"Dirty Good" - Alone and naked on a Caribbean island, searching for waves and a pair of boardshorts.

Dirty Good
by j. friesen



    And so this was how his grand escape had left him: alone and stranded on a Caribbean beach with himself, his surfboard, a half-empty bottle of water, no waves to surf, and six hours until a guy named Pablo was to return to pick him up – though even that was something he no longer felt was guaranteed. He had been walking the coastline for what seemed miles, from point to point, trudging through the porous, sponge-cake sand across one identical beach after another, all the while searching for waves that weren't there. With each new point he came to, another stretch of long, still ocean greeted him on the other side, and for lack of anything else to do with his time, he kept on; marching beneath the unrelenting sun with no way to gain cover as the dry sand on the jungle's edge burned his feet and the shaded jungle floor seemed only to protect the snakes and spiders from his view.
    After turning the fourth point, he found himself him before another expanse of undisturbed water and desolate beach. Though he had fully expected to see another stretch of glassy water and empty beach around the next point, each time he came to it, it was like a fresh heartbreak. The repeated betrayal of his optimism by reality, coupled with the overwhelming heat, soon took its toll on him and his thoughts began to blur together into a heat-induced fever that left him stuck somewhere between a cruel joke and a lost cause – like Prometheus had taken up Quixote's lance and set off on a quest he no longer understood. But he labored on, determined to make something of his mission, and while he kept his mouth moist with small sips of water, neither dehydration nor heat stroke ever seemed far off.
    As he neared the fifth point, he felt himself being overtaken by apprehension and an acute sense of impending doom. He didn't know if he could face another span of lake-like ocean and he froze, too afraid to round the corner. He had come too far to be met with any more disappointment and his pride teamed up with pessimism, forcing him to drop his board on the beach and preempt the defeat he knew was awaiting him on the other side of the point. He collapsed to the sand, refusing to go any further, and he stretched his arms out wide letting the sun have its go at his sweat-soaked skin, like some sort of penance, no longer caring what punishment it might mete out upon his fair flesh. He laid at the water's edge, surrendering to defeat. He wanted nothing more than to put it behind him and lose himself outside of thought, but the fact was that he was stuck on this beach for the rest of this day, so he laid still and listened to the birds and felt the cool water that lapped over his feet and legs. Despite all of his efforts to clear his head, he was consumed by disappointment, convinced that all his attempts to escape the crowds and pressures of his home had only led him to this great disappointment – a fall that much greater after the heights his expectations had taken him to. He laid there in silence, fighting off the devil’s mocking taunts to struggle on while doing his best to embrace the lot he had come upon, and soon he was asleep.
    He must have been sleeping for at least an hour or so because when he was awoken by a wave crashing over his chest the first thing he noticed was that the sun was now directly above him. Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked out on the ocean and was surprised to see small waves cresting a little ways out. He got to his feet quickly to get a better idea of how they were holding up and saw that the sets coming in were small and weak, but better than anything he had seen all day, though nothing that could be ridden by a shortboard. His spirits were lifted just to hear the sound of the crashing waves and he stood there for a little while begging for bigger sets to come in. After a few minutes he decided to take what he had, so he left his board on the beach and swam out to cool himself in the small surf.
    He swam up and down the point, letting the small waves toss him around, and he tried to catch them at their peak when he had a chance at getting into the small pocket and do some bodysurfing. And little by little the sets started getting bigger. Word had been spreading around the island that a swell was supposed to be coming in later that day and it looked like it had arrived a little earlier than expected.
    Before long, the waves had gotten big enough for him to get some decent rides and he found himself having to swim farther out to catch them. Despite being in the cool water he could still feel himself working up a sweat and after one of the bigger sets had tossed him head over heels he felt his boardshorts slipping down around his ankles. But before he had a chance to pull them back up another wave crashed over his head, sending him back under and pulling his shorts completely off. Surfacing again, he started swimming around, frantically trying to fish them out of the whitewater and diving below the surface though the clouded, sandy water prevented him from seeing anything. He waited for the water to settle but when the waves finally gave a brief respite, his boardshorts were nowhere to be found. Treading water, he waited patiently for them to surface, but nothing came up and before long the waves started up again – bigger and with better form than he had seen before. Eyeing the curling and waves, and feeling himself naked in the ocean, he was torn between bodysurfing uninhibited in the open, empty ocean and looking for the security of his shorts. He saw no point in wasting his energy searching for them as he had spent so long trying to find some waves to surf, and he let his shorts go, convinced that they would be washed ashore before long.
    As the waves grew enough in size and strength, he thought it possible to go back to the beach to get his board and try his luck at catching a few rides. But once ashore, he scanned the shoreline looking to see where his shorts had washed up, and to no avail. Panicking, he walked to the water’s edge with his board in hand, skimming the ocean’s surface for his shorts, ready to grab them wherever they surfaced. He walked up and down a small length of the beach, wading through the breakers and scouring the shoreline while trying to stay focused as the waves continued to roll in with good shape and increasing height. But it didn’t take long for him to lose all interest in the waves, fully consumed by the fear that his shorts had been washed out to sea.
    It did not take him long to realize that the shorts were indeed gone for good, and it didn’t take much longer after that for his thoughts to turn to what he would do next. Needing to find something to cover himself with he looked to the forest for a palm branch – something they used to use in the Garden of Eden – but his nakedness left him feeling even more vulnerable to the hidden perils of the jungle and he became all that much more wary of venturing into the jungle now that he lacked even the most false of securities in clothing. As his unease grew, he became acutely aware of the overwhelming heat and his unobstructed exposure to the sun’s rays – and the parts of him that had never known sunburn before. The sun had taken only a few minutes to dry the excess water from his body, and it had left behind a thick film of salt over his entire body that clogged his pores and seemed to absorb the humidity all the more, working together with his frustration to magnify the anxiety that was taking over him more and more.
    It soon became futile to continue looking for the shorts that weren’t there, and he surrendered himself to their loss, now looking for a way to rationalize his nudity. “I’m on some deserted island in the middle of the Caribbean,” he tried to calm himself. “I’ll just walk until I find someone and then politely ask them for something to cover myself with. I won’t know them, I’ll never see them again, and the embarrassment will only last for as long as it takes them to hand me a towel.” With that settled, he started back down the beach for where he had come from, holding the board atop his head to shield his unprotected self from the sun as best he could.
    As his retreat down the beach dragged on, he gradually grew into his nakedness and soon returned his attention to the waves that were breaking clean and empty fifty meters or so from the shore. He watched them, albeit somewhat begrudgingly as he retraced his day. Having gone through so much to get there, he had given up in defeat thinking it was all for naught, and as soon as he had done so the waves picked up. Then, throwing caution to the waves, he lost his shorts in pursuit of a quick rush that really wasn’t all that glorious, and was now forced to let the empty waves go unridden as he was too concerned with being naked on a desolate beach where there wasn’t anybody around to scorn him.
    Rounding the next point he was greeted by still more waves breaking over an exposed reef a hundred yards or so out to sea, but prudence and shame kept him walking on and he maintained his eyes straight ahead to stay focused on the task. Continuing along the shore, he tried singing in an attempt to drown out the sound of the waves crashing, though with little success. His ears had been fine tuned over the years to single out that sound and he found it futile to fight. He would just have to accept it and keep on.
    A quarter of the way down the beach he saw a couple emerge from behind the point opposite him. They were holding hands – a woman in a bikini and a man in a speedo – and in their free hands he could see they were each carrying towels. His first instinct was to jump into the forest and hide his shame, as they hadn’t yet noticed him, and wait, hoping that they would just pass by and continue on. But once around the bend, they stopped and scanned the beach. Seeing his chance, he reconsidered hiding and waited for them to spot him. After a few moments without any acknowledgement he built up his courage and started to wave, holding the surfboard in front of himself with his free hand to keep covered. He waited for them to continue down the beach, but they never moved, so he started walking towards them, hoping to meet them halfway and politely ask them to lend him a towel without having to drop his board and offend their modesty. Taking his time so as to have a few moments to practice exactly what he was going to say, he walked at a steady pace, waving as he did so in hopes of getting their attention.
    The couple, however, never noticed him, and before he realized what was happening, they had turned around and almost disappeared behind the point. He panicked again. At first, he started to run towards them, but seeing how far away he still was, he ran out into the water and began screaming as loud as he could. With the crash of the waves drowning out his voice, he quick put the board over his head with the nose pointed straight up and began hopping up and down. Just as the couple was to about to turn the corner, the woman saw him in the corner of her eye and turned around to look. Not knowing what to do next, he continued jumping up and down and screaming, waving the board back and forth over his head. The woman pointed at him and turned her man around. They stood there for a moment, staring at him. Seeing his chance, he tucked the board under his arm and took off running down the beach towards them. But as soon as he had made his move, the man quickly pulled the woman away and dragged her around the corner and out of sight, leaving him far behind. He kept on running, trying to catch up with them, but the distance was too far and he was soon too exhausted to run anymore and stopped, putting the board back on his head and reconvening his slow, defeated march.
    When he finally reached the next point, he took care in rounding it, not wanting to scare the couple off before he had a chance to explain himself if they were at all within reach. Hiding behind some of the bushes, he spotted the couple three-fourths of the way to the following point. They were walking briskly with the woman struggling to keep up and the man periodically looking over his shoulder to see if the crazy naked kid with the surfboard had rounded the corner yet. Seeing that he still had a chance to catch up with them before they rounded the next point, he tried to run along the treeline, hugging the jungle as he best as he could without stepping beyond the sand and into a snake’s mouth or a spider’s web. But the sand at the jungle’s edge was too hot to go on for too long and he was forced to run to the water to cool his feet off when he couldn’t bear it any longer. He was successful in keeping out of the coupleí’s view for a little way, strategically making a dash for the water when he felt they weren’t going to look back, and for a few moments it looked like he might be able to get close enough to them to plead for help. But he had grossly underestimated the couple’s paranoia and as soon as they spotted him sneaking up on them, they took off in a full sprint and never looked back.
    Worn out from the excitement, the heat and the exhaustion of running with his surfboard, he dropped into the ocean and cooled off, rubbing his tender feet and looking them over for any early signs of blistering. He noticed that the waves were small and inconsequential here and he found himself fighting between walking all the way back to the reef he had left behind or continuing on towards his drop-off point to wait for Pablo. Fully discouraged by the cumulative failure of all his efforts, he walked along the beach, thinking it better to just make his way back to the drop-off, sit it out and bide his time. He slogged on through the wet sand, too tired to hold the board over his head and soon enough he came back to the point he was dropped off at. He laid his board down and took a seat beneath a small tree that would shield him from the sun and provide some cover lest another rogue couple popped out onto the beach.
    After a little while he laid down on his side and let his imagination wander, gazing at his surroundings from the ocean to the jungle and back. He was alone again and for the first time he truly felt lonely. He had originally set off on the trip to find some solitude and reprieve from all that had been filling his time and worrying him back home, and now he began to wonder if this what he had really come looking for; if this was actually what he had been going after all along. Sitting back, he dug his feet and hands into the fine, cool sand, letting it run over his toes and through his fingers. He watched the running sand fall from the top of his hands and felt a faint peace, and he wondered if looking back on this moment in twenty or thirty years he would say to himself, “You had it then – that was it. Either you never should’ve left or you never should’ve come back, but something happened after and you were never able to get back to that moment again.” He did his best to fight those paranoid thoughts, to clear his mind, and he listened to the waves and felt the sand as he stared towards the sky through the trees above him. He tried to feel good about everything, and after a little while he did feel good – dirty good.”
    From time to time he would roll over from his side to his back and then to his other side, and after a little while he noticed that he was sitting at the end of a small trail that led back into the jungle. He saw fresh footprints of varying sizes on the trail and thought that this might have been where the couple had disappeared to. Standing up, he tried to follow the trail with his eyes and saw that it was fairly wide, though he couldn’t quite tell where it was going. Grabbing his board, he carefully made his way down the trail, keeping alert for any snakes that might jump out or spiders that might descend upon him from above. He couldn’t see any snakes, but massive webs were all around him, and one obviously lead to another, so he crept along the trail with his surfboard at the ready to swat and demolish anything that might make a move on him, and before long the trail opened up onto a wide dirt road.
    He stood in the middle of the road, protected from the sun beneath the canopy of palm trees, looking up and down the road to see where it might lead. From what little he could see, it appeared only that the road led gradually away from the beach, deeper into the thick of the jungle and farther away from the sun. To where he had been heading, the road made a sharp curve and disappeared behind the corner of a rising hill. The road was covered over in footprints – presumably from the couple he had just chased off – and they led behind the hill. He saw them as a little breadcrumb trail, and hoped they would lead to more people, and eventually to clothes. But leaving his beach would guarantee his missing the boat and he walked back to his little spot beneath the bush.
    Back beneath the tree it didn’t take long, however, before he was overtaken by another flash of paranoia and he started questioning how smart it was to get back on the boat. There was no guarantee a towel or clothes would be waiting for him on the boat, and once he got back to the dock in town there was no telling what might happen with all the people there if there weren’t any clothes – the dockhands and boat drivers and tourists and hangers-on that were assuredly there waiting. He doubted there would be a chest of clothes waiting for him at the dockhouse and he stood up quickly, overwhelmed by a sudden chill of self-consciousness and vulnerability.
    His mind raced. “They’ll be laughing harder than ever; I’ll be the story that would be told for years to come; the tourist story to end all tourist stories,; the one they’d always come back to when the day was slow; the one for their grandchildren. And I can just see how they’ll tell it: One day, hot as could be, Pablo came back from a pick-up at Playa Bluffs with this Gringo on board as naked as the day he was born, with a surfboard in one hand and his huevos in the other. And he got off the boat and went up to Diego who was behind his desk smoking a cigarette, and he says, ‘Señor, where can I find a pair of shorts or a towel? My shorts were taken from me by a big wave.’ And Diego shrugged his shoulders, doing his best not to laugh in his face, and the Gringo turned away from the desk and went out the door into town, his vanilla white nalgas sticking out for everyone to see. They’ll be sitting in their boats and on the bench around the dock, in the same place where it would happen and they would point at the dock exactly where I got off, and Pablo would be sitting there in his boat, laughing and nodding his head in confirmation everytime they told the story.” He snapped up his board and ran back to the road, intending to follow it to wherever it may lead him so long as he didn’t have to suffer the humiliation of returning to the dock naked.
    The road was narrow and winding, riding the slight curves of the island’s coast beneath steep hills that jutted out from the shifty terrain. He walked the road with great precaution, feeling safe yet still at the ready for anything that might jump out at him. At one such blind turn a car suddenly flew out towards him, bounding out from behind the corner and he jumped to the side of the road, running to hide himself in the bushes. It was a small white car with a yellow ‘TAXI’ sign on top and reggae bounding out from the open windows. A black Rasta with long dreadlocks was driving and two white girls were in the back wearing bikinis. But it was too late for him to hide as he had already been spotted, and the taxi slowed as it passed by the bushes he was scampering to hide in. The Rasta leaned over towards the passenger window and flashed his pearly-whites at him, waving him a shaka and yelling, ‘Hang eleven, mon!’ as they all broke up in hysterics and drove off.
    Gripped by humiliation, he cowered behind his surfboard in the brush to the side of the road, watching the taxi disappear around the next bend. Once again, the courage he had summoned was defeated by the inescapable reality of his nakedness and he was beaten again. First, he had been scorned by a man in a speedo – a European, no less, he was convinced; a man who was no stranger to unwarranted nudity – and now by a taxicab driver. Each time, his ideals had been violated: typically, speedos were the object of his scorn, and up until now, his island was a remote land only accessible by boat. But now he understood that speedos were still one step of humiliation below total nudity, and his island was no longer remote – it was just the other end of the tourist trap he was staying on. Everything now seemed an illusion, like a mirage, or a postcard. His great flight from the status quo was just a myth, a line fed to him by the travel agency to make him think that all that made society unbearable, all the pressure, the humiliation, the competition, the sense of inadequacy, that all of it was truly escapable. And having come so far and found the oasis, he knew it to be just a delusion. And what more, it killed him to know that all the trouble he had spent getting to that beach was just as easily done by taxi.
    But his dejection was soon replaced by defiance, and even rage, and doing his best to cast off all his inhibitions, he charged out of the brush and back onto the road: if there were waves, damn it, he was going to surf them, even if naked, and nobody was going to keep him from holding together what few frayed pieces of hope remained within him. With surfboard underarm, he beat out his own dusty tracks, dragging his feet across those left by the taxi, kicking them up and scattering them shapeless and plain back to the earth, erasing the mark they had left behind. He followed the narrow road, around bends beneath the jungle’s canopy, as it wound and curved, approaching and then leaving the coastline, and though he couldn’t see the ocean, he could hear it and searched earnestly for a path back to the water. He could hear the suck and rumble of the waves behind the lush green wall and his heart pumped new life throughout his body, pushing him along the road as he continued to wipe out whatever evidence the taxi had left behind.
    He soon started to jog, both nervous and anxious, with a lightness in his stomach that made him start to feel a bit queasy. At times the sound of the waves grew, and he tried to force his way through the brush, to force his way to the ocean, but its density was near impenetrable and he would have to run down the road to look for another seeming opening and try again, poking and scouring the green curtain for a path, or a weakness, or even a peephole.
    Up ahead he spotted a building rising above the thick brush and he sprinted to it. The structure was on stilts and it looked abandoned. Climbing up the stairway he saw that it was some kind of sala, or dance hall, with beer ads nailed to the walls and a dusty disco ball hanging from the ceiling. The dance hall was encircled by a balcony and he ran along it until he came to the side that faced the sea and he looked out. Though the jungle kept him from seeing where the waves were breaking, he could see the rising pulses of the swell coming in, and below he spotted a small path leading towards the ocean, disappearing beneath some overhanging palms. He ran down the steps and made his way to the path, and somewhere along the way he had forgotten that he was naked.
    Coming down the stairs he didn’t notice the young girl standing in the cellar door beneath the steps, but passing over her it was hard for her not to notice him. By the time he reached the ground he was in full stride for the beach and would’ve have been there in only a few steps if her catcall hadn’t stopped him in his tracks. He was surprised because he thought the dance hall had been abandoned, and turning around he was even more surprised to see how beautiful the girl was who had whistled at him. Her skin was of a light coffee tint and her eyes shaped like almonds. She had long, curly brown hair with blonde sun streaks and her smile was slight and mischievous.
    He turned around to face her with his board on his hip. “Hola,” he said to her with a pleased grin.
    “Hola,” she responded, but was broken up by a quick rapport of giggles and squeals as she cupped her hands over her mouth.
    Remembering once again that he was naked, his face turned beet-red, matching his burnt shoulders, and he quick threw the board over his exposed goods. He felt weak and helpless, and his immediate attraction to the girl only made it worse. The overwhelming embarrassment had cut him short and he was instantly focused on finding a way to flee from her, completely forgetting to even ask her for a towel or something to cover himself. But he stood there paralyzed and could not think of what to do next or where he would even go. On the one hand, he wanted to run away from the embarrassment and leave her behind, while on the other he didn’t want to lose the opportunity to see her again, once he was dressed, though he was in no real position to strike up any respectable conversation. The girl was beautiful – an ideal in an idyllic setting. Yet he only squirmed behind his surfboard and forgot every word of Spanish he had ever learned.
    “Marianela!” a voice yelled out from behind the dance hall. “Vamonos!”
    The girl giggled again and started to back away. “Sin vergüenza,” she said to him laughing and took off running as she waved, disappearing around the corner.
    He was alone again and knew he had just lost another chance to solve his problems. On top of that, he also felt like he had just lost love, like she had just dumped him and for some misunderstanding and he would never have another chance to make amends. He knew it made no sense, that these emotions were completely inflated, but he couldn’t help himself. The day had been so full of both hope and disappointment, that to make up a story like that one, and then to believe it, made perfect sense. But loss and defeat had become so common this day that he knew not to tread on it and to just keep on. The waves had been crashing consistently behind him and he turned back to his original quest, setting off down the trail towards the sea.
    At the trail’s end there was a little patch of sand at the water’s edge, surrounded on both sides by thick bushes that crawled over each other and hung out over the water. The small patch of sand was cut off by the water, and beneath the water was a long patch of black coral for at least twenty yards out into the ocean. Beyond the coral and back towards the point that was off to the side, head-high waves rolled in, fast and clean and graceful. He stood on the sand watching the waves and felt a rush of joy and accomplishment that he had not felt all day, a sweet satisfaction that everything had finally paid off. No longer caring about his compromised state, he hid his water bottle under a rock and started pussy-footing his way across the sharp coral to get to where it was deep enough for him to get on his board and paddle the rest of the way out. But the coral proved to be a bigger obstacle than expected as it pricked and poked his feet with every step, and everything was made even more difficult by the breakers that rolled over it and threatened his balance. Halfway through his tip-toed dance he was nearly forced over by the incoming whitewash of a bigger wave. As though on a tightrope he swayed back and forth desperately trying to find his balance before falling on top of the unforgiving coral. But he managed to stay on his feet, and once centered, he stood up straight and looked up to see how much distance was still between him and deep water. The waves had died for a moment and scanning the horizon for the next set coming in, he spotted two surfers sitting on their boards staring at him and laughing.
    He found himself upon a new, yet eerily familiar, pedestal: naked and on tip-toes, trying to nancy-boy his way across the coral in glass slippers as two dudes minded his every wince. They had been hidden behind the waves, he figured, but were now passing the time between sets by watching him. He could only imagine what they’d have to say to him once he got out there, and for a moment he considered not going out. But his pride, no matter how damaged at this point, knew it could not be beaten down any further and he pirouetted his way across the reef until he got on his board and paddled the rest of the way out.
As he made his way out to the line-up, he made sure to stay on the inside, a good distance from the two surfers. They were smiling at him as he paddled out and though he wasn’t sure if they were mocking him or approving his lack of inhibition, he didn’t really think it worth his time to go and pick their brains. All he wanted to do was surf, and the head-high waves that were peeling in promised him at least that much. He sat back for a while, watching the two surfers trade waves, seeing where they lined up, how the take-off was and where he could expect to line up himself. He looked for any dry reef and watched for any sections. But above all, he kept his distance so that he wouldn’t have to make an uncomfortable situation worse by conversing with the surfers – he just wanted to ride some waves.
    The waves were lefts, which meant he was riding backside, which also meant that every time he took off on a wave that was what the other guys would get, too: a wave full of his backside, and they could laugh all they wanted for all he cared. He rode waves for almost two hours, and soon after getting out there, his nudity no longer seemed an issue. The other surfers never made any comments, and the whole experience felt rejuvenating; he had never surfed in the buff before, and it was something he quickly accustomed himself to.
    As the sun continued on its descent towards the hilltops, he knew it would soon be time to get back to looking for some clothes. He had been planning on asking the surfers for a towel when he got the chance, but they had paddled back into shore long before he had noticed they were gone, and taking his last wave as far back to shore as he could, he made his way across the coral and on to the trail. Once back on the beach, he found his water bottle and opened it up to take the last sips left inside. As he tipped his head back he could see Pablo far out to sea on his way to pick him up back where he had been dropped off. He knew he was too far to run back so he quick threw his board over his head with its nose pointed to the sky and started hopping up and down again, screaming as he waved the board from side to side, though Pablo never saw him. Soon Pablo was out of sight and he sat back down on the small patch of sand to wait for him to pass back again. He only had to wait for about ten minutes before he saw the boat return and he was back to his feet, jumping up and down and swinging his board back and forth though Pablo never saw him and he again found himself alone, stranded and still naked.
    But with the sun quickly approaching the hilltops, he knew there was little time afforded him for any more pity parties. He tucked the board under his arm and made his way back down the trail. The dance hall was empty still and he called out just to make sure, but received no response and got back on the road. In a sense he was relieved that he wouldnít have to face the humiliation of getting back to the dock with no clothes, but that was the fig leaf he was forced to offer himself since he had no other fig leaves to work with. He thought of Marianela and it made him even more eager to get back to town and get some clothes on so he could search her out. The formalities had already been taken care of, he figured, and whatever awkward moments might still remain between them would never be as awkward as the one he had already had with her, so he felt like there was some promise of hitting it off with her if he were ever to get a second chance.
    Back on the dirt road he made his way in the direction that the taxi had come from, tramping along between the trees and the spider webs that connected them, hanging like silken tapestries in the falling sunlight. He could see the spiders, too, that had woven them, big as his fist, but he stayed focused on the trail with his eyes towards the ground, remaining vigilant for any snakes that might scamper out after him.
    He struggled on, fighting the still-heavy heat, the fatigue and now an empty stomach. His legs ached from walking, his shoulders sore from surfing, and his arms heavy from carrying the surfboard. He wasn’t sure if he had been following the path in the right direction ñ if the taxi had been dropping off the girls or picking them up ñ and he was further agitated by the spiders and snakes he couldnít see but was convinced were watching him. Despite his best efforts to continue on though, he couldnít fight off the paranoia of being completely lost and he wondered how long he could go on, or if maybe this might be the end of him: alone, unknown, lost, and ultimately done in by nature ñ death on an empty stomach.
    Rounding another bend in the trail, he was quickly overwhelmed by the smell of burning trash. In the sky above and from behind the next bend, he could se a brownish-smoke filling the air, thickening as he continued on he with buzzards coming into view, gliding overhead. Making his way around the corner he saw that the road led past a large garbage dump. What had originally been a small clearing between two conjoining slopes just off the exposed coastline was now a makeshift landfill with close to twenty buzzards picking, pecking and digging their way through a thousand candy-striped plastic shopping bags, searching out a meal. Flies and smoke and ash filled the air, and the heap was ablaze in at least fifteen different patches. Trash bags spilled out onto the road and the buzzards rummaged through the heap, fighting with each other and dragging bags to a secluded spot to feed on.
    He stood a good distance from the heap, unsure as to how to get by. A few of the buzzards watched him though the majority paid him no attention, feasting on the remains of the island’s refuse. Fires smoldered below the heap with small spires of smoke venting out from the pile in scattered places. One of the buzzards was pulling at a bag and when he moved it from its place, a small burst of fire spat out, throwing the bird back with its wings flapping as it clucked its beak in agitation. With great care and no sudden moves he crept past them, keenly aware of his compromised position while trying to keep an eye on any one of the buzzards that might feel threatened by him. Once he was clear of the trash heap and the buzzards, he took off running, not looking back before he had rounded the next corner.
    Before him the road straightened out, running along the coast, and he felt better knowing that the buzzards and the bushes were behind him. He carried on, walking a seemingly endless road with no distinction of civilization in sight, but feeling confident that he was finally headed somewhere. And when Marianela pulled up behind him riding shotgun in a small pickup truck, he was so frightened to see her he felt like he was going to pee himself and then vomit.
    He slowly turned around and saw her staring at him with her mischievous grin, holding a towel in her hand. She threw him the towel and then motioned for him to get in the back of the pickup, but he was slow in responding until she told him that he had a two-hour walk ahead of him otherwise. He wrapped the towel around his waist and climbed into the truck’s bed, laying his board beside him as they drove off. He couldn’t see the woman who was driving but he figured it was the same woman who had called Marianela off before, and he leaned his back against the cab and watched the landscape as it passed behind them. He was finally covered and he felt as though a great burden had been lifted, and a new kind of freedom was there to welcome him. And he felt calm and confident, as if he had rediscovered his dignity and self-respect.
    They drove for close to twenty minutes until they came to the town’s outskirts. The homes were wooden and weather-beaten and barely holding together, and the porches were filled with the locals sitting on the steps or on rocking chairs strung with plastic while kids ran in the streets and waved at them as they passed, wondering who the gringo was in the back.
    The farther they drove into town, the nicer the homes became, and soon they were passing through the town center past the hotels and restaurants and kiosks that sold homemade jewelry and clothing to the tourists. Within a few blocks they pulled up to a house and parked. He climbed out of the truck and thanked the woman for the ride and Marianela for the towel. Marianela asked him to wait as she ran inside the house and in a few moments she returned with a shirt and a pair of shorts in her hand. She gave them to him and he thanked her graciously as he slipped them on under the towel.
    Looking at the clothes it immediately became clear that they were too big as the shorts slide down his waist when he let go of them. But he was hard-pressed to complain and Marianela only giggled. He thanked her again and they started walking down the road together as she seemed to be taking him somewhere else. He was happy to be clothed and even more so to be with her, and he followed her eagerly, content to be with her, no matter how awkward he felt.
    As they made their way down the street they were met by two local boys who stopped and stared at him awkwardly as they passed by. Marinela gave them a wave and they continued to stare at him as they walked on. When they had gotten a good distance from them, he asked Marianela who they were and why they had been staring so intently at him.
    “They’re my brothers,” she said. “Youíre wearing their clothes.”
    The unease and helplessness he thought he had left behind quickly came back to him, and he wondered if that was just the way things were supposed to be.



Christmas 2006