I could feel him looking at me. I wanted him to say something about my mom or Nick. Then I could tell him that Nick swore at me and said I was rotten and said he’d track me down if I told on him. After that, when we got home, Dad would take care of things.
My dad moved behind me and I waited. Then he stopped moving. He didn’t say anything.
I threw my suitcase over the drop-off. It appeared a few seconds later floating on the mud in the trail below. My eyes blurred with tears and my voice was raked by anger,
Are you done with your mountain fit? he said.
No, I said.
He reached down and I took his hand and he tugged me out of the mud.
Slide down on your ass, he said.
We slid down the hill into the grassy marshland. The mud was waist deep and I grabbed my surfboard from my dad and floated on it.
Great idea, Ollestad.
Where’s your bag? I said.
Left it up there, he said. Guess I’ll have to wear trunks from now on.
We got to the other side of the marsh and I noticed that some of the mud had dried on our skin—it had stopped raining—and we looked like swamp things. We could hear the ocean and my dad patted my back.
Way to grind it out, he said.
He led me out of the jungle. Abruptly our feet crunched down on a mound of white seashells. I looked ahead and the shells mushroomed all the way to the wet sand and then lay scattered about, washing around on the shore.
The water was blueberry, like the sky now. There were slicks of turquoise where the reef ceased, allowing the white sand to reflect back up through the water. Farther out a bigger reef made swells leap up everywhere like a sea of cobras striking ten at a time. We two swamp things looked on in awe.
For the first and only time my dad refrained from pointing out the beauty. He said nothing. Not even about the surf. He tiptoed over the shells and dove into the ocean. The mud left a stain in his wake. He told me to keep my clothes on in order to clean them out. I opened my eyes underwater and yellow fish scatted beneath a cluster of reef.
We stripped nude and hung our clothes on a papaya tree. The fruit’s sweet aroma mingled with the humid air and stuck to the inside of my nose. The yellow-green melons hung like big breasts and I held the papayas’ bouquet in my lungs. Everything glared vibrant with color and at the same time was as soft as velvet.
We stood in a daze, our long trudge affecting us now. Time passed and the sweetness of the air and the berry palettes in the sky and water resonated over the percussion of waves crashing against the reef.
Breaking the spell my dad asked me about my hip.
It’s getting better, I said.
Sure looks like you got it skateboarding.
I paused. Down here in Mexico, my lie appeared such a small thing.
I did, I said.
Your secret’s safe here in Mexico, he said.
My face contorted into a smile. I felt loony and relieved. I charged the ocean and called out, attacking some imaginary demon. The shells sliced into my feet and I dove headlong into the sea.
I surfaced and my dad gave me a humorous sideways glance, then danced over the shells with his balls swinging. He jumped in and floated on his back and watched the sky. He was at ease like a seal bathing with one flipper up and he watched the pregnant thunderheads and seemed to enjoy their warm mist.
I swam ashore and scoured the beach, finding some thick white shells with holes in them. I showed them to Dad and we decided they were puka shells. I collected at least a hundred, storing them in a large abalone shell.
My dad tore open a papaya with his thumbs. We each dug out the slimy black seeds with a shell and spooned the meat into our mouths.
Just like the Indians, he said.
He told me that they fished with handmade spears, carved boats out of logs, and had no TV or cars or restaurants.
They were tough, Ollestad, he said.
How tough?
Tougher than tiger shit.
What’s tougher? Tiger shit or tiger piss?
Hmm. Tiger piss maybe.
Really?
Yeah. Probably.
He washed off the surfboards in the salt water and I washed off my suitcase. Then I followed him north.
What happens when you boil to death? I said.
You dehydrate and finally die.
What happens when you freeze to death?
You’re cold. Then you feel warm and sleepy. And then you fall asleep and never wake up.
I’d rather freeze to death.
Me too.
We followed the raised sand spit hooking out to sea. My dad looked back toward the big reef. He stopped and studied the waves and I pretended not to notice.
Might get good when the wind settles down, he said.
I didn’t respond and he turned and walked around the spit. On the other side was a patch of sand ending where the big black rocks bordered the cove. As we got closer I saw two fishing boats on the wet sand, rocking like cribs. They’re not canoes carved from wood, I thought. Little dories overstuffed with nets and buckets and spears —metal not bamboo.
Look, my dad said.
Barely visible above a hedge line of mangroves was a group of steeple-shaped roofs made from coconut palms.
My dad shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it and I realized we were lucky. It made me nervous that we were relying on luck.
He followed a path trampled into the shells.
Should we just walk right in? I said.
He opened his hands.
I don’t know what else to do, he said.
But what if the people who live here don’t like strangers?
Then we’ll leave. Don’t sweat it, he said.
He took my hand and we walked toward the roofs.
CHAPTER 13
