We got goose pimples all over our bare bodies as the realisation of what we had done hit us. First, there was this tingling sensation of fear. We would be completely out of contact with the world from now on — shortly after breakfast to a little before sunset. We’d been told that the island was uninhabited and that there were no man-eating beasts in it, but we did know that the ancient forests of these islands held many creepy-crawly creatures that?could inflict painful bites and stings. That knowledge had caused the first tingle of fear. Until now, the fear had been replaced by elation/excitement, even ecstasy. An old friend, a naval psychologist, had told us to expect these reactions. “You are seeking out danger as mountaineers and all extreme-sports competitors do. Fear will give you your kicks: that is why you are doing it!” He was partially right, but there was more to it than just ‘kicks’ .

As travel writers, we knew that the humans’ unique urge to spread across the globe was a genetic compulsion. From knuckle-walking creatures, we had stood erect. This had strained our spines, put a burden on our hips, but we were now able to go for greater distances, spot approaching danger and distant sources of food, water and shelter. But, beyond extending the range of our five senses, we had also developed a sixth sense: Empathy. It is a combination of Experience, illuminated by Imagination, trimmed and strengthened by Logic.

Gene Roddenberry, creator of that superb interplanetary travel series, Star Trek, had created a character who was an Empath. She could not speak in myriad tongues, but she could sense the circumstances that prompted others to do what they did. She could cut through the apparent reasons to see the real ones. We believe that women, for various environmental and evolutionary reasons, are more likely to exercise this sense than men are.

We had strolled a few metres down the broad beach, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun on our bare bodies, when we saw it. Snagged on a large, multi-branched, chunk of driftwood, was a beautiful translucent tube. It was about two metres long and it shimmered as the wind caught it. One of us reached out to touch it.

“Stop! It’s a snake’s skin!”

“Wow! That is one monster snake — a python. Hope it’s not lurking in the forest waiting for us! “

“It’s not from here.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because there’s not enough for it to eat on this island. Besides, why would a snake come to the shore to shed its skin? A snake is most vulnerable then. The beach is too exposed. It would have been attacked by sea birds when it was weak and waiting for its new skin to dry.”

“Where did you learn all that?”

“Empathy! We inherit it from our mothers’ mitochondria!”

The discussion was getting too technical. We moved on. And then, male logic was able to prevail. We had come to a very broad stretch of gently shelving beach where the thin surf line moved it gently. Accompanying it, as busy as the safai squad, was a busy posse of tiny crabs.

“Why do crabs run sideways?”

“Because they want a good meal.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Everything. These tiny crabs dine off the jetsam brought in by the surf. The surf line is horizontal, not vertical. It stretches from side to side, not from top to bottom, as the crags run from side to side.”

The sun was fairly high in the sky, so we carried our packed lunch and found a cooler spot. Glistening, wet rocks rose out of the sea here and mudskippers climbed onto them, using their dorsal fins like feet, adjusted their pop-eyes to the surface, and began to breathe in air.

“Evolution’s still at work.”

“So why isn’t politics evolving?”

“Didn’t empathy for the deprived dethrone the great White Dinosaur?”

Empathy is the survival sense that penetrates the settling haze of space and time. Out of the gathering sea mist, our ferry appeared, put-putting in to end our perceptive marooning in the Andaman Sea.