by Laura Resau
Wendell lights up. Without a word, he tears off his life vest and T-shirt and jumps overboard.
Santy lets out a whoop. “Now, this is a boy who likes turtles!”
“Loves turtles.”
Santy and I watch Wendell swim with the turtle. It doesn’t seem scared of him. It makes circles around him. Another one comes to join them, and now all three are frolicking. Wendell pops his head up for a breath, his face full of sheer delight. Then he dives under again.
Santy smiles. “Your friend has a way with turtles.”
It looks fun, and I’m tempted to jump in and join them, but this is Wendell’s moment. He’s in his element, completely at ease with these creatures. Not to mention, Santy’s shark attack story looms too fresh in my mind. Someone has to keep an eye out for circling fins.
A while later, the turtles scatter, and Wendell climbs on board. His teeth are chattering, but he’s glowing, gushing in a mix of Spanish and English. “That was amazing! I can’t wait to get photos! I can’t believe this is my job! I mean, qué padre!”
Santy nods in approval. “You’ll be good. You’re a natural.”
I wrap my arms around Wendell, warming him up and cooling myself off in the process. Santy revs the motor and steers the boat back to shore. We bounce along, leaving a trail of white foam.
Near the beach, Santy cuts the motor and we hop out, pulling the boat through the surf onto the dry sand. As I take off my life jacket, I ask, “Oiga, Don Santy, do you know anything about poaching at Playa Mermejita?”
He shakes his head, dismayed. “No, but that makes me sad to hear. Beautiful little beach. Still remote.” He pauses, rubs his chin. “Lucky the developers haven’t gotten their hands on it yet. There’d be hotels and restaurants everywhere.”
“Right,” Wendell agrees. “Good thing there are laws protecting it.”
Santy chuckles. “Laws don’t mean much here. People pay each other off, exchange favors and bribes. That’s how things work in a small town. Only reason folks stopped hunting turtles was because they realized they’d make more money from tourism. And for tourism, you need the turtles. There’s no development on Playa Mermejita now because the folks who own the land around there haven’t let it happen. Good for them.”
Bringing us back to the subject, I ask, “Any idea who the poachers could be?”
“Oh, it could be anyone.” His voice drops. “You never know what people do in the dark of night.” Apparently, Santy’s pretty cynical about human nature. He leans against his boat, looking out to sea. “You know, I’m not the only one Gracia saved. There was a young boy. Now, this was about thirty years ago. He loved swimming with the turtles.” Santy lets out a low whistle.
I settle in the sand and open my notebook again, jotting this down. The paper flaps wildly in the breeze. Wendell sits next to me, ready for another story.
Santy’s scratchy voice continues. “And one day he was out near some coral reefs when he cut his foot. A deep gash. Oh, he’d heard my story—everyone in town had. He started swimming back, but sure enough, here comes a shark.” With his hand, he mimes a shark cutting through the water.
“The boy remembered how a turtle had saved me. He called to the sea turtles, asked them for help. And just when that shark’s about to grab him, Gracia swims up. She knocks the shark out of the way and dives underneath the boy. The boy hangs on. He feels the scars on her back—from the shark that attacked me. Shaped like this.” Santy makes a giant V in the air with his finger and thumb. “And two new gashes, still raw.” Now he moves his other finger and thumb to form a diamond. “Gracia swam the boy to shore.”
In my notebook I do a quick sketch of a sea turtle with a diamond on its back. Suddenly, I remember the turtle Wendell and I saw. Our grandmother turtle. The one whose eggs were stolen. The diamond-shaped pattern on her back.
Shielding my eyes in the sunlight, I look up at Wendell. He gives a slight nod. Yes, it must have been Gracia!
I’m about to mention this, when Santy says, “Around here, we say that some people have a certain … connection to turtles.” He looks deliberately at Wendell as he speaks. “Some way of communicating that others don’t understand.
“There’s more,” Santy says, lowering his voice. “The boy swore to Gracia he’d always protect her. And sure enough, when he was a teenager, he pushed to have the Turtle Center built.”
Santy shakes his head. “But a strange thing happened. When he was your age, maybe a tad older, he was working for the Turtle Center, taking out scientists, just like I do now. Then, one day, this young man was charged with poaching turtles.”
I interrupt. “But how could he poach turtles if he loved them so much?”
“Oh, he was a moody fellow, had a dark side. He ended up skipping his trial and leaving town. Went to Europe, I heard. Guess he was too ashamed. That’s the last anyone’s heard of him.”
My pen hovers over the page, suddenly motionless. Is this a story about my father? The details fit. A man who broke from his past, left for Europe to escape something, never resolved it. The moodiness—possible bipolar disorder. Maybe his illness wasn’t even diagnosed yet. Before he took meds, he might have been in pretty bad shape.
I’m trying to form a question, when Santy says, “Tragic how one mistake can ruin a life, an entire family. Gossip and rumors flew, his family was shamed. Personally, I never understood how someone could betray what he loved most. Especially a boy named El Tortuga.”
Tortuga. Spanish for Turtle. My father’s nickname. It must be him. I look out at the water, trying to collect my thoughts, rein in my emotions. It’s dizzying. I feel as if the beach beneath me is rocking, as if I’m still on the boat. I shut my eyes tight. Wendell finds my hand, squeezes it.
My father. A man who betrayed the turtles who’d saved him. A man who shamed his family, his community. Sure, he had to deal with mental illness, but still. It hurts my stomach to think about. And why did he want to return? Redemption? What was he hoping to do here? Would it somehow make him a better father? And did he ever return? Or is he out there somewhere, swimming in circles?
“This Tortuga,” Wendell says, squinting at Santy, “you say he never came back?”
Santy shakes his head. “If he does, there’s a jail cell waiting for him.”
“And his family?” I ask hesitantly, swallowing the giant lump in my throat. “Has he ever contacted them?”
“Quién sabe.” Who knows. Santy lets out a long sigh. “His father swore that if he came back, he’d lead him straight to jail. The rest of his family was too pained to talk about it. They still are.”
After we’ve said farewell to Santy, as we’re walking back across the strip of beach, Wendell says gently, “What do you think, Z?”
“That my father sounds like …” I blink back tears, searching for the right words. A complete jerk is what’s on the tip of my tongue.
Wendell strokes my hair and finishes my sentence for me. “A good person at heart. But maybe a depressed and confused one. One who just made a big mistake.”
I force a weak smile. “You would give him the benefit of the doubt.”
Wendell pulls me close and buries his face in my hair. “Or maybe,” he adds, “your father is innocent.”
Back at the cabanas, Layla’s sweeping the path while Joe’s practicing some sort of sock puppet routine. As we approach, she glances at us, revealing the tiniest hint of relief at the diversion from Joe’s show. When I fill her in on Santy’s story, she cries, “It’s exactly what I told you!”
“What?”
“Your father—he’s a merman! A turtle merman. That’s why he can communicate with them. His special powers!”
I bury my face in my hands. “That’s not the take-home message here, Layla.”
Joe stuffs the sock puppets in his pockets, and turns to Layla, concerned. “And this man is still in love with you?”
She waves away his question and grabs my hand. “I think it’s extraordinary, Z!” A faraway lo
ok passes over her face. “I knew I wasn’t just drunk on moonlight.… I knew there was something … magical about that man.”
Joe looks crushed. “You’re not in love with him, are you, Layla?”
I watch her reaction, curious about this myself. Her expression doesn’t give any clue to whether she might love him, or hope to love him. There’s just that blissed-out smile that comes with her beachcombing approach to romance, and my father.
Ignoring Joe, she drops the broom, takes my other hand. “It’s like that myth, Z! You know, where the seal transforms into a human and has a child, then goes back to the sea.”
I look to Wendell for a little help. He’s picked up the broom and is finishing up the sweeping, suppressing a grin. In exasperation, I say, “Layla, after decades, stories gain a magical gleam. It’s a fantastical tale.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. You know, one of the guests—that new French guy—said that in parts of Hawaii, turtles protect children from harm in the water. Same thing! It’s universal!”
I ignore her flawed attempt at logic. And I ignore the fact that just last week, I had a dream of my father as a turtle merman. I’m tired, and frustrated, and I don’t care about excuses like being bipolar. My words come out unexpectedly harsh. “The point is that my father betrayed everyone who loved him. He couldn’t face the consequences of his actions. Not twenty years ago and not now.” I bite my cheek, holding back tears.
Wendell sets down the broom and puts his arm around me.
I force myself to continue. “I just want to be happy in our home. Our permanent home.” I turn to Wendell. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll get to know my other relatives here—like El Sapo’s family. And if the only part of paradise that’s missing is my father, I’ll deal with it.” Maybe if I say the words enough, I’ll start to believe them.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Joe nodding emphatically in agreement, murmuring, “Just forget about that man.”
Layla pulls me to her, wraps me in her scent of jasmine and sea salt. “I’m sorry, Z.” She takes a deep breath and looks at the sky over the jungle, and I know what’s coming. Rumi. “The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in. Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.”
One way to forget the messiness of life is to play a game, giggle a bit. For the next few days, every evening Wendell and I find ourselves on the beach court with the bolibolistas, laughing, diving, jumping, and losing ourselves in sand-spewn volleyball antics. These bolibolistas’ personality quirks are quickly filling up my jade notebook. There’s El Loco’s understated humor and funny little bouncing dreads, the sweet bakery sisters’ ever-changing crushes, the pink-faced Irish hemp jewelry seller’s yodeling, Mayra’s prissiness, Xochitl’s tomboyishness, El Sapo’s geeky athleticism and love of Japanese animé.
And all the while, I know they aren’t all just strangers whose paths are briefly crossing mine. Some of these bolibolistas are—in all likelihood—my cousins. My cousins! I love knowing that for years we could be playing volleyball together, becoming closer, sharing stories, sharing lives. I love this. It makes me feel full.
Full enough to not obsessively fret over the messy developments in my life. It’s much easier to lose myself in the simple thrills of volleyball matches. During these games, El Sapo’s mother, Cristina, comes over with cups and a pitcher of something cool and sweet for the players. She always makes sure that Wendell and I are served first. Sometimes she pauses to watch the games, a thoughtful look on her face.
Today Cristina has brought us agua de papaya—foamy, sugary juice a light shade of orange. After I thank her, I’m about to head to the surf to cool off, when she asks softly, “Any luck finding that señor?”
I shake my head and sip my drink. “Look, Doña Cristina, I’m sorry we were pushy the other night. I mean, with our questions. We shouldn’t have—”
She waves my words away. “Oh, don’t worry about it.”
“Really,” I insist. “I’m sorry. José Cruz was just a man we met in France.” I pause, searching for a way to phrase this, a way that isn’t exactly a lie. I need to tell her something more, though, if I want to have a real friendship with her family. I have to make her feel comfortable. Then maybe one day, she can really be like an aunt to me. “He mentioned Punta Cometa,” I continue slowly, “here in Oaxaca. And sea turtles. We—we thought he might be from Mazunte.” Again, I hesitate.
She’s hanging on my every word.
“He said something about returning home,” I finish, taking another sip of my drink.
She blinks a few times, composing her thoughts. “Pues, I’ll tell you if I hear anything, señorita.” Then, almost shyly, she adds, “And you will tell me, no?”
“Of course.” I search her eyes, so much like mine. I notice her biting her cheek. “And please, call me Zeeta.”
“Gracias, Zeeta.” She looks like she wants to say more, but Xochitl and Mayra have run over, and they’re grabbing drinks from her tray. Cristina gives us a nod, then moves on to distribute drinks.
As we sip our agua de papaya, Mayra adjusts her barrettes and asks eagerly, “So has she tried to kill you yet?”
Wendell and I look at each other. Who?
“¡La bruja!”
The witch? I pause. “You mean the jaguar lady?”
Mayra nods, her eyes wide.
“Not yet,” I say, grimacing.
Folding her arms, Xochitl says authoritatively, “I heard she killed her daughter. And then her husband.”
Mayra gives a solemn nod. “And kids who go on her land—she feeds them to her jaguar.”
“Sí,” Xochitl agrees. She scratches a bug bite on her scabbed-over knee, adding, “That’s how she kills people.”
“Hmmm,” I reply. “I’ll keep that in mind if I hear any bloodcurdling screams.”
Once the girls leave, distracted by their friends who’ve arrived, Wendell murmurs, “Somehow this doesn’t get me excited about heading into the Forbidden Territory.”
“We’ll have to go sooner or later,” I say, finishing off my agua de papaya. “The murderous bruja needs to know we’ll be here for the long haul.”
We’re getting closer to signing the deal. Layla finally had Raúl the lawyer, in a rare sober moment, look over the contract and plans we drew up. Now she just has to meet with the owners and sign the papers, and that’s it, we’ll be here for five years. At least. And by then we might have enough money saved up to buy the land. Our guess is the owners will be more than happy to sign. After all, they’ve had to deal with such a high turnover of managers in the past.
My only concern is Layla, whether she’ll back out at the last minute. Who knows what will happen if she gets cold feet, right when one of our guests tells her she simply has to go to Bora Bora or Timbuktu. I need to make sure Layla stays convinced that this place is perfect, despite the pesky curse and jaguar. I’m not going to mention the rumors of a child-killing witch, that’s for sure.
I’m guessing we’ll be stuck with this bruja for a long time. But in the meantime, I can at least find a way to get rid of the jaguar. Contain the mess.
Sunset at Punta Cometa calls to me. I give myself excuses for not visiting my favorite place: the evening volleyball games, helping Layla with dinners, a world history test. But the real reason is this: going to Punta Cometa for sunset requires a walk through the jungle. And the last time I ventured into the jungle, the jaguar pounced. Even remembering it sends my heart racing.
Still, Punta Cometa calls to me. And I need to go alone, to think.
As I tiptoe down the path, the breeze sneaks between the thick trees, and I wrap my sarong around my shoulders. It’s from Thailand, silk, woven with shiny threads the color of moonlight. I feel like a magician when I wear it, protected. It’s nearly sunset, golden sunbeams angled through the trees. This hazy light makes the Forbidden Territory less menacing. Beyond the signs, I make out the pattern of wire me
sh through the leaves. The gentle light reveals something almost sad about these signs, the fence, the wild animal inside.
Soon I’m walking along Comet Point, listening to my father’s music on Wendell’s iPod. The notes are plucked so delicately, so nimbly. The melody pulls me up, up, up, as though a wave is lifting me, and then down again. His music is like ocean currents. Most of it must be music he composed himself; I’ve never heard it anywhere else.
The only song I recognize is an instrumental riff on a Jimi Hendrix tune. I can supply the words to this one. “Butterflies and zebras and moonbeams and fairy tales … that’s all she ever thinks about, and riding with the wind …” A very fitting song for Layla.
Many of the songs have a classic, romantic feel, a Spanish or Mexican flavor. I can only imagine what the words might be. Some songs are bright, sparkling like wave tips; others are shadowy, haunting, bringing to mind ocean depths. Maybe my father wrote the lively ones during a manic time, the heavy ones during a depression.
Listening to his music is kind of a bipolar experience itself, jumping between extremes of heart-soaring and incredibly frustrating. I can’t help searching for clues in the notes—clues to who he is—and wondering how someone so flawed and troubled could have made such breathtaking music.
Couples are scattered across the peninsula, facing the orange sun that’s falling closer to the water by the minute. At a distance, El Loco is fishing on the cliffs; I can tell by the silhouette of his short dreads against the glowing sky. It’s a mystery to me how he reached that spot, smack in the middle of rock crags. Gulls fly overhead, circling and diving for fish. And I stand on the edge, asking myself if, despite everything that’s happened lately, I still want to stay here for good.
I do. The connection is stronger than ever. My body, my mind, my soul—everything comes together perfectly in this space. I watch the sun drop below the horizon, then sit for a while longer, until a cool breeze makes me shiver.
