by Laura Resau
That was when he started noticing fins—shark fins, moving toward him—and teeth, glinting in the reflected lights of the clouds. Then a giant leatherback turtle rose beneath him. He hung on as it carried him away from the sharks, toward shore. By now, the thunder and lightning were wild, the waves crashing. But the turtle swam him all the way to a little fishing boat.
A man reached out, pulled him in. El Loco.
I want to interrupt and ask again what our fish guy was doing out in his rickety little boat in the middle of a storm. But I hold my tongue and listen as Wendell continues.
El Loco took off his own T-shirt, put it on Wendell, wrapped him in a wool blanket, and motored the boat to Playa Mermejita. Then he half carried Wendell up the path through the jungle to our cabanas.
Once Wendell finishes his story, he asks Alejandro to promise he’ll go over the heads of the local police, right to the state police, to investigate. Looking reassured, Wendell hangs up with a weary sigh.
I give him a long hug. “Come on, Wendell. You’re exhausted.” With my arm firmly around his waist, I walk him down the path to his cabana. Inside, I help him onto the bed and lie down beside him, arranging the mosquito net around us.
I move my face close to his on the pillow, stroke his damp hair. “Wendell, when you were missing, I thought about our future. I always wanted it to be easy—like a perfect, predictable path.” I pause, looking into his half-closed eyes. “But I realized it’s okay if we take detours.”
“What are you saying, Z?” he asks sleepily.
“Take the scholarship, Wendell. This time I really mean it. I want you to. I was scared before.”
“Scared?”
“Scared you’d go off and start a whole new life, one without me.” I pause to swallow my tears.
“Oh, Z …”
“But I’ll let you go, Wendell. And trust that you’ll come back.”
He twirls a strand of my hair around his finger. “Listen, Z, I know we’ll be together again … even if it might not be for a while.” He kisses me, then whispers, “It’s like those turtles that always come back to the same beach. You’re my beach.”
“And you’re mine,” I manage to say, my voice breaking. We kiss again, and just before he slips into an exhausted sleep, I say, “So you’ll take the scholarship?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
And despite the stab of pain, there’s a rightness to this decision. A decision made from a place of love, not fear.
I stay awake, listening to the rush of ocean, wondering where we’ll be in a year, ten years, what we’ll be doing, whether we’ll be together. My mind wanders to Gracia, swimming around out there, full of old secrets. And to El Loco. I picture those crazy dreadlocks half covering his eyes, his earphones playing unknown music, his sandy, salty voice, his ratty old clothes, his weatherworn pink boat, his cooler of shaved ice and shiny fish. My eyes rest on the huge conch shell he gave me, sitting on my bedside table.
What was he doing out in the ocean? Looking for Wendell? But how did he know Wendell was out there? And how did he know about the fire? Is he the one who’s been watching us from the jungle? Why? Who is this man?
I manage to sleep for an hour or two, restlessly, waking often to check Wendell’s breathing, his heartbeat, his temperature. At the first light of dawn, I climb out of bed, not bothering to try to sleep more. Now is usually the time Layla rings the bell for sunrise yoga, but with the events of last night, everyone’s sleeping in.
I take a quick shower to wash off the dried mud still coating my legs, then throw on a yellow sundress. Wendell is still sleeping soundly. From the back of my wooden chair I pick up the shirt El Loco lent Wendell. It’s still damp, and coated in mud. I’ll wash it and bring it downtown later today, I decide. El Loco is usually at his spot behind his fish cooler on the street by midmorning. He can answer my questions then.
I carry the shirt outside into the chilly dawn air. Stepping over storm debris, I head down the stone path to the big washbasin under a small, open-sided hut. I fill the sink with water, pour in powdered green soap. Rays of morning sun peek through the sugar cane roof overhead, illuminating the bubbles. As the shirt soaks, I survey the destruction from the storm. Tree limbs have cracked, their leaves torn off and matted on the ground. A few palm fronds were blown off the roofs, but overall, the cabanas held up well.
I scrub the T-shirt, then rinse it with clear water and wring it out. I hold it up, inspect it to make sure all the mud is out. The T-shirt lettering is swirling script that spells out Illusion. The name of my father’s performance troupe in France.
My head spins. It’s him. El Loco, Tortue, El Tortuga, J.C., José Carlos Cruz Castillo. My father. Is he the one watching us in the jungle? The invisible one protecting us? The one who saved us from the fire? Pelted the poachers with stones? Defended the sea turtles? And defended us? I remember, suddenly, that Lupita said her son was an expert tree climber, with amazing slingshot aim. And the treasures and shells he gave her—he gave one to me, too: the smooth conch shell. My mind scrambles to put together the pieces.
For a second, I consider bursting into Layla’s and Wendell’s cabanas, telling them to get dressed and come with me to find my father. But that would mean waiting. And explaining. And after waiting so long already, I can’t bear to wait any longer. Not even for ten minutes.
I tear through the jungle, heading toward the cliffs of Punta Cometa, toward the tiny crescent of beach where he keeps his pink boat. Fallen branches litter the path, but I crash through, clutching the dripping T-shirt, not caring about the scratches on my legs.
As I run, I try to conjure up my father’s face, the shape of it, its expressions. But in France, it was covered in white paint; the only image I see is a mask. What I remember more clearly is his voice, so tender. I try to recall El Loco’s voice. There’s a raspiness to it, a sandiness, as if he’s just crawled to shore. Now that I replay it in my mind, it sounds as if he’s been holding back waves of emotion, just barely. The hoarseness of a man about to cry. Or cry out. Was he ever teetering on the verge of telling me? Why didn’t he?
I pick up my pace, determined to find out.
Finally, I emerge from the jungle onto the rocky peninsula of Comet Point. As I run, skidding down the steep part, dashing around cacti, these details work themselves out in my mind, the bits of random knowledge I have of this man, my father. And by the time I reach the edge of the cliff, the only question left is why? Why hasn’t he shown me his face? If he knows I’m here, looking for him, reaching out to him, why hasn’t he met me halfway?
I skid to a stop at the edge of the cliff, sending a few tiny pebbles soaring into the surf below, smacking against the cliffs. There’s the pink boat, upside down on the beach, surrounded by flotsam from the storm, piles of sea-worn garbage. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I shout, “Tortue!” The ocean swallows my cries. Louder, I try “Tortuga!”
Nothing. He must be asleep. I’ll go down to his boat, wake him up, I decide. But how do I get there? The little beach is surrounded by steep cliffs on three sides.
I could turn back, look for him downtown later today. That way, Layla and Wendell could come with me. But what if we’ve scared him off? What if he’s planning to run again? Now that I’ve figured out who he is, and know that he’s so close, I have to find him. Now.
My heart racing, I scan the cliffs for some kind of path. Finally, my eyes rest on what might be a trail, with a few spindly trees and a smattering of cracks in the rock that could serve as foot- and handholds. I head toward that section of the cliff, darting around cactus outcroppings and hardy shrubs.
When I reach the top of the path, I tie the damp shirt around my waist. I’ll need both hands for this. Looking down the steep incline, I feel my heart pound even harder. Sharp rocks and cacti and dried tree branches jut up everywhere. And at the bottom, waves crash against the thin crescent of sand. I glance at the pink boat, which looks tiny so far below.
It occurs to me that no one knows where I am
. Everyone is sleeping. If something happens … Biting my lip, I look at the dazzling ocean, the silvery blue sky. I should go back, get some help. But I’m so close. I’m not letting him get away again.
I try calling out again. “Tortue!”
No response. I take a deep breath and turn around, positioning myself to face the incline and climb down backward. I go slowly, finding solid spots for my feet, grips for my hands. I’m about halfway down when I stop to rest. The drop is almost vertical here. Now it’s even harder to find a place to hold on. When I’ve caught my breath, I grasp a slender tree and lower myself, stretching my right foot into a rock nook below. Then I let down my left foot and an arm, wedging my fingers into a ridge. My knuckles are white, gripping the rock. My left foot has nowhere to go. I search the stone face for somewhere to put it.
Nothing. Sheer rock. And then my right foot slips.
I shriek. An animal scream of sheer terror. I’m hanging by my fingers now, my feet scrambling desperately to find something to step on, a root, anything. I scream again, in words this time. “¡Ayúdenme! Help!” The ocean swallows my sounds but I keep screaming on instinct. “¡Ayúdenme!”
As I scream, thoughts race through my mind in a loop. I’m going to fall, I’m going to fall. What if I die? What if I die just moments before meeting my father? How can I die after seventeen years of waiting for this?
An image of Wendell comes to my mind. Someplace deeper than my mind, somewhere in my center, inside my chest. All our moments together, our breaths close, our lips grazing, the comfort of his arms, his chest, his cinnamon smell. And then, the image of our spot on the beach, our handfasting place, empty. His confidence that we’ll be together in the end … but what if I don’t make it to the end?
All this time, I’m crying for help as the waves drown out my flimsy words. I don’t know how long I scream—seconds, minutes—all I know is my hands ache, and I’m terrified to adjust my grip. I need all my fingers to hang on.
And they’re slipping. One by one, as if in slow motion, the fingertips slide off.
My feet flail wildly, searching for anything solid. Again, I scream.
And now I’m falling, sliding down the rock face, stones and pebbles and cactus thorns ripping into my skin. The world becomes a spinning blur of rock and sea and sand.
Then, somehow, there’s an arm around me, holding me securely. My body is still, my head still spinning. But I’m safe—yes, I am. Someone’s caught me. I look up, focusing. A pair of deep brown eyes meet mine.
It’s him. He’s breathing hard, sweat glistening under his dreadlocks, holding me firmly with his muscled arm, his hand gripping a tree root. His eyes peek through his hair, relieved, tender. Without a word, he sets me on my feet, then guides me down the rest of the cliff, knowing exactly where to step. He leads me to the crescent of beach, where he sits me down gently in the shade of the pink boat. Gracia, it reads in peeling, faint white letters. Named after the turtle who saved him so many years ago?
Or it might simply mean “Grace.”
He watches me, surveys my wounds.
I realize how much my body aches, stinging and throbbing. “You heard me,” I manage to say, hoarse after so much screaming.
He nods. He looks like he wants to say something, opens his mouth and closes it again.
“Your shirt,” I say, flustered, unwrapping it from my waist and handing it to him. “I washed it but—it’s covered in dirt again.” It’s crazy that this is all I can think to say, talking about a shirt at this moment I’ve dreamed of all my life.
He takes the damp shirt.
I run my fingers over my scrapes and bruises, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t. I want to hear his voice, because now I’m starting to wonder if he’s an apparition. If I fell and died and he’s some kind of silent angel. Hugging myself, trying to stop shaking, I say, “I know who you are.”
No reply. I strain to see his expression beneath his wild hair.
A wave of something is rising inside me, some oceanic feeling that makes the pain from my wounds fade into the background. “I know you. I know you’ve been protecting us.” I suck in a breath. “I know you’re innocent. I know you’re scared and sad. And full of regret.” Again, I wait for him to say something.
He doesn’t.
I feel like a sea turtle, battered and beaten by the currents. Finally making it onto the beach. Exhausted, wanting. Something. A word, anything. I look at him, pleading. “I just—I don’t understand why you never—why—” And the tears break loose, like a dam opening, streams of tears.
He sits there watching me, awkwardly. Why isn’t he talking, hugging me, comforting me? Something. Anything. Anything remotely fatherly.
“Tell me why!” I shout. My words echo off the cliffs, fade into the ocean.
He lowers his head. “Zeeta.” His voice is a whisper, barely audible over the crashing of waves on the cliffs. He buries his face in his hands. “This isn’t how I imagined it. Us finally meeting.”
He speaks in Spanish, the Spanish of the locals, I realize. Maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize his voice. In France, he spoke to me in French.
“It’s not how I imagined it either.” I look at the debris washed ashore, surrounding us, plastic bottles, an old flip-flop, frayed rope, heaps of trash.
He takes a wavery breath. “I wanted—I wanted to be strong for you. Complete. I wanted to be someone you could depend on. Someone you’d be proud of.” He pauses. “I came back here last summer. I thought I’d reconnect with my family. Let go of old hurt. Fix myself. Become the father you deserve.”
“What happened?” I ask in a small voice.
“I—I realized it wouldn’t be easy. I couldn’t tell my family I was here. I disguised myself as a beach bum, thinking I’d find the courage any day. Then I ran out of my meds, didn’t bother to get more. I thought, What’s the point? I fell into a dark place. And I didn’t have my friends here to pull me out. I was at a real low. I even considered …” His voice trails off. “But then I saw you and Layla and Wendell in town. I wanted to run up and tell you who I was. But I felt too broken. I decided I had to get better first. Seeing you every day—it gave me motivation. I even started taking my meds again. And when I saw you were in danger, I knew I had to protect you.”
“Then why didn’t you show yourself?”
He lets his dreads fall over his eyes. “Look at me, Zeeta.… I sleep under a boat. I forage fruit from the jungle and fish from the sea. I have nothing to give you. I’m so sorry. I’m a mess.”
He stares at me, his arms outstretched, his palms turned up, empty. Surrounded by broken and worn things from the sea. The sunlight shines through his graying dreadlocks, illuminating his face.
I reach out, push away the hair to reveal his eyes, which are red, shining. I muster up all my courage and say, “You know, I kinda like messes.”
Since I can’t make it up the cliff trail, Tortue takes me in his boat around the cove to Playa Mermejita. Then we hike up the beach and through the jungle, arm in arm, him supporting me. We don’t talk much; I’m in too much pain as we hike. And shock. It’s like a dream. I’m in a state of disbelief, struggling to absorb everything.
Once we reach the dining hut, I’m thinking more clearly. I stop by the freezer for some ice packs, and Tortue helps make coffee. It’s still early; everyone else is asleep.
He carries our mugs of coffee to the table. I sit down, propping up my sore leg and icing it. Across from me, through lit-up spirals of steam, my father sips his coffee. I sip my own, watching a line of ants crawl over a few stray sugar crystals. I sneak awkward glances at him. One moment I want to throw my arms around him, and the next I want to shake him.
“I don’t get it, Tortue,” I finally sputter. “Why did you stay? Why didn’t you just go back to France?”
“Money. I had none left.” He smiles. “And the turtles.”
“The turtles?”
“In the fall, I knew the leatherbacks would be coming to ne
st. I’d come this far and I didn’t want to miss them. I remembered I’d left my boat, Gracia, under a rock ledge on the little beach. She was still there.” He smiles again. “I took it as a sign. I camped on the beach, caught and sold fish to support myself. And I started saving pesos to get back to France. I figured by the end of leatherback nesting season I’d have it saved up. But it wasn’t easy. Some days I was too depressed to even roll out from beneath my boat.”
He brushes the hair from his face, his eyes filling with tears. “Zeeta, when I saw you here … I was filled with so much emotion. I couldn’t believe you cared enough to cross an ocean to find me. But I knew I’d only disappoint you.”
He wipes his eyes, and after a moment, continues his story. He says that as he watched the turtles on Playa Mermejita and kept an eye on us at the cabanas, he became aware of the dangers. So he became the protector of the turtles … and of us.
My heart swells when I hear this. My father isn’t a coward after all, but a kind of hero turned on his head. In his own backward way, he’s been a dependable father, one who’s kept me safe. What I’ve always wanted in a dad. Suddenly, I’m filled with warmth, gratitude, gracias.
When he pauses to sip his coffee, I say, “That was you with your slingshot, shooting stones, wasn’t it?”
He nods. “I was in the trees, hiding.”
“And you were the one I kept seeing in the jungle? The one who ran away?”
“Yes.” His gaze falls to his lap. “That last time—I suspected the poachers were plotting something. I’d overheard them talking about it the night before last. I came last night to warn you.”
“That was you I saw,” I murmur.
With a nod, he continues. “I heard you tell Meche that Wendell was out at sea in the storm. So I ran to my boat to find him.”
I’m on the verge of asking him more about the poachers, about the plot against Wendell, but he looks exhausted. He rubs his eyes and says, in his soft, raspy voice, “But tell me about you, Zeeta.”
I take a deep breath, staring at the wood-grain pattern in the table. Where do I begin? How do I fill him in on seventeen years? I don’t have to do it all at once, I remind myself. There will be time to fill in the gaps. We’ll have the rest of our lives together, especially if Layla and I get to stay on this land, make this our real home.