Island Divorce Club

The Adriatic Sea sparkled like a million tiny divorces, each wave a little “fuck you” to the men they’d left behind.

Mia believed this with her whole heart as she gripped the ferry’s railing, the salt spray misting her face, and tried very hard not to vomit onto the pristine deck of the Jadrolinija ferry. The wind was whipping her carefully tousled hair into something that resembled a distressed bird’s nest, and her stomach was currently engaged in what felt like a mutinous rebellion against the three glasses of prosecco she’d drunk at 4 a.m. to celebrate finally leaving.

Leaving. Such a clean word. It implied a choice, a deliberate act of departure. What she’d actually done was flee. She’d fled Zagreb, fled her now-ex-husband’s bewildered face, fled the apartment with its awkwardly divided bookshelves and the lingering smell of his stupid cologne that she’d once loved and now associated with betrayal. She’d fled with a suitcase full of clothes that were all wrong for an island summer, a job that consisted of yelling at hotels on behalf of stressed-out British tourists, and a piece of paper that said she was legally allowed to start over.

The divorce decree was currently zipped into the inside pocket of her handbag, pressed against her passport like a secret weapon. Or a suicide note. She hadn’t decided which.

She fumbled in her bag, past the tangle of charging cables and a squashed packet of paprika chips, and located the travel-size bottle of rakija she’d bought at the ferry terminal out of pure, unthinking patriotism. It was plum, the good kind. The kind her grandmother used to make that could strip paint and cure heartbreak in equal measure. She twisted off the cap, took a discreet but substantial swig, and felt the liquid fire carve a path down her throat and into her rebellious stomach.

The fire won. The stomach quieted. For now.

She turned from the railing and collided with a woman.

For a moment, they were just a tangle of apologies and awkward laughter, the way people are on public transport when they accidentally become intimate. Then Mia registered the woman fully, and the woman registered Mia, and they both registered the small bottle of rakija now clutched between them like a shared secret.

The woman was immaculate. That was Mia’s first and most overwhelming impression. In a world of ferry chaos and wind-whipped passengers, this woman looked like she’d just stepped out of a Milanese fashion shoot. Her white linen dress was miraculously uncrumpled, her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek, complicated knot that Mia’s fingers could never replicate, and her sunglasses probably cost more than Mia’s monthly salary. She was holding a leather tote that looked both effortlessly stylish and aggressively expensive, and in her other hand, she was clutching... a travel-size bottle of rakija.

Pear, by the look of it.

“I’m so sorry,” Mia said, stepping back. “I wasn’t looking. The sea, you know. It’s very... sea-y.”

The woman pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, revealing dark, intelligent eyes that were currently surveying Mia with an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and mild horror at the state of Mia’s hair.

“It’s fine,” the woman said. Her accent was Italian, refined, the kind of voice that probably ordered coffee in Milanese cafes and got exactly what she wanted. “I was also distracted. By the existential dread.”

Mai blinked. “The what?”

The woman gestured vaguely at the sea, at the disappearing coastline behind them, at the sky. “The leaving. The arriving. The what-have-I-done of it all.” She looked down at the rakija bottle in her hand, then at Mia’s. “We seem to have had the same idea.”

Mia held up her bottle. “Plum. My grandmother’s recipe. Medicinal.”

The Italian woman held up hers. “Pear. My ex-husband’s favorite. I brought it to drink in his honor.” She paused. “By which I mean, to drink in spite of him.”

A bond, thin and fragile as a spider’s web but unmistakably there, stretched between them on the windy ferry deck.

“I’m Mia,” Mia said.

“Sofia.” The woman extended a perfectly manicured hand. They shook, and for a moment, two divorced women in their mid-thirties stood on a Croatian ferry, holding tiny bottles of fruit brandy, and felt slightly less alone in the universe.

It was at that precise moment that a voice cut through the wind, serene and slightly amplified, like a yoga instructor who’d discovered a microphone.

“Ladies. I can feel your stress from across the deck. The boat is not your enemy. The waves are not your enemy. The divorce is not your enemy. Your reaction to these things is your enemy.”

Mia and Sofia turned.

The woman who had spoken was standing a few feet away, barefoot on the deck (which was a bold choice, given the temperature of the metal), her arms outstretched in what appeared to be an attempt to embrace the entire ferry. She was tall and willowy, dressed in flowing linen pants and a top that looked ethically sourced from a monastery. Her blonde hair was piled into a messy bun from which several strands had escaped to dance in the wind like benevolent spirits. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing deeply, audibly, with the kind of theatrical tranquility that made Mia want to throw her rakija bottle at her.

But when the woman opened her eyes, they weren’t preachy or judgmental. They were warm, slightly wild, and crinkled at the corners with what looked like genuine amusement. She dropped her arms and walked towards them, still barefoot, seemingly immune to the cold.

“Dunja,” she said, introducing herself with a small bow. “And before you ask, yes, I know I look like I’m about to lead a wellness retreat into a volcano. It’s a defense mechanism.”

Sofia raised an elegant eyebrow. “A defense mechanism against what?”

Dunja’s serene smile flickered, just for a moment, revealing something raw beneath. “Against the fact that my husband of ten years left me for his ashtanga student. She’s twenty-three. She can put her leg behind her head. I cannot compete with that kind of flexibility.” She looked at their rakija bottles. “Is that plum? My grandmother used to make that. She also used it to clean the windows.”

“It works,” Mia confirmed. “I’ve tried both applications.”

Dunja nodded approvingly. “May I?”

Mia handed over the bottle. Dunja took a long, un-yogic swig, closed her eyes, and exhaled with a satisfaction that was entirely worldly. “Perfect. Now I can face the island.” She handed it back. “Are you both here for the divorce tourism too? I read about it in a magazine. Apparently, Dalmatia is the new destination for women who’ve had their hearts put through a woodchipper. The sea air heals, the wine numbs, and the local men...” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Well. They’re very good at namaste.”

Sofia let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-choke. “I’m here because I booked a villa online while drunk on a Tuesday afternoon. I was supposed to go to Santorini with my husband. Our twentieth anniversary. Instead, I’m going alone, and I have to look at an island I’ve never seen and pretend I’m fine.” She took a sip of her pear rakija. “I am not fine.”

“None of us are fine,” said a new voice, flat and factual, like a weather report for misery.

The fourth woman had materialized from behind a large stack of luggage. She was shorter than the others, compact and efficient-looking, with short-cropped dark hair and glasses that were purely functional, not fashionable. She was dressed in linen trousers that had clearly been ironed, a plain white t-shirt, and sensible sandals. In her hand, she held a clipboard. In her other hand, she held a travel-size bottle of rakija.

Quince, by the look of it.

She consulted her clipboard. “Mia Petrović, age thirty-four, travel agent, divorce finalized three weeks ago. Sofia Ricci, age thirty-six, architect, divorce finalized two months ago, Milan. Dunja Kovač, age thirty-five, yoga instructor, separation pending, Zagreb.” She looked up. “And I’m Ivana Horvat, age thirty-seven, financial analyst, divorce finalized six months ago, and I have a spreadsheet cross-referencing our accommodation details, emergency contacts, and a daily itinerary optimized for maximum emotional recovery with minimum tourist traps.”

There was a long, stunned silence, broken only by the cry of a seagull and the churn of the ferry’s engines.

“Did you... dox us?” Mia asked.

Ivana adjusted her glasses. “I’m a financial analyst. I analyze. When I saw four women of similar age, traveling alone, boarding the same ferry to Korčula in late June, I ran a probability analysis. The likelihood of all of us being here for reasons unrelated to recent marital dissolution was statistically insignificant. I then cross-referenced passenger manifest data with public social media posts.” She said this without a trace of irony or shame.

“You hacked the ferry company?” Sofia looked genuinely impressed.

“I prefer to think of it as ’optimized information gathering.’” Ivana held up her rakija bottle. “Quince. My ex-husband’s mother’s recipe. She always hated me. I’m drinking it to celebrate never having to see her again.” She took a precise, analytical sip. “The itinerary suggests we begin our healing journey with a group dinner tonight at 7:30 p.m. at Konoba Maha. I’ve made a reservation for four. I assumed we’d be forming a support group.”

Dunja clapped her hands together with genuine delight. “A support group! On an island! It’s meant to be. The universe is aligning our chakras.”

“The universe is aligning our ferry schedules,” Ivana corrected. “But yes. Support group. I’ve already named it.”

“You’ve named it,” Mia repeated, incredulous.

“The Island Divorce Club,” Ivana announced, consulting her clipboard. “I’ve created a WhatsApp group. I’ll add you. The first rule of Island Divorce Club is...”

“There are no rules?” Sofia suggested hopefully.

“No, there are rules,” Ivana said firmly. “There are always rules. Rule one: honesty about our emotional states during check-ins. Rule two: no crying in the wine. Rule three: casual sexual encounters are permitted but must be reported to the group for safety and debriefing purposes.”

Mia stared at her. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

Ivana’s expression flickered, and for just a moment, the analytical mask slipped, revealing the same raw, exhausted pain that lived behind all their eyes. “I need structure,” she said quietly. “I need to know what comes next. For fifteen years, I knew exactly what came next. Mortgage payments. Joint tax returns. Anniversary dinners at the same restaurant because he liked the steak. And then one day, he said he ‘needed to find himself,’ which apparently meant finding a twenty-eight-year-old personal trainer named Vesna who ’understood his soul.’” She took a breath. “So yes. I’ve put thought into this. Because if I don’t have a plan, I’ll just... stop.”

The wind whipped around them, carrying the salt and the sun and the strange, electric possibility of new beginnings.

Dunja moved first. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Ivana, clipboard and all. Ivana went rigid, her body clearly unaccustomed to spontaneous physical affection, but after a moment, she relaxed, just slightly, and one hand came up to pat Dunja’s back awkwardly.

Sofia looked at Mia. Mia looked at Sofia. And then, with the kind of unspoken agreement that forms between strangers who recognize each other’s wounds, they moved forward too.

For a moment, four women in their mid-thirties stood in a huddle on the deck of a Croatian ferry, clutching divorce decrees and tiny bottles of rakija, holding onto each other like life rafts in a sea of uncertainty.

A seagull screeched overhead.

Dunja pulled back first, laughing. “Okay, okay, too much, too soon. Boundaries. I respect boundaries.” She wiped at her eyes, though whether they were tears or just wind, no one could say. “But also, I love you all already. I hope that’s not weird.”

“It’s weird,” Ivana confirmed, straightening her clipboard. “But acceptable.”

Sofia laughed, and it transformed her face. The sleek Milanese polish cracked, and underneath was someone warmer, more vulnerable, more real. “I haven’t hugged anyone who wasn’t paid to hug me in months.”

“Same,” Mia agreed. “Unless you count my cat. And she does it under duress.”

The ferry gave a long, mournful blast of its horn. They pulled apart and turned to look ahead. In the distance, rising from the impossibly blue sea like a stone dream, was Korčula. The old town huddled on its peninsula, terracotta roofs glowing in the afternoon sun, medieval walls rising sheer from the water. Cypress trees stood sentinel on the hills behind it. It looked like something from a myth, a place where stories began and ended and began again.

“There it is,” Ivana said quietly. “The island.”

“It’s beautiful,” Sofia breathed. “It’s actually... beautiful.”

Mia felt something loosen in her chest. The rakija, maybe. Or the company. Or the way the light was hitting the water, turning it to liquid gold. She thought of her ex-husband, back in Zagreb, probably already rearranging the bookshelves to his liking. She thought of the apartment she’d left, the life she’d dismantled, the future that had vanished like morning mist.

And then she thought of nothing at all, because the island was getting closer, and the women beside her were strangers who felt like something else already, and for the first time in months, the next five minutes didn’t feel like an impossible mountain to climb.

“So,” Dunja said, slipping her arm through Mia’s on one side and Sofia’s on the other. “The Island Divorce Club. Our first official meeting. I move we hold it on a terrace, with wine, and we take turns telling the stories of exactly how our ex-husbands ruined our lives.”

“I second,” Sofia said.

“Motion carried,” Ivana confirmed, making a note on her clipboard. “I’ve already identified three suitable terraces within walking distance of our accommodations. We’ll start with the one that has the best view of the sunset.”

Mia looked at her three companions—the chic Italian with the broken heart, the serene yoga instructor with the wild eyes, the clipboard-wielding analyst with the hidden pain—and felt something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Hope.

Or maybe it was just the rakija.

Either way, she raised her bottle.

“To the Island Divorce Club,” she said. “May our healing be messy, our wine be plentiful, and our ex-husbands step on Legos every day for the rest of their lives.”

“Hear, hear,” Sofia murmured.

“Legos are excellent for chakra alignment,” Dunja added solemnly. “Very grounding.”

Ivana actually smiled. It was small, and it looked like it hurt a little, but it was definitely a smile. “I’ll add that to the minutes.”

The ferry carved its way through the sparkling water, carrying four women towards an island they’d never seen, towards a summer they couldn’t imagine, towards each other.

Behind them, the mainland disappeared into the haze.

Ahead of them, Korčula waited.

And somewhere on that island, completely unaware, a handsome man who happened to be the mayor’s son was about to have his entire summer upended by a petite, frantic woman with a rakija habit and absolutely no idea what she was doing.

But that story would have to wait.

For now, there was only the sea, the sun, and the strange, shimmering possibility of starting over.