During the summer of 2014, my mother wanted to take me on a trip as a graduation present from high school. We discussed going to Mexico for some time, but the expenses of the trip made it not seem plausible. We looked at options in the United States and admittedly, I was a little upset we weren’t going out of the U.S. for my first time. I wanted to be able to have experiences to share with buddies at college, and be at least a little bit more than the girl from small town Indiana, who, had barely left the Midwest.
I forgot about the trip altogether as the summer went on. I was caught up with working and visiting family before going off to college. Before I knew it, July had arrived and my mom had planned a trip for us, not sharing the destination.
“Where are we going,” I asked nervously. I would have to mentally prepare myself for a trip that required an airplane.
“Okay, I guess I’ll tell you,” she said with hesitation, “Cozumel, Mexico.”
As ecstatic as my mother was when she said that, my reaction did not quite mesh, me being more surprised. Ever since my father passed away when I was 15, my mom and went through trial and error in our relationship. Soon after he passed, I went through a downward spiral of sorts – I had become severely depressed and angry. I could not grasp that he was gone. It had seemed like he was only gone on a business trip, like normal. I took a lot of frustration out on my mother. I disobeyed her, called her names and was overall pretty terrible to be around. Through therapy sessions on my own and occasionally with my mother, my mental health slowly improved in the next two years. I was able to express my feelings in healthy ways and started eliminating the bad people in my life. I figured out who my best friend truly was throughout my whole life, my mom. I was able to develop a relationship that I could tell her everything – my woes, my happiness and my secrets. My mother is always the person looking out for me and I love her dearly. She is the person I go shopping with, party with and watch movies with, even if she starts snoring twenty minutes in. I was surprised by the trip because I wondered if I really deserved it.
I am not sure how she pulled the trip off since I thought the expenses were too much, but we were in Cozumel a couple of weeks later and off to a rocky start. The land was foreign to us, along with the culture. I soon realized what people must feel like coming to the U.S. for the first time, overwhelmed. I felt like an outsider, as if we were not meant to be there. The first day we arrived, we were tired from traveling all day. I remember going out the Cozumel airport, almost choking on the hot and stale air. I had been to Florida before, but I had never felt that hot. Right away men were rushing towards us in broken English, asking us question after question.
“Where are you staying?”
“What’s the hotel?”
“Who did you fly with?”
“How about a timeshare?”
Confused about every view and sign, I kind of zoned out while we got shoved in a huge van filled with other sweaty tourists. We were being taken to our hotel through these winding, small roads filled with nearly whole families on scooters put putting on the sides of the van. The neighborhoods we went through were similar to the ones you see in movies, colorful houses and apartments that were quite small, sometimes with graffiti on the sides of the house and menacing stares from residents at the tourist-filled van. Maybe I was being self-conscious, perhaps paranoid, but I was sandwiched between the driver who did not speak very good English and my mother who was sweating and holding her huge backpack on her lap and I was scared. There was not much conversation between anyone in the van. I suppose we were all very tired, but somehow it felt worse.
Once we were in tourist land with hotels and resorts planted right on top of each other along with what seemed like hundreds of stands, where if you were within a twenty feet radius, you would immediately get harassed to buy something, anything, everything! We wheeled our small, carry-on size bags to our rooms after a spiel on time shares and whatever else they wanted us to buy into, I am not sure. I just remember being very anxious and exhausted sitting through the loud noise. It was all unfamiliar to me, the languages, the steamy heat and kids running around pools. There was a DJ, who everyday sat at the pool area and yelled excited Spanish in a microphone.
Our particular resort had a tunnel leading to a small beach looking out to the ocean where three to four cruise ships would anchor in to check out the island all day. Each morning and every night, you had a perfect view of these ginormous ships coming and leaving with thousands of humans sardined on them. It contributed to my anxiety for some reason, and I felt uneasy having to look at them so close and in real life. It also was not the best treat that they blocked the view of the ocean. A flight of stairs up, there was an infinity pool with a bar connected to it, which was a very exciting for my eighteen-year-old, legal drinking age in Mexico self. The pool was filled with tan skin, wet hair and boozy drinks. The pool itself was beautiful overlooking the ocean, but the water was foggy and I did not fly to a different country for a dirty swimming pool – I was ecstatic to be in the ocean. I had been landlocked for far too long. I soon learned however, that my ivory skin, even with 50 SPF would get scorched if I did not stay in the shade. I had to drink more than one liter of water a day not to pass out. We headed to the resort beach everyday looking for shade and relaxation.
Half way through the one-week stay in Cozumel, we ventured out during the afternoon, when we could finally tolerate the extreme heat of the Mexican sun. We went to a bar that offered free paddle boarding, which was one of the activities I decided I would have to do while near the ocean. I was relieved when there was a man who spoke perfect English and said he would help me get the heavy board out on the Gulf of Mexico. He was immediately giving me directions on how to paddle on this blue 8-foot board that looked a little shark-bitten and how to stay balanced on it. I got kind of anxious on the way out, I was physically alone on the board, but I was not alone.
“Move the paddle to your right!,” the man yelled, “That’s it, now alternate on each side.”
“You’re a pro,” he yelled, “Look at the horizon.”
His voice faded the further out I got, but I was okay. For some reason, I believed he could swim the seven seas and would to save someone. Though I was struggling not to fall face-first on this hard board, I felt for the first time on the trip, peace. Although it was a struggle and it strained all the muscles in my body, it was the water and sunset that I was to keep my eyes on that helped me stay afloat.
As I got further out, and what seemed like half way to Cancun, I started paddling back towards the land. I could see my mother talking to this mysterious, yet friendly, man. When I had enough, muscles weak from paddling and keeping my balance, I came back to the bar and learned that the man was from Italy. He had a strong build, short, blonde, and wispy hair that looked wind ridden and wild. I knew he was a free spirit and was intrigued furthermore. His tan skin was washed with tattoos that you would imagine only weathered sailor men would have. His face was tan, a little peachy from the sun; he wore sporty sunglasses and showed a nice smile. The man had a certain charm about him, one I couldn’t immediately put my finger on. Not in a romantic way, he was closer to my mother’s age than mine, but he had an ease about him that made you want to know more. He was smoking a fat cigar, which reminded me of my late father. In fact, his whole demeanor was reminiscent of his. I almost felt like he would soon reach out and ask me for a bear hug like my father did. I had not had any father figures since my dad passed and I felt oddly connected to this man. I suppose it was not odd at the time though, every movement and conversation was natural. As the man walked away after small conversation, the smell of the sweet tobacco lingered in the sea salt air.
Some time passed and he leaned over the top floor balcony and shouted, “Are you two adventurous?”
My mother and I shot each other a quick look and said practically in sync, “Yes!”
Surprised by both of our immediate answers, I did the best to act like we were really adventurous, where little did he know we barely left the front yard of our home in Indiana. The next thing I knew we were both on the back of an Italian man’s tri-motorcycle. I was filled with fright, but the feeling of being badass outweighed the uneasiness. The fact that I was about to ride off into the sunset with an Italian on a motorcycle was a dream come true. It did not matter that my mother was riding into the sunset with me, or that he was twice my senior. The fact that he was a complete stranger, on an unfamiliar island where many citizens did not speak English and that he could very well take our bodies and chop them into a million little pieces did sit in the back of my mind. I quickly decided that if that were my destiny, then at least my mother was there with me. I had grew up on the back of my father’s Harley, but having that activity absent for six or more years, I had a little bit of a struggle maneuvering my way on the cushion. My mother even more so – watching her swing her leg over the bike and keep her cool at the same time made the three of us giggle.
I had always been a mirrored image of my mother and acted like her in many ways. My father always joked that the umbilical cord was still attached because I was always at her side. Her shoulder length hair was like a bushel of beautiful woven cotton – braided on the sides of an even part in the middle of her blonde head. She was as red as a lobster and freckled more than ever on her arms and chest. I don’t think she wore sunscreen the entire trip, though she is only a few shades darker than me. As time has passed and the more I can only rely on my memory and photographs of my father, I often get disappointed when I cannot find pieces of him that should also belong to me. It seems impossible that I could ever stop comparing my relationship with my dad to my sister’s. She had been so close to him and I cannot remember where I exactly would stand with him- their personalities being so similar, as well as their looks. Where was he in me?
“We’re going to the other side of the island,” the man said with the most assurance you would need to hear.
The man would point out noteworthy things about the island along the way, telling us the Mayan people living under a mere tarp, were the friendliest, most happy people he had ever met. As we got further away from any civilization, I tried closing my eyes and taking it in. Breathing was sort of difficult with the wind beating at all directions of my face, but reaching in my bag and grabbing my camera was what seemed second nature.
“Start snapping photos, girl,” the man yelled over his strong engine and wind.
The man told us stories along the way, and it was for the first time on our trip someone did not talk to us to fill the silence. He told us briefly of his childhood in Italy, and his move to Boston as a preteen. He had lived in Cozumel for some thirteen years and spoke fondly of the island. To assure us that he was not going to chop us in a million little pieces, the man told us he had a wife and kids, who, at the time were not on the island. Adversely, that did not exactly clear things up about the murdering part, but he had an inviting laugh and that charm- it got you. To add onto his charm, he said he was in charge of the Cozumel ASPCA and was a real animal lover – what wasn’t to admire?
He made a stop along one of the many sandy hills where the rock meets turquoise on the side of the island that tourists did not frequent and where there is no electricity.
“The waves are strong out there today, you can’t swim out here unless you’re a real good swimmer,” the man said.
The sky was comparable to the blue of a newborn baby’s eyes as the evening rolled into night. The ocean was a color I had never seen in nature before, it was a turquoise so bright, I wanted it wrapped around me like a silk blanket. The crashing waves against the harsh, black rock created foamy, tall spurts of the turquoise. Tan sand met the harsh rock and flowed on the declining hills and every so often there were red sticks poking out of the sand marked with black marker. The man told us that those are where the sea turtles hatch and the community knows when they are ready to go in the ocean to help them.
There were a few cars parked along the side of the road. The man informed my mother and me that we were about to experience something that is once in a lifetime. Baby sea turtles were hatching and waddling into the ocean for the first time. Before he could even finish explaining to me what was happening I was skip-running through the heavy sand hill, nearly ditching my flip flops and summersaulting down the litter-filled dune. Where the sand met the ocean, coming and leaving, there were sea turtles leaving their human-dug hole. As the precious, palm sized turtles left their eggshells, a group of about fifteen people were helping guide the babies to the ocean. They were protecting them from seagulls and other natural predators. The sea turtle rescue volunteers were digging in the sand, bringing up the hatched eggs and turtles to help them move on. There were some turtles that never hatched, or got cracked along the way of their development. I could not take my eyes off the healthy turtles journey to the ocean. It all happened so fast for turtles being so slow. The traveled the whole fifteen feet to the ocean on their own, no humans touching or holding them, but guiding them through the sand almost as if we had to help fulfill their dream to meet the ocean for the very first time. As the waves rolled in and the turtles were just about to the water, they would get swept away in a tumble. They swished back and forth a few times until they disappeared in their new homes. My tear ducts began to swell with happy sea salt tears and I was filled with complete bliss. The man was high-fiving my mother and me while we all had sliced watermelon smiles on our faces.
We gleefully hopped back onto the man’s motorcycle after the last turtle made its way to the ocean. We rode to other unbelievable destinations such as bars with beautiful murals and relaxed workers who were done with their days. Everyone was going home before it got too dark. It seemed like the man knew everyone, making small talk everywhere we stopped and waving at people as we rode along. We briefly stopped and saw an alligator that was peaking his massive head out a muggy swamp where locals were checking it out. We made our way back to our side of the island – the trip could only last so long, the island being only a 45-minute ride around. We were back at the tourist filled, brightly lit and filled with action area of town. As he dropped us back off at our hotel, we could not thank him enough. He had showed us a beautiful part of not only Mexico, but of life itself. I would be forever grateful. The man told us his reasoning for showing us the island was that not many tourists leave the safety net of their hotel and see the other side of the island.
As we stepped off the motorcycle, the man said, “Well shit I don’t even know your names. My name is Salvador, but they call me Sal around here.”
“My name is Rebecca,” my mom said, “And we had so much fun, I am so happy we ran into you.”
If the man wasn’t married, I think my mother would have jumped in his arms and rode off in the nighttime without me this time.
“My name is Savanna,” I said, “I don’t think I could ever thank you enough. This was amazing.”
I couldn’t help but think how beautiful this moment in time was, and how lucky I was to be alive. Breathing in as deep as I could and exhaling, it was easy for the first time in months. It hit me how disappointing it would be to never see this person again, like a permanent business trip.
After reminiscing for approximately two hours on the unbelievable events that had just occurred with my mother, I browsed through the photographs I had taken that day. There was about a thousand photographs just from this day, a Wednesday. Most were blurry, images taken quickly as we flew by scenery of the waves crashing into rock. The best photos, and perhaps the most frustrating aspect of my photos was that out of the hundreds of photos I snapped, of the ocean, of the trees and of the sea turtles, I did not manage getting a photo of Salvador’s face. I had plenty of the back of his head, his helmet adorned with stickers or his chubby hand gripping the handle bar and a fat cigar, but I would always have to remember his face as a faint memory in time.
As we were taking our flights back home, and were back in America, we were finally able to have Wi-Fi on our phones and my mother’s iPad. She looked up the Cozumel ASPCA trying to find our mysterious Sal. We wanted to do more than just verbal thanks. He couldn’t be found on there, or a Google search. Not knowing his last name contributed to the problem and also set up a world of more questions about Sal. Who was this guy really? He was a man you would read a novel about- a memoir of his lifetime. I don’t know what the hell he really did, but I wanted to know everything. There is a truth and mystic about every event with him and it almost did not seem real. Every time the story got told, to my sister, my grandmother or friends, it never seemed completely real. But I knew him, if not for a brief moment in time, but what seemed like a lifetime. To everyone I told this trip of, he would be the mystery man, Sal. And that was something that was engraved into my heart like a personal souvenir.
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