Selena
I’m by no means what you could describe as a “world traveler.” But, since living on our sailboat “Up Jinks,” I’ve seen a good many places I’d never heard of, much less knew I wanted to visit. The effort to chronicle what we’ve experienced often proves to be overwhelming. Describing places, events and sensations, especially in some sort of context, challenges my meager writing skills. Somehow, I’m compelled to make everything into a story rather than just a report. This tendency renders much agony on both me, the writer, and my friends, the readers!
By far, the hardest thing to do is capture people. In a world where billions of people pass each other every day with nods of “Good day” and “Hello,” or incidentally sit next to each other at tables in restaurants overhearing indiscriminate conversations, or find themselves on some method of mass transit intertwined for a few minutes sharing a common destination, thousands of faces can cross your path in a lifetime. In some cases, time and access to a reliable camera allow you the opportunity to record the nameless images through photography. If you’re really lucky, you can exchange information and even email addresses, creating budding relationships precipitously perched on a single moment in time when fate randomly placed you at the same time and place in the universe.
Some of these people, you will actually have the opportunity to see again because they have an established place. For example, if I return to Xcalak in Mexico, I can go to the Harbormaster’s office and, pending drastic circumstances, Jorge Morales will be there. Or, if I wander down the dirt road from his office and take a right, then a left, I’ll find the store where I can buy beer, garlic, Planter’s peanuts and Coke Lights from the shopkeeper smiling from behind his counter pretending not to understand my broken Spanish, not selling me what I want until I say it correctly - “ajo, ajo” – then, I get the garlic. He’ll probably still be wearing his blue “PureKansas” tee-shirt, a gift from another tourist who came, went, and came back to Xcalak before me. If I make it back to Georgetown, Grand Exuma, and dinghy over to Chat & Chill, the owner, K.B., will be sitting at the bar waiting to share a Kalik Light beer and some of his rotisserie chicken with me. If I roam the streets of Caye Caulker in Belize, there’s no doubt that “Pop” will be riding his bike down the street offering his “homemade” ice cream for my purchase. Maybe he’ll be selling the “Sweet Corn” flavor again that I rejected before because I couldn’t comprehend how you could make ice cream out of corn.
There are some faces, though, that you will encounter and only capture forever by the mechanism of your memory unless you do something immediately to register it for posterity. As you know, my chosen methodology of preservation is the written word. It may be more tedious than the instant click of a camera, but it’s the only tool I have. And so, with this handicapped medium, I tell you about Selena.
John and I were on our sailboat anchored in the harbor at Caye Caulker, Belize. Our daughter, Lyn, was visiting on her final Spring Break in the home stretch of college. Originally, we had planned to island hop during the week that she was with us, but the wind whipped up for several consecutive days and it was best that we stay put. Caye Caulker is a delightfully low-key place with rustic beach resorts on the ocean side. The waters are crystalline blue and shallow out almost a mile towards the east where a massive coral reef runs the length of the country protecting the cayes and islands of Belize from the deeper, more harried waters of the Northwest Caribbean Sea. Several dirt streets parallel the beach. There are cafes, dive shops, hotels, street vendors and other small businesses lining both sides. Every day, we would dinghy to shore from the boat to explore. Pretty soon, we had exhausted what Caye Caulker had to offer and decided to take Lyn over to the much larger tourist attraction of San Pedro on Ambergris Caye, about 10 miles away.
Several water taxis make the run everyday from Caye Caulker to San Pedro. John scoped out the fares and schedules and determined that the Triple J Taxi had the best rate. We could leave at 8:45 AM and come back after lunch.
On the morning of our trip, we came into town early enough to have breakfast beforehand. Once we were finished eating, we walked over to the dock where we were to meet the taxi. It jutted out from a beach along the eastern side of the caye. Along the water’s edge, several tables with umbrellas dotted the beach. Lyn and I sat down at one of the tables while John walked out on the dock to make sure we were in the right place. Two other people we already there and we watched as John struck up a conversation with them. He waved back at us to say this was the place. Rather than go out into the already heavy heat, we stayed put under the shade.
Other passengers accumulated near the dock. A couple of women in Mayan garb carried baskets filled with goods they intended to sell in San Pedro. There was a single lady talking on a cell phone. A woman with her young daughter slowly made her way down the dock.
When we saw the Triple J zooming down the caye, we stood up and joined the procession. As we came closer to John, we could see that he was talking to a young couple. The man was from Sicily and the lady from Germany. They were traveling Central America together. John introduced us.
The crew of the Triple J taxi expertly brought the boat alongside the dock and, with the ease only experience provides, swiftly secured it to the cleats. The boat itself was about twice the size of a typical panga or launcher. There was an interior cabin, most of which was covered, although there were windows that would open and shut. Along each side were benches for the passengers. A big hump in the middle of the cabin housed the 240-horse power inboard engine. The captain drove from a pulpit-like stand on the stern.
We began boarding. Because of their baskets, the mayan vendors sat in an open area of the stern where there was enough room to put them underfoot. John plopped down on top of the engine cover sticking out from under the canopy. The young couple stationed themselves near him as they continued to chat. Lyn and I took a seat on the port side bench along with the lady talking on her phone. Right across from me on the starboard bench sat the mother with her little girl.
After a couple of packages were loaded onto the boat, the captain cranked up the engine and we slid away from the dock. Within seconds he pushed the throttle full forward creating a rapid rise of the bow then a soft fall into a plane position on the water. It was choppy because of the wind. The boat rattled against the waves, but we soon settled into an accommodating rhythm. The trip would last thirty minutes.
Once underway, Lyn settled into watching the passing scenery out the window while John continued to be engaged with the Europeans. This left me to my own devices and soon the little girl caught my attention. I estimated her to be between three and four years old. Her silky, straight charcoal black hair was pulled back into a ponytail with little whispies fluttering across her forehead and down her cheeks. Her dark brown eyes looked like chocolate drops hidden under the denseness of her eyelashes. She wore pink shorts and matching top with little white tennis shoes trimmed in pink.
At first, with the excitement of getting underway, she stood up on the bench, folded her arms on the base of the window and looked out intently. She was so petite her head didn’t come close to touching the cover over us. It proved to be a little bumpy though, so she turned around, sat down and leaned up against her mother.
She smiled, not at anything in particular but more like reacting to some imaginings going on in her little head. Suddenly, she noticed I was looking at her. When she did, I smiled back. Her eyes quickly fell, then swooped up towards her mother as if hoping to affirm it was okay for us to be smiling at each other. Her mother wasn’t really paying any attention. Shyly, she would start the whole cycle over, cutting her eyes towards me with a tentative smile waiting for me to respond then quickly retreating when I did. Finally, not real sure about me, she buried her face in her mother’s lap.
The taxi roared along Ambergris Caye and into San Pedro. With the same deft maneuvering they demonstrated in Caye Caulker, the crew had the boat stopped, docked and tied in no time. All of the passengers muddled around gathering belongings and jockeying for position to disembark. The Mayan vendors hoisted their baskets up onto the dock. Next came the cargo packages followed by John and his new friends, still animatedly talking as they stepped off. The little girl and her mother went right before Lyn and me. The lady with the cell phone was last.
As we walked down the dock, I found myself next to the mother. “You have a beautiful little girl,” I said.
“I know,” she responded simply, not too impressed that I had recognized the obvious.
“What is her name?”
“It’s Selena.”
Before I could ask anything more, they moved on down the dock, blending into the crowd of people beyond and then absorbing into the mural of San Pedro life, never to be seen again by me. No, Selena won’t be captured in a photograph, nor will she be riding the Triple J should I ever take the taxi again. My remembrance of her will be in these words, inadequate as they may be. But, I’m sure of one thing. Even though I may never see it, someday Selena will grow up to be a beautiful woman with penetrating eyes and a coquettish smile that some young man will find hard to resist.
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