratched out a note on his underwater pad: “They’re just saying hello.”
Near the sandy floor, something caught her eye—a giant clam, its shell ridged and weathered, as big as a watermelon. Its lips were parted, revealing a mantle of iridescent blues and greens, shimmering like silk. She hovered above it, awed by its stillness, its quiet claim to eternity.
When they surfaced, the world felt sharper, brighter. They climbed the 116 steps out of the cave, dripping and exhilarated, and made their way to the pickup truck parked under a canopy of ironwood trees. The tailgate was down, a makeshift table laden with foil-wrapped parcels of grilled chicken and steaming garlic rice. Halu’u handed her a plate, the aroma rich and smoky, and they ate with their fingers, the salt of the sea still clinging to their skin.
Between bites, Halu’u spoke of history—of how Chamorro ancestors navigated these waters long before maps existed, guided by stars and swells, by the language of birds and the whispers of the wind. “The ocean isn’t just where we live,” he said, his voice low and steady. “It’s who we are. Every wave carries a story. Every current remembers.”
Miller listened, the taste of lime and charred meat on her tongue, and felt something shift inside her—a loosening, a quiet awe. The Mariana Trench wasn’t a resource. It was a relative. And she was beginning to understand.
From the shadows of the trees, Rufus watched, her green eyes gleaming like lanterns, her tail curling in silent approval.
Chapter Nine
The streets were quiet, washed in the soft gold of sunrise. When she pushed open the café door, a bell chimed faintly, but no voices answered. The room was eerily still. No clatter of dishes, no hum of conversation. Just silence, thick and expectant, as if the café itself were holding its breath.
Miller stepped inside, her heels clicking softly on the worn wooden floor. The murals of whales seemed to shimmer in the dim light, their painted eyes watching her. She glanced toward the counter—and froze.
Rufus was there.
The blue cat sat perfectly still on the polished wood, her green eyes glowing like lanterns in the half-light. She didn’t blink. She didn’t move. She simply watched her, and Miller felt the prickle of something ancient, something vast, crawling up her spine.
Then the air shimmered.
It was subtle at first—a ripple, like heat rising from asphalt—but then Rufus’s form blurred, fur dissolving into mist, eyes burning brighter, emerald fire in the quiet gloom. Miller stumbled back, her breath catching in her throat.
A voice filled the room, soft as the tide, deep as the Mariana Trench: “The ocean is alive. It remembers. You must choose respect.”
The words vibrated through her bones, through the floor, through the silence that wrapped the café like a shroud. She wanted to speak, to ask what this meant, but her tongue felt heavy, her voice swallowed by awe.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.
Rufus was a cat again, licking her paw with casual indifference, as if nothing had happened. Miller stood trembling, her heart pounding like surf against rock. Had she imagined it? Was she losing her mind? Or had the island finally decided to speak?
Before she could move, music crackled to life—a soft island melody drifting from hidden speakers, warm and human. A door swung open behind the counter, and the waitress appeared, smiling as if the world had always been ordinary.
“Morning!” she chirped, tying an apron around her waist. “Sit wherever you want. I’ll be right with you.”
Miller nodded numbly and slid into her usual table, her hands still shaking. Outside, the sun climbed higher, painting the streets in gold. Inside, Rufus curled on the counter, her tail flicking lazily, her green eyes half-closed.
Chapter Ten
Miller paused at the entrance, taking it all in. People were dressed in a dazzling mix of styles: Spanish-inspired skirts swishing beside American Christmas sweaters, Santa hats perched on heads crowned with hibiscus flowers, and traditional Pacific islander prints mingling with sequined dresses. Some wore jewelry carved from bone and shell, their necklaces gleaming under the fluorescent lights. It was a living mosaic of cultures—Spanish, American, Chamorro, Carolinian, Filipino, Japanese, Korean—all woven together in celebration.
The caroling contest was already underway. High school choirs stood in neat rows on the stage, their voices soaring in harmonies that shifted from English carols to Chamorro hymns to Tagalog ballads. Each group brought its own flair—some danced as they sang, others wore costumes glittering with tinsel and shells. Miller felt the music wash over her like waves, warm and rhythmic, carrying stories older than the island itself.
Along the back wall, tables groaned under mountains of food. Local restaurants had catered the event, and the spread was a feast for the senses: Chinese stir-fried noodles tangled with vegetables, Filipino lumpia stacked like golden cigars, Korean bulgogi glistening with sesame seeds, Japanese sushi rolls arranged like jewels, and Thai curries steaming in Styrofoam containers. People ate with gusto—forks clinking against plastic plates, chopsticks darting like dragonflies, fingers tearing into skewers of grilled meat. The air was thick with aromas: soy and ginger, coconut and lime, smoke and sugar.
Miller wandered toward the tables, her stomach rumbling, and Halu’u appeared at her side, grinning. “Hungry?” he asked, handing her a container brimming with pancit noodles, barbecued chicken, and a wedge of calamansi lime.
She laughed. “Starving.”
They sat on the edge of the bleachers, eating with their fingers, and Miller felt something loosen inside her—a sense of ease, of belonging. Around them, laughter rolled like surf, and the music swelled as another choir took the stage, their voices weaving English and Chamorro into a melody that shimmered like light on water.
Miller glanced across the gym and froze. At a table near the stage sat the cabinet members—the same stern faces from the meeting earlier in the week. But tonight, they were smiling, clapping, passing plates of food. When their eyes met hers, they nodded warmly, and Miller felt a flicker of surprise. No tension. No suspicion. Just welcome.
Halu’u leaned close, his voice low but steady. “This is what matters here,” he said, gesturing to the singers, the elders, the children twirling in the aisles. “Family. Community. Respect. It’s not about power or money. It’s about belonging.”
Miller nodded slowly, her chest tightening with something she couldn’t name. Belonging. She had chased it all her life—in boardrooms, in cities, in the hollow glow of screens—but here, in this gym filled with laughter and song, she felt it for the first time.
As the final choir finished and the crowd erupted in cheers, Miller felt the sting of salty tears in her eyes. She thought of the ocean, of Saipan blue, of sharks gliding through the deep like guardians. She thought of Rufus, her emerald eyes burning in the quiet café. And she understood, suddenly and completely, what this island had been trying to teach her: that respect was not a rule, but a way of life. That stewardship was not policy, but love.
When the contest ended, people spilled into the night, carrying Styrofoam containers and laughter under the stars. Miller walked beside Halu’u, the cool breeze lifting strands of her hair, and felt lighter than she had in years. For the first time, she wasn’t just visiting Saipan. She was part of it.
Chapter Eleven
Halu’u picked her up in his truck, the same one they had sat on after the Grotto dive, eating grilled chicken and talking about stars. He was quiet at first, humming along to a Chamorro song on the radio, until Miller broke the silence.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said carefully. “About everything you told me. About respect.”
Halu’u smiled faintly, his eyes on the road. “Respect is the root of everything here. For the land, the sea, the people who came before us.”
Miller nodded, then hesitated. “You never told me much about your family.”
Halu’u chuckled softly. “That’s because it’s a long story.” He glanced at her, his grin widening. “I’m married.”
Miller blinked, startled. “Married?”
“Six kids,” he added, laughing at her expression. “Big family. That’s how we do it here.”
Miller laughed too, though something inside her twisted—a pang she hadn’t expected. “Your wife must be amazing.”
“She is,” Halu’u said, his voice dropping to something almost reverent. “Her name is Rufus.”
Miller froze. “Rufus? Like… the cat?”
Halu’u’s grin turned enigmatic. “Not just a cat. Rufus is a spirit. Sometimes she takes that form. Sometimes another. She’s older than these islands, older than the ocean itself. She thinks my hair is sexy so we got married. And she’s been following you since you landed. She’s why I talked to you at the cafe”
Miller stared at him, words tangled in her throat. She thought of the café, the shimmer in the air, the voice that had spoken like the tide. Suddenly, everything made sense—and nothing did.
Before she could speak, they arrived at the municipal building. The cabinet was waiting.
The room felt different this time. Warmer. The faces that had once been carved from stone now softened with curiosity. Mayor Lani smiled as Miller entered, and Santos nodded, his eyes less guarded. Around the table sat the same officials she had seen at the caroling contest, their laughter still echoing in her memory.
Miller stood at the head of the table, her hands steady on the wood. No laptop. No slides. Just her voice.
“I came here with a certain perspective,” she began, her tone clear but gentle. “I thought I knew what was best for these islands. I thought deep sea mining was the answer. But in the past two weeks, I’ve learned more than I ever expected—about your history, your values, your connection to the ocean.”
She paused, letting the silence settle like sand on the seabed.
“The Mariana Trench isn’t just a resource. It’s a relative. It’s part of your identity, your spirit. And I understand now that any plan we make must honor that.”
She outlined a new vision — one she co-designed in her long conversations with Halu’u — not extraction, but collaboration. Research partnerships. Cultural protections. Stewardship rooted in respect. A model that blended science with Indigenous knowledge, ensuring the ocean remained whole.
When she finished, the room was silent. Then Santos leaned forward, his voice low but steady.
“Now,” he said, “we can talk.”
Miller exhaled, a weight lifting from her chest. Outside, the sea stretched endless and blue, its depths untouched, its spirits at peace.
And somewhere—maybe in the shadows of the café, maybe in the curl of a wave—Rufus watched, her green eyes gleaming like secrets, her tail flicking in silent approval.
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