# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 24"
The turquoise waters of the Sulu Sea lapped at the edges of the stilt village, where bamboo huts swayed like drunkards in the breeze. Su Yao stepped off the motorboat, her sandals sinking into the soft, algae-covered wood of the walkways, and squinted up at the thatched roofs. A group of Bajau fishermen emerged from the largest hut, their bodies browned by sun and salt, carrying spears over their shoulders. Their leader, a man with a scar across his cheek named Jamil, nodded at her. "You're the ones who want to weave with seaweed," he said, his voice rough from years of shouting over waves.
The Bajau, known as "sea gypsies," had lived on these waters for centuries, surviving on fish and seaweed, their lives as fluid as the tides. Su Yao's team had traveled here to collaborate on a waterproof textile, merging the Bajau's traditional *kuih-muih*—matting woven from seagrass and coconut fiber—with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create a material that could withstand constant immersion while telling the story of the ocean. But from the first conversation, it was clear that their visions of the sea—and how to use its gifts—could not have been more different.
Jamil's wife, Siti, led them to a drying rack where sheets of *kuih-muih* shimmered in the sun, their fibers interwoven with tiny shells and coral fragments. "We take only what we need," she said, brushing a hand over the matting. "Three leaves from each seagrass plant, never more. The sea gives, but she also takes away if you're greedy."
Su Yao's team had brought industrial drying equipment, hoping to speed up the process of curing the seaweed fibers, and a chemical waterproofing agent that had worked well in their Shanghai lab. When Elena unpacked the bottles, Siti's eyes narrowed. "That stuff kills the coral," she said, pointing to the label. "We found dead reefs near the tourist resorts that use it. You want to make fabric from the sea? Then you have to protect her, not poison her."
The cultural divide deepened when they discussed design. The Bajau's *kuih-muih* patterns were maps of the sea—wavy lines for currents, spiral shapes for whirlpools, tiny crosses for coral reefs. These weren't just decorations; they were survival tools, passed down through generations to teach children how to navigate the waters. Fiona, eager to incorporate the reflective properties of the metal threads, proposed adding large, star-like motifs that would glow at night, making the fabric visible from boats. "It could save lives," she said, showing off a sketch.
Jamil's youngest son, Kadir, who was training to be a *panglima* (village leader), shook his head. "The sea doesn't need to be lit up," he said. "She speaks to those who listen. Your stars would drown out her voice."
Disaster struck on the third day. A sudden monsoon swept through the village, soaking their stored seaweed fibers and rusting the metal threads. Worse, the storm damaged the coral reef where the Bajau harvested their seagrass, leaving them with a fraction of the material they needed. Jamil's uncle, an elder named Pak Mat, blamed the team for angering the sea spirits. "You brought strange things from the land," he said, gesturing at their equipment. "Now she's punishing us."
That night, as rain drummed on the roof of their borrowed hut, Su Yao sat with Siti by a smoky coconut-oil lamp, watching her repair a torn *kuih-muih* mat. The hut smelled of salt and damp bamboo, and outside, the waves crashed like thunder. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, her voice barely audible over the storm. "We thought we knew how to work with the sea, but we didn't understand how to respect her."
Siti looked up, her dark eyes softening. "The sea is like a woman," she said. "She gives life, but she can be fierce. You have to learn her moods. My grandmother taught me to harvest seagrass at low tide, when the moon is full. She said the sea rests then, and is happy to share."
Su Yao nodded. "What if we start over? No chemicals, no machines. We'll harvest seagrass your way, dry it in the sun like you do. And we'll let the sea guide the design."
Kadir, who had been listening from the doorway, spoke up. "You'd really do that?"
"Of course," Su Yao said. "This isn't about creating a product. It's about honoring your way of life—and the sea that sustains it."
Over the next two weeks, the team immersed themselves in Bajau life. They woke at dawn to help harvest seagrass, learning to identify the healthiest plants and leave enough to regrow. They dried the fibers on racks made from driftwood, turning them daily to catch the sun and wind. They sat with Pak Mat as he told stories of the sea spirits, learning which patterns were sacred and which could be adapted.
Elena, who had initially resisted working without her machines, found a new rhythm hand-weaving the seaweed-metal blend into the *kuih-muih* base. "It's like dancing with the waves," she said, as Siti showed her how to adjust the tension of the fibers to mimic the ocean's ebb and flow. "You have to give a little, then pull back, just like the tide."
Fiona, inspired by Kadir's words, redesigned her patterns, making the metal threads so fine they were almost invisible in daylight, but catching the moonlight just enough to highlight the Bajau's existing current patterns. "Now they work together," she said, showing Kadir a swatch. "The sea's voice, and a little light to guide the way."
To waterproof the fabric without chemicals, Siti taught them to rub it with coconut oil and beeswax, then let it cure in the sun for three days. "This is how my mother waterproofed our fishing nets," she said, as they worked the oil into the fibers. "It smells like home, and the sea loves it."
The monsoon returned on the day they finished their first prototype—a waterproof cloak that combined *kuih-muih* seagrass, seaweed-metal threads, and patterns that seemed to shift like the tides. They tested it in the pouring rain, and when they took it off, the fabric underneath was bone dry. Jamil draped it over Su Yao's shoulders, and for a moment, the rain seemed to pause. "The sea approves," he said, a rare smile breaking across his face.
As the team prepared to leave, Siti pressed a small pouch into Su Yao's hand. Inside was a piece of *kuih-muih* woven with a tiny seahorse pattern—the symbol of good luck among the Bajau. "To remember us by," she said. "And to remember that the sea is always watching."
Su Yao nodded, clutching the pouch as their motorboat pulled away from the village. Behind them, the stilt huts grew smaller, and the turquoise water stretched to the horizon. She thought of the cloak, of the seagrass fibers and metal threads, of the stories woven into every stitch. The sea had taught her more than just how to make a textile—it had taught her humility, and the importance of listening to those who had lived in harmony with nature for generations.
Her phone buzzed with a message from the sustainability summit organizers, asking for details about their latest collaboration. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've created something that speaks the language of the sea—made with respect, by hand, and with a little help from the Bajau."
Somewhere in the distance, a pod of dolphins leaped through the waves, their silver bodies catching the sun. Su Yao knew that whatever came next, this partnership—this merging of land and sea knowledge—was just another thread in the endless, beautiful tapestry they were weaving.