by Laura Resau
We give him the fist bumps that the hippie beach bums around here favor, then head toward the police station.
It only takes three minutes to reach the station, a low, dirty pink cement building. Inside, there’s a single room with two unfinished-wood desks and two ancient computers and a few dinged-up gray file cabinets. A single door leads back to what must be a holding cell. A fan spins and clicks overhead, making the worn curtains rise and fall.
Two officers sit at the desks, one about fifty years old, with a mustache and stout build, the other thinner, and not much older than me and Wendell. The younger one is fiddling with his cell phone—texting, maybe—and immediately drops his gaze back to his device. We stand there awkwardly until the older one gets up. “I’m Officer Contreras,” he says, gesturing to two wooden chairs. “But you can call me Gerardo. What can I do for you?”
We sit down and introduce ourselves, and then I tell him about the curse and Wendell’s theory that the poachers might be behind it. Wendell adds that he already reported the poaching by phone a few days ago.
Gerardo nods, jotting down notes, then turns to the younger man. “Did you file that report, Chucho?”
“Uh—yes,” he answers, tucking his phone in his pocket.
“Where is it?”
Chucho shuffles through papers on his desk, then opens and shuts some drawers in a file cabinet.
Gerardo presses his lips together and sighs. “When he finds it, we’ll add this latest development, muchachos.” He stands up, shakes our hands. “Be careful up there. Lots of problems over the years up near Punta Cometa.”
“Right,” I say, turning to leave.
The younger one calls after us, “And if you see any more poaching, come straight here, right to me. I’m the one in charge of your case. I’m on top of it.” He scrawls a number on a scrap of paper and hands it to Wendell. “Don’t confront the poachers yourself,” he cautions. “They could be armed and dangerous. In fact, you shouldn’t even be on that beach in the first place. It’s protected. You’ll disturb the turtles. You could be arrested yourselves for lurking around there at night.”
I bite my tongue during his little lecture. The more he talks, the less I like him. Finally, he dismisses us, then pulls out his phone to resume texting.
Outside, the sun is beating down even harder now, bouncing off the stark cement buildings. I relish bits of shade from the palm trees as we make our way down the edge of the road. Soon, signs for the Turtle Center come into view. The tacky little souvenir booths multiply, each with their dangling turtle key chains, baskets of stuffed plush turtles, displays of turtle T-shirts that reek of cheap dye.
As we approach the Center, I shake off the strange atmosphere of the police station. Wendell grows excited, talking about the main part of his internship—taking photos and video footage of turtles at sea for promotional materials. When he mentions the occasional tours of the Turtle Center grounds he’ll have to give, he turns anxious, twisting the hem of his shirt around his finger.
“Want to practice on me?” I ask. “Pretend I’m a tourist in a turtle T-shirt, okay? First in English, then we’ll move on to French.”
“Okay,” he says, a little embarrassed. “Until twenty years ago,” he begins, “the whole economy of Mazunte was based on butchering turtles and getting their eggs. Then, in 1990, when the turtle protection laws went into effect, the town had to find a new way to make money. The Turtle Center was created to attract tourists looking for secluded beaches off the beaten path. And although the town’s economy is better now than before, there’s still money to be made on the black market by poaching and selling turtle meat and eggs.…”
When he reaches the end, looking at me expectantly, I assure him, “You’re a natural. I’d give you a tip, a big one.” I press my lips to his, a quick, salty kiss. “You’re off the hook with the French version. Here we are.”
At the entrance to the museum, a few people in blue shirts with white Turtle Center logos are standing and talking by the ticket booth. Wendell gives me a nervous glance, then walks up to the group and introduces himself.
One of the men lights up and reaches out his hand. “Oh, Wendell! Yes, we’re thrilled you’re working with us.” He introduces himself as Pepe, the community outreach coordinator, Wendell’s main contact.
Pepe pushes his sunglasses up onto neatly gelled hair. He’s strikingly handsome, with a chiseled face and smooth skin. As he shakes our hands, his arm muscles ripple beneath a gold watch. After introductions, he takes us on a tour of the grounds, leading us past a flower garden toward a circular building. He has a friendly, easygoing manner that makes me instantly relax, forget the curse and the poachers and the sketchy police officer.
It quickly becomes evident that I’m not the only one who finds Pepe charming. We can barely make it ten steps at a time without someone slapping him on the back, giving him a fist bump, calling out his name, waving. Popular guy.
He leads us into the building, and we enter a cool, dark corridor where aquariums built into the walls are full of turtles of all shapes and sizes. While Pepe and Wendell talk, I hang back, peering through the cloudy glass at the creatures meandering through blue-green water. Wendell’s Spanish has greatly improved since Ecuador two years ago, when he could barely conjugate a verb in present tense. His trip must have motivated him to study and practice back home, because now Spanish is rolling off his tongue, even faster than French did last summer.
Pepe compliments Wendell on his Spanish, then switches briefly to English to say he spent the past twenty years going back and forth between here, Mexico City, and the United States. “They hired me because of my English—so I could talk with the tourists.” He winks. “But my bosses don’t know how bad my English is.”
“Oh, it’s great,” I chime in. “And that’s coming from an English teacher’s daughter.”
He smiles modestly. “Well, my English will just get worse from here on out. I’m home to stay now. I had to leave town to find decent jobs, make money, like most men do. But now that there’s this steady stream of tourists, I can stay here and make a living.”
“Do you have a science background?” Wendell asks.
“Not a bit!” Pepe laughs. “Just the English. Of course I love turtles, but I’m no scientist. As community outreach coordinator, I just have to make connections, involve folks in town. That means being social, talking, shooting the breeze like we’re doing now. My specialty!”
In this heavy heat, it’s mind-boggling how he can look so perfectly put-together. He’s clean-shaven, sporting miraculously unwrinkled clothes. Even his shoes and belt are polished. Whenever I meet a man around Layla’s age who seems nice, responsible, good-looking, well-groomed—like Pepe—I can’t help wanting to set them up. It’s an old habit I’m trying to break, but it’s practically an instinct now.
While Layla has clown radar, I have radar for good dad material. My own father would probably not show up on my radar, though. He’s socially awkward, unreliable, unstable, often melancholy—few, if any, outward signs of good dad material.
Soon the conversation turns to the stolen turtle eggs. Pepe says he’s been in touch with the police officer Chucho about the case. His face creases in pain at the topic, and he shakes his head mournfully. “It appears the volunteers didn’t show up that night. What a tragedy. Hundreds of potential turtle lives lost. Needless to say, I fired those volunteers.”
“We could take their places,” Wendell offers.
Pepe gives him a hearty slap on the back. “Now, that’s the spirit. I’ll put both your names on the waiting list.”
“Who are these volunteers, anyway?” I ask. “Maybe we could talk with them.”
“Sure,” he says good-naturedly. “I’ll email you their names.”
“Gracias,” Wendell says as Pepe leads us outside into the blinding sunlight.
Flipping his sunglasses back on, Pepe points out blue pools filled with turtles. They’re swimming in slow circles and crawli
ng along the sloped edges. Wendell is able to identify most of them by sight and even describe their eating and nesting habits.
Pepe is impressed. “You’ve been preparing well, Wendell.”
Looking pleased, Wendell thanks him.
“So where are you staying?” Pepe asks.
I tense up as Wendell says “Cabañas Magia del Mar,” dreading the reaction. Everything has been going so swimmingly with Pepe, I don’t want to ruin the sunny mood.
Pepe pushes his sunglasses onto his head. “Up there near the jaguar?”
Wendell nods.
“We know about the rumors,” I say preemptively. “In fact, we’ve already been victims of a little curse. Bloody chickens left on our doorsteps.”
Pepe looks concerned. “Are you going to move into town?”
“No.” I shoot him a giant smile. “We love it there. We never want to leave.” I babble on, trying to erase Pepe’s worried expression. “Actually, my mom and I are extending the contract to five years. Or more. Maybe someday we’ll even be able to buy it.”
“Well …,” Pepe says gently. “Just be careful up there, muchachos.”
After a pause, Wendell asks, “What can you tell us about the owner of the jaguar?”
Pepe sighs. “Unfortunately, she has psychological problems. It’s a dangerous situation. She’s living up there with a predator capable of killing anyone within seconds.”
Wendell says nothing, just looks at me.
Pepe rests his arm on Wendell’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to scare you. I just want you safe. If you decide to move to town, I’ll use my contacts to help you find a place.” He pulls out his cell phone, checking something. “Gotta get back to work, but feel free to wander around. Meet your colleagues.”
He gives our hands warm shakes, looking at us intently. “You’re my responsibility. If something happened to you … pues, I’d never forgive myself. Promise me you’ll be careful. Tengan cuidado.”
For a while, Wendell and I croon over adorable baby sea turtles in shallow pools; then we head toward a strip of beach that belongs to the Turtle Center. Across the sand, a wizened man leans against a boat, weaving a net from plant fibers. His skin is the color of a polished coconut shell, his arm muscles sinewy, his face deeply lined, his eyes hidden in the shadows of a worn baseball cap. He wears a threadbare Baltimore Orioles T-shirt and ancient dress pants—clothes that look as if they’ve spent years in the sun and salt and wind, faded and riddled with holes. He has a peaceful, unhurried air about him as he sets down his net and waves in greeting.
When we approach him, he squints at us, curious. “Buenos días, muchachos.”
We introduce ourselves, and at hearing Wendell’s name, the man’s face breaks into a smile. “I’m Santy.” He extends a leathery hand. “Your driver. Every day, I’ll be taking you out there to photograph the turtles.” He gestures to the expanse of glittering wave tips. “Oigan, I’ve got nothing to do now. I could take you for a quick spin.”
Minutes later, in the dazzling blue-green sea, Wendell and I are perched on the boat’s bench, sporting mildewed life jackets. I shield my eyes with my hands, wishing I’d brought a hat. As we cut through the water, watching the jungle-lined shore grow smaller, we stay quiet. The motor makes it too loud to talk. When we reach a reef, Santy cuts the engine, gestures over the edge. “Plenty of fish and turtles down there.”
I peer into the water, searching. A few dark forms flicker far below.
Wendell points out a school of blue fish, a sunfish darting into a reef, a swarm of tiny silvery minnows.
Santy, meanwhile, tosses out an anchor, briefly exposing a huge, ragged scar on his upper arm. I try not to stare, but I can’t help it. Questions about scars nearly always lead to riveting notebook entries. “Mind if I ask you what happened to your arm, Don Santy?” I ask, pushing my windblown hair from my face.
“Well, señorita,” he chuckles, rubbing the scar, “that’s something I don’t usually tell people I’ve just met.” His gruff, sandy voice sounds just as weathered as the rest of him. “At least not until they’re safely back on shore,” he adds with a twinkle in his eye.
This sounds good. Even Wendell tears his gaze from the water to look at Santy. I whip my jade notebook from my bag, open it, and take out a pen. Giving the pen a little twirl, I say, “Just taking notes.”
“Bueno, muchachos.” Santy picks up the half-finished net, weaving the fibers with calloused fingers as he talks. “A ways back, years ago, I used to spear fish in these waters. Oh, I was just a young man then, cocky and full of myself, always plotting to make my life better.” He laughs roughly. “I grew tired of living all the way out in the boondocks. Back then there were no tourists, you see. Nada de turistas. It was just a little backwater fishing town. Chiquitito.” Really tiny. He pauses to hold his finger and thumb a centimeter apart.
He resumes his weaving, so nimble he doesn’t even have to look. He alternates between glancing at me, Wendell, and the sea, as if it’s listening too. “For so many years, every morning, I’d swim far out with my spear, catch a few big fish, and then swim back. Same thing every day. I’d always put the fish into a bag so the sharks wouldn’t smell the blood.”
He pauses, letting this information sink in, looking us each in the eye before he continues. “But finally, when I saved up enough pesos, I packed my little suitcase and told everyone I was leaving for Mexico City. Oh, I was so excited.…” He closes his eyes, shakes his head. “And you see, that made me careless.”
He stops to gauge our reactions. I admit, I’m riveted.
“On that last day,” Santy says, his voice slowing down, “in the early morning, before dawn, I went out to the beach—to say adios, I guess.” He adjusts his cap, gazes at the horizon, almost dreamily. “The moon was full. There was something about the way the moonlight was making a path to the sea … I decided to go out one last time. I was already far offshore when I realized I forgot the bag for my catch. Any other time I would have turned back, but that morning I felt invincible. I decided to risk it. I caught a huge dorado.” He extends his hands wide, showing us the length of the fish. “I strapped it across my back, along with my spear, and headed back on that moon path.” He leans toward us and whispers hoarsely, “But, you see, I was leaving a trail of blood.”
After a dramatic beat, he says, “I was halfway to shore when the shark came.”
At the mention of a shark, I glance at Wendell. So far, all the animals in his vision have appeared except for the shark. The jaguar, the dead chicken. Does this count as the shark? I hope so. I hope his vision just signifies a story about a shark and not an actual encounter. I raise my eyebrows in an unspoken question. Wendell gives a small shrug in response and returns his gaze to Santy.
Santy continues. “I let go of the fish and started swimming away as fast as I could.” He pantomimes frenzied arm strokes. Now the tempo of his story picks up. “I hoped the shark would just grab the fish, but he came after me. I reached for my spear, but the shark was too fast.” He shakes his head. “I’ll never forget how he thrashed at me, his jaws open. His teeth closed on my arm and didn’t let go.” Santy lifts up his shirtsleeve to reveal the full extent of the damage. “Ripped off a chunk of flesh. For a moment, he let go. But then his jaws opened again. I was thinking, This is it, Santy.”
I interject, “And what did you think about, in that moment?”
Santy rubs his whiskered chin. “Pues, in that instant, I wasn’t just scared, I was sad, you see. And not sad that I’d never make it to Mexico City. No, I was sad that I wouldn’t get to see these waters again. Never again.” He barks an ironic laugh. “That’s what was in my mind, how I’d miss these waters, these waters I’d thought I was sick of, these waters full of a lifetime of memories.”
My pen is racing across the pages, trying not to miss a word.
Santy squints into the sea beneath him. His net lies on his lap, forgotten in the momentum of the story. “So I’m just taking in a last glimpse o
f my ocean, when zaz!” He slams his fist into his palm, making me jump. “Something knocks right into the shark. It’s huge. The shark is as long as a man, but this thing is even longer, wider.” He stretches out his arms to their full span, lets us wait in suspense for a moment.
Finally, Wendell asks, “What was it?”
“A sea turtle. Leatherback. The biggest I’d ever seen. Oh, I’d heard they could get this big—as big as a boat. But I’d never seen it.” He leans in closer, his voice brimming with awe. “And I’ll tell you something! That turtle fought off the shark. The shark got a few nips at its shell but then swam away.”
Don Santy grabs his scarred arm theatrically. “Now I’m clutching my wound and feeling light-headed from losing blood, and then a new panic hits me. How will I get back to shore one-handed? Without passing out? How will I fend off more sharks? Just when I decide this is the day I die after all, that turtle swims right under me. She rises, up, up, up.” Don Santy motions with his arm toward the sky. “Now I’m on her back. It must have hurt her to have me hanging on, because her back was cut up from battling that shark.
“I hold on with my good arm and press my face against her. As gently as I can, suavecito. I tell her thank you. Gracias, gracias, gracias. Then my memory goes blank. Next thing I know, I’m on shore, and someone’s slapping my face. A fisherman. And behind his head, the sky, all pink and red and gold. Am I in heaven? Or is it the most glorious sunrise I’ve ever seen? Now this man is shaking me, wrapping cloth around my arm, tying it tight. I look out to sea and say thank you to that turtle again. Thank you. Thank you for giving me a chance to be on these waters more days, more years. Thank you for giving me the chance to live the rest of my life without complaints, but with gracia. With grace. And gratitude.”
Tears fill his eyes. “I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for that turtle. I call her Gracia.”
“Did you ever see her again?” Wendell ventures, his voice cracking with emotion.
Santy nods. “Pues, I see her once in a while. Most leatherbacks stay far out at sea, but Gracia likes to show up from time to time. She’s become famous around here.” He peers into the water. “Look, there’s a turtle now.”
