JANUARY 8, 2009
I went over to another beach today that Margarita and Natalia discovered. They call it the Secret Beach, "La Playa Secreta" because the only way to get to it, besides over rocks at low tide, is through the tall grass and brush off the path that we take to the jungle. It was beautiful down there. Just a small patch of sand stopped by rocks on each side and backed by steep cliffs and the path that lead down. The sand was a different color, and the trees rooted out of the ground and from the sides of the cliffs like dense vines. There were ferns and cacti, too. I wanted to spend the afternoon there, quietly with my writing; quietly to myself. And such it was, until a fisherman came over around the rocky bend to fish off the other side.
We made small talk. He said he was fishing and that he knew very little English. I said that I worked with the turtles and knew little Spanish. And so, he shook my hand and said, "Amigos?" and I said, "Si." He was friendly, I thought, and I carried on with my business taking pictures and such. I collected shells, and kicked through the water. He saw me taking pictures and came back; asked me if I wanted to fish, and I said, "No thanks." And so, he kept looking at me very strangely. He was almost nervous, in a serious contemplation of something brash. He kept saying that I was pretty and that he liked me, and his look of contemplation was unmistakable. So I quickly packed my things as he stood there, hesitantly. I turned to him and exclaimed, "Are you going to go?!" (insert expletives) and he said "Si." and I took off up rocky ledges with no shoes and all my shit in my hands as fast as I possibly could. I know demeanor. I have never been so goddamn scared. Never. This is life, and it's fucked up.