Gramma Tala always told her that the sea only beckons those that it chooses, almost like a siren's call. But then again, Gramma Tala always told the most unbelievable stories to the children of the village; Moana being one of them.

She never cared about the believability of her claims - it was always fascinating to wonder than to speculate. She learned that a long time ago when her dad kept oppressing her curiosity of the sea so vehemently she'd developed an underlying resentment for it for a time.

Even Hei Hei was allowed to peck his beak along the shorelines while Moana would get the stink eye from her dad if she so much as looked at the sand.

And then she got Pua when she'd found out about the little piglet that wouldn't eat what was put in front of him. So, she fed him herself, gave him a home, and tried her best to keep him away from the areas where the villager's prepared food.

(It didn't work; he'd snuck out of the bure Moana had put him in to follow her while she'd been helping out her dad with cooking the pork. It was a bonding experience, he'd told her.)

(Poor Pua almost got mistaken as food.)

(He didn't look at her for a week. It was certainly an experience.)

Sometimes she'd go with Gramma Tala down to the beach when no one was looking, sneaking a few snacks and a coconut or two while they danced until the sun set over the horizon and into the ocean. Sometimes longer. Usually longer.

"The Ocean talks to me," she tells her one night when the stars are shining even brighter than they usually are. It's pretty, she thinks absently beside Gramma Tala. Even the way they reflect off the sea's water. How could dad never see the beauty of it?

"The Ocean talks to everyone, Moana," Gramma Tala tells her, and Moana doesn't know if she'd meant to, but it makes her feel a little less special. "But it's only those that listen to it that it favours."

Oh.

Moana can't help the smile that pulls at her face.

"That's a little silly," she says out loud without a second thought. Gramma Tala was the only one she felt safe enough to be unfiltered around in the village - Mom was nice, but she was...Mom. And dad was Dad. There was no changing that. But Gramma Tala was fun to be around, like she could be herself without judgy eyes; could say that she loved the ocean and wanted to ride out to the islands beyond the reef, wanted to see what the rest of the world could offer beyond the safety of their village.

She wanted adventure. Yearned for it. And she thinks Gramma Tala knows that. Maybe even wants the same thing as Moana does.

"Don't let it hear you," she whispers back to Moana, voice hushed but tinged with obvious amusement as they both gaze out at the sea. "It's as cheeky as that little chicken you keep around."

Moana found that ridiculous but laughed all the same.

Some time later, when she'd snuck out from under her dad's nose to visit the ocean, she finds that Gramma Tala's advice wasn't so far-fetched as she'd first believed it to be.

"You're a little weird," she tells it a little too bluntly, repeating her previous sentiment about it. She watches closely as the crest of the wave tilts curiously at her words before a jet of water hits her right in the shoulder.

When she'd tried to retaliate against it by slapping the surface of its water, she earned another and then another - even got submerged by water when she thought she'd finally scurried away a good enough distance from it.

(Dad gave her a harsh scolding when she'd sulked back home to their bure all drenched in water, thinking she had tried to steal one of the village's outrigger canoes used for fishing to sail out to the reef.)

("Why? Why do you do this, Moana?")

("I didn't sail-")

("Do you really want to leave this bad? What is it that drives you-")

("Dad.")

("-so far from home, Moana? You- I've told you how dangerous it is on the water, don't even mention beyond the reef.")

(Mom had swept in and saved her then, taking Dad outside "for some fresh air" like she'd said. Moana didn't see them until dawn, where Dad looked more tired than she'd ever seen him.)

She frequented more visits down to the beach after that, her first offended and angry attitude rapidly melting into a playful sort of banter between herself and the sea.

One late evening, when she'd skipped on helping dad with the village duties, the ocean twirls between her fingers like a weave. Precise in a way that shouldn't be possible, the current running coldly against her skin.

But- it felt right.

It slithers up her arm in a spiral and she can't help but watch, mesmerized at the unique pattern it draws across tanned skin. It reminds her of the pattern of someone's tattoo for a brief moment until the water separates and falls back into the sand.

When she looks out at the sea, her eyes focus on nothing particular. Salt, wind, and wonder. And so much more.

Pua's a little bigger now. She doesn't tell him that, though, because she knows he'll either have a tantrum or not "talk" to her at all for another week. Again.

She thinks she's grown a little, too. Not as much as she'd like to, though.

"Why do you dance with the stingrays?" Moana asks Gramma Tala one night when they're alone. Dad's been awfully prickly to be around lately, and she doesn't know why. Mom's quiet on it too, so now she was here on their usual rock near the shoreline with grandma.

It takes a while for her to respond, seemingly lost in the haze of her movements. Probably something that happens with old people. Moana's just about to forget what she'd asked before Gramma Tala finally says something.

"They're like family."

"Huh," is the only thing that Moana can muster up after a short moment, brain still registering. "But they're animals."

Gramma Tala only chuckles at her statement but doesn't elaborate any further.

(It's not until far later on that Moana understands what she was talking about through loss and heartbreak.)