Special Praise for
THE JAGUAR MAN
“The Jaguar Man does the seemingly impossible—weave a beautiful tale out of a horrific experience. Lara Naughton inspires and uplifts even as she shares difficult truths. This book will encourage you to reimagine—and believe in—your own capacity for compassion, courage, and resilience.”
—KELLY McGONIGAL, PhD, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF The Upside of Stress AND The Willpower Instinct
“The Jaguar Man is less a story than a slap. It is an intensely lyrical expression of darkness, of pain, of an ugly act of violence that becomes transformational. Inspiring and written in spare, completely original, painfully honest, magical, hammering prose, this book is not to be missed.”
—MARK BOWDEN, THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF Black Hawk Down
“What a privilege it has been for me to be part of Lara’s journey. And to now see her harrowing experience transmuted into a sojourn of healing and love described so vulnerably, so sublimely in this book, I can only describe The Jaguar Man and its author as a blessing to the world.”
—MICHAEL BERNARD BECKWITH, AUTHOR OF Spiritual Liberation
“Lara Naughton has rewritten the survivor narrative into a radical poetics that challenges all of our ideas about sexual and spiritual trauma. At the heart of this story is a kidnapping and violence against the body and spirit of a woman deep in the Belize tropics. But her journey is not into the heart of darkness. The darkness is rewritten as a kind of portal, and language is reinvented as the mode by which we can reinvent ourselves, even in the face of brutality. Like Roxane Gay’s novel An Untamed State, we are given the story of violence unflinchingly, and yet beauty still rises like a hymn to the body, bringing the soul back home.”
—LIDIA YUKNAVITCH, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF The Small Backs of Children AND The Chronology of Water
“A marvelous book written with the deft hand of a journalist and told with the grip of an old fashioned storyteller. The magic of this book is not so much that Lara Naughton had to reach deep into a cauldron of wit and courage to survive an ordeal from a vicious, twisted villain, but rather that her redemption created a new level of understanding and wisdom that she embraced, so that she might live long enough to share this wisdom with others. That is why we read books. And that is why this is an excellent one.”
—JAMES MCBRIDE, NATIONAL BOOK AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF The Good Lord Bird
“The Jaguar Man is a terribly beautiful book. It will remind you of what human beings are capable of at their worst, but more importantly, it will remind you of the human capacity to survive and thrive despite unimaginable challenges. I highly recommend it.”
—KEVIN POWERS, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF The Yellow Birds
“The Jaguar Man is an astonishing story of how compassion and unconditional love can create reality—even change reality—beyond what our rational minds can understand. If you ever had any doubts about that, read this book.”
—KRISTIN NEFF, PhD, AUTHOR OF Self-Compassion: The Proven Power of Being Kind to Yourself
“The Jaguar Man is a highly compelling and vulnerable story of survival, heartbreak, triumph, and hope. Poignantly written, Lara Naughton shines a very bright light on what it means to live with compassion, courage, and heart.”
—CHRIS GROSSO, AUTHOR OF Indie Spiritualist AND Everything Mind
“Revelatory in its wisdom, startling in its beauty, The Jaguar Man is an empowering reminder that—however daunting the path might seem—we are our own best healers. A truly vital read.”
—STEPHANIE ELIZONDO GRIEST, AUTHOR OF Mexican Enough: My Life between the Borderlines
“The Jaguar Man offers a profound and personal exploration of the impact of violent crime on survivors, their families, and communities. Naughton offers a perspective of pain, hope, healing, and redemption that is a must read for anyone who has endured trauma or loss.”
—ANNE SEYMOUR, NATIONAL CRIME VICTIM ADVOCATE
Central Recovery Press (CRP) is committed to publishing exceptional materials addressing addiction treatment, recovery, and behavioral healthcare topics.
For more information, visit www.centralrecoverypress.com.
© 2016 by Lara Naughton
All rights reserved. Published 2016.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
Publisher: Central Recovery Press
3321 N. Buffalo Drive
Las Vegas, NV 89129
21 20 19 18 17 161 2 3 4 5
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Naughton, Lara.
Title: The jaguar man / Lara Naughton.
Description: Las Vegas, NV: Central Recovery Press, 2016. | Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015051474 (print) | LCCN 2015048730 (ebook) ISBN 9781942094210 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Naughton, Lara—Travel—Belize. | Rape victims--Belize--Biography. Americans—Belize—Biography. | Survival—Belize. | Rape victims—Psychology. Victims of violent crimes—Rehabilitation. | Compassion. | Healing.
BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. BODY, MIND & SPIRIT / Healing / General. | RELIGION / Buddhism / General (see also PHILOSOPHY / Buddhist).
Classification: LCC HV6569.B42 (print) | LCC HV6569.B42 N38 2016 (ebook)
DDC 362.883092--dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015051474
Photo of Lara Naughton by Monika Abercauph
Every attempt has been made to contact copyright holders. If copyright holders have not been properly acknowledged please contact us. Central Recovery Press will be happy to rectify the omission in future printings of this book.
Publisher’s Note: This book contains general information about compassion and healing from sexual assault. The information is not medical advice. This book is not an alternative to medical advice from your doctor or other professional healthcare provider.
This is a memoir—a work based on fact recorded to the best of the author’s memory. Our books represent the experiences and opinions of their authors only. Every effort has been made to ensure that events, institutions, and statistics presented in our books as facts are accurate and up-to-date. To protect their privacy, the names of some of the people, places, and institutions in this book may have been changed or omitted.
Cover design and interior design and layout by Marisa Jackson
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONE
He’s a talker, the angry man, talks the whole time. Talks as he picks me up in his pretend cab, talks as he turns the wrong way toward Maya Beach instead of toward town, talks as he extends his hand with a knife. He tells a winding story about his son who was taken from him, his ex-wife who he hates and loves, the government on his back, a $10,000 fine for holding a joint. He considered killing himself this morning, he needs money, my money, he’s going to take my money
, he’s going to take other things from me too, his knife is in charge, he has to get home, he can’t live without his son.
I’ve always been a good listener, so while he traps me in the jungle beside the Caribbean Sea and brutishly inserts me into his story, I listen to him carefully, hoping to find clues about how to get out of this alive. His story isn’t hard to follow, but it shifts. One madness becomes another until it takes a turn down a dark dirt road in Maya Beach. There it splinters in kaleidoscopic bits of me, him, me, him, me, him, with pieces of both of us sprinkled over sand and sea.
That night I believe what he tells me. Now I’m not sure. Maybe he told the truth about himself, maybe he lied, there’s no way to know, and what does it matter? That night he says what he says, he does what he does, and I respond, my own fragments of the story turning and turning in the kaleidoscope’s jewel-cut eye.
On the morning of the angry man, I’m on vacation in Belize on a peaceful Caribbean beach. The air tastes like salt. Warm air surrounds me with thick arms, and I welcome its insistent embrace. This isn’t my life in Los Angeles. Here I’m relaxed, unhurried. The breeze is slow, like the waves. Even the salt takes its time from the sea to my lips. Low wooden chairs with colorful chipped paint sit empty in front of rustic cabanas. One or two tourists walk the white packed sand close to the gentle water. Several Belizeans sit in the early shade of a coconut palm, one of the few trees still standing after a devastating hurricane wiped out much of the beach.
It’s Sunday, the fourth day of what I think will be two weeks of bliss in this tiny village with the quick crossing from sea to lagoon, the long sidewalk officially deemed “narrowest main street in the world,” no hospital, only a police substation, and a long glorious stretch of beach dotted with hibiscus and the sea’s natural debris.
I’m used to my city’s saturated smells, at home my senses are fine-tuned for safety, and I’m a fairly experienced traveler alert to my surroundings, but here I don’t detect a scent of danger. I’m a teacher so I take advantage of holidays and summers to explore. I’ve interviewed theologians in South Africa, walked along the Great Wall of China, helped organize an arts festival in Zimbabwe, followed migrating butterflies in Mexico, ridden an ostrich, and lived on a boat. I trust my instincts, choose adventures that don’t carry excessive risk, after all, I’m a single woman and usually travel alone. But I also trust in people’s good nature, mostly have positive encounters, and have made lasting friendships with people I met along the way. Still, it’s important to be careful.
In this quiet village, I’m happy. The sun, that great dream doctor, rises; the sun, that fierce lion of love, sets; the Earth spins and spins, and I’m like an eager child, my heart wide open to whatever I’m about to find.
I’ve returned to fall in love with the diver I met on this same Belizean peninsula three months ago. The one who sat down uninvited at my wooden table under a thatched umbrella, bought me tall glasses of rum punch, and talked with me into the night while wind and residue of salt water tangled my hair. It rained lightly, drizzling off the fronds of the umbrella onto the sand around our chairs. It wet my skin, and despite the warm night, I shivered.
In the past I’ve become friends with men in other countries but never started a romance. This diver, though; he’s smart and sincere, attentive and kind. We made plans to meet again the next day. By the time I left the country a week later, we had met for dinner every night, explored the peninsula together by boat, sped across the water to a soccer game in Monkey River, danced to a reggae band at the beach bar, talked, kissed, and held hands. It was sweet; he was sweet. I wasn’t in love but I thought he was sweet. I returned to Los Angeles, and we began three months of daily emails and phone calls. We were curious about each other. We played with the possibility of love. When summer break arrived, I decided to return.
Embarkment. Los Angeles.
Disembarkment. Belize City.
Back again? asks the customs official. You must like our country.
Yes.
On the morning of the angry man, I sit looking at the sea and wonder if I could adapt to living here. The diver and I are having a wonderful time, falling in love the way we hoped we would. I’m falling in love with the diver, falling in love with the village, falling in love with the sun, sand, water, air, and sky.
The diver has always lived in this paradise. He swam before he walked, blends Creole and English in a voice as smooth as deep water. His voice, my God, his voice is so soothing, even and low. Living on the water has made him calm. He slows my city pace down, and I appreciate that. What’s the rush? He balances my thinking, too. I’m an analyzer; he’s a simplifier. It’s a relief to not get entangled in heady debates but to take in wisdom from the stories he tells me of the sea. He’s a dive master and professional fisherman, spends his days exploring the coral reef. Elkhorn, brain coral, leaf coral—it’s hard to name the corals because of how many there are. Fishes likewise. Groupers, snappers, marlins, barracudas, blacktip sharks, reef sharks, hammerhead sharks, and the rarely seen tiger sharks.
When strange things come to where we live, the diver says, we tend to look at them with curiosity. Same way with the fishes. Most things under the water are curious. Most will look but won’t approach. We’re interfering in their world, yet they won’t swim away except if we swim toward them and spook them a bit.
His birthday is next week, and I’m here to celebrate. I made him a book of the emails we sent back and forth since we met, each page uniquely designed. I think I’ll give him the book on his birthday. I think the weeks will be carefree. I think my biggest worry is whether I’m being foolish and naïve starting a romance with this man. I’m aware of our differences, of course I am. I’m city; he’s ocean. I’m let’s make a plan; he’s let’s see how it goes. I live inside art, theatre, and books. He lives in an underwater galaxy I’ve barely touched floating on the surface. He doesn’t mind our difference in age or culture or race and neither do I. I’ve been through enough disappointing relationships to take a chance on this sweet younger man. Last night sitting on the beach, he told me he thinks we can be happy together for a very long time.
There are dangers in scuba diving, the diver says. You should be aware of the risks, but if you’re careful and follow instructions, it’s a very safe sport. Don’t put on scuba gear immediately. First you should learn basic skills.
There were warning signs I missed.
There are warning signs I miss.
After my first trip to Belize, I returned to Los Angeles to a swarm of bees that had invaded my bedroom. I never saw them alive. By the time I found them, they were already decomposing, hundreds of bees along the windowsill, piles dead on the floor. I have an elementary knowledge of physics, enough to understand if a butterfly flaps its wings in Belize it can cause a storm in Los Angeles, all things connected. As I stepped onto the coarse sand for the first time in Belize, is it possible the energy of my life changed, reverberated in a storm of bees in my bedroom countries away? The bees stained the curtains; they hung by their delicate wings, sticky from the brown sap of their bodies. The bees clung to the walls I’d painted the color of dried palm. Their thick dead smell stung my nose and eyes. Were the bees a signal—beware?
Even though I’m a woman who looks for signs, I sometimes ignore the ones I don’t want to see. I swept up the tiny bodies and wings, scrubbed the walls and windows with an organic cleanser, and called an exterminator who wore a full protective suit and fumigated behind the wall with toxins.
I don’t think about the bees as I sit on the beach with my feet in the Caribbean Sea. The sky hums, darkens, the wind hits my right side and trails across my body, my hair blows into my face no matter how I try to hold it back. I notice how quickly a storm enters the sky here, huge black clouds, plump like a belly, a womb not ready to release. The sea changes from teal to emerald, the waves bigger, capped in white. I don’t know it yet, but the angry man is nearby under this same sky. Rage is building in him, dark like the tur
ning clouds, sharp as a jaguar’s teeth. In a few hours the angry man will unleash his violence on me. It doesn’t occur to me to be afraid in this beautiful place, and if I sense a ripple of the angry man’s life spiraling toward me out of control, I simply accept it as part of the natural landscape, wind and wave.
MYTH. The angry man slides his hand under a waitress’s dress, feels her thick thigh, leans in to breathe her musk. She slaps him and he laughs. Earlier he sat in a room with his ex-wife and her parents, and no one spoke. At the end of the visit he smacked his wife’s ass and left. He loves the smell of a woman. He loves the smell of a woman.
Under the blackening sky, I pray the same prayer I’ve been praying for months: for an experience of love so big I’ll have to change my life to comprehend it. This is a new way of praying for me. I was raised on Catholic prayers, recited them like lists. When I was little, my favorite bedtime prayer was naming the apostles: Peter, Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew, Matthew, Thomas, James, Simon, Judas the brother of James, and Judas the Traitor. I zipped through the list every night, so proud to have come up with this prayer myself. As an adult, I drifted away from religion. I’m still not in sync with the Catholic Church, but in recent months I’ve been feeling pulled back and found a progressive church with a progressive priest I’m trying to learn from, not about ritual, but about a real relationship with love. This is new for me, too. Growing up, the nuns at school terrified me with the threat of God’s love, how it could take me out of the blue the way it had taken them. “I never thought I’d be a nun. Then one day, I got the calling. You have to be ready, girls. The calling could happen to you.” For years I added to my nightly prayers: Please God, please, please, don’t make me get the calling.
Now I pray for an experience of love so big I’ll have to change my life to comprehend it. I mean romance. I mean with the diver. I ask love to break me open the way I expect the clouds to break open and pour out rain.
Tomorrow the diver plans to take me in a boat to his private caye, a tiny island along the coral reef. I think I’ll snorkel off the edge of the sand and listen for the pirate ghosts he says haunt his island. Belize has a long history of pirates: Peter Wallace, Captain Henry Morgan, Blackbeard, and Jean Lafitte. Armed attackers still ransack tiny islands, so when the diver goes to his caye he shoots a gun at random intervals to warn away the would-be pirates. This appeals to my imagination, and I let myself build it up, wanting and not wanting to feel scared.
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