L’anse Martin Beach May 22
She had seen him before sitting on the beach. At the very same spot, she remembered. He again seemed lost in thought, staring vacuously at the horizon, unaware that his presence was such an intrusion, which it certainly was.
She has been a regular on this beach for most of her 40 years. In fact, just ten days ago she was here, and ten days before that, seven or eight visits in all, before the season ends in June. Before Trinidad, she was in Nova Scotia, gorging on jellyfish. According to her GPS, last year she chased them all the way to Africa, virtually anywhere for a free buffet, beefing up for the hard work to come.
Of course, merely supporting oneself in this complicated world is hard enough work, but nothing compares to motherhood. This year alone her maternal efforts will cost 20% of her body mass. She can barely budge herself forward for the arduous task, and she is willing and ready to die for her efforts. The last obstacle in her path tonight is Pendejo Blanco, who lounges on the sand, doing absolutely nothing but stare.
“Mira a Don Vergas!“ She learned this slur when the jellyfish took her to Mexico—when she noticed how the beach workers cursed the spoiled rich boys for their careless habits, who expected their moms or the nannies to clean up after them. She has become tangled and choked by the plastic they leave too many times, and others have been poisoned and drowned by it. But it gets worse still.
On land she is completely vulnerable, and so are the little ones. The predators will descend—from the sky, from the trees, and from the darkened car parks. She imagines how they must whet their appetites with the mere thought of leather hide, succulent flesh, viscous yolk. Not too many years ago, there were at least 7 or 8 species nesting on this northern coast—now there are only two. This kind of terror would keep her awake at night, except Mamisima does not sleep these days.
She is fading fast under a full moon. She recites the mantra of the Maya slaves: “Que bonito es el mundo, lastima es que yo muera.“ A huge wave breaks on her back and surges up the steep bank, extending wet tongues into dry sand, then receding forcefully with rivers of coarse grains. She says her prayers faster, squinting against the firehose of saline, but holding fast against the onslaught. Suddenly, she makes landfall with a thud. She attempts only a few hesitant steps before another wave crashes, which sets her spinning, like a coaster on a ski hill, or a wheel of fortune, but her inner compass will not be swayed. Her destiny is clear to her, if only Esto Pendejo would get off his ass and walk away.
If only she could make eye contact with him, she wonders, maybe those turtle tears might work their magic. Maybe if she can reach into his soul with that warm plaintive gaze, he might feel connected and do the right thing. Can Don Vergas ever recognize her final plea simply to be left alone?