Mélange Travel & Lifestyle Magazine October 2016 | Page 320

Puerto Rico

I will remember . . .

“You will
remember me”
the old man
said, handing
me my cup.
For a moment I questioned
if his unhesitating tone and
brooding expression were
foreboding signs of what was
to come – if I was living out
a scene in a movie where an
unassuming traveler drinks
from a chalice of black magic,
falls under a terrible curse, and
is forced to break a spell.
Alas, this “chalice” was a flimsy
plastic cup with more puree
of locally-grown papayas
than dark magic. I had just
completed a surf lesson on
the glimmering beaches of
Western Puerto Rico. I was still
coated in seawater, but the sun
was reaching its peak and the
heat was quickly pulling the
droplets off of my skin.

Madeline List

There was a transient rush
every time I managed to ride a
wave before the crests melted
back into the Caribbean.
This was always followed by
a hustled swim back out to
sea and some big breaths of
mist as I attempted to paddle
away from the shallow coral.
After hours of being tossed
around the ocean came the
liberating exhaustion of hauling
to shore and collapsing on the
longboard.
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The rhythm of this routine was
becoming addicting. If a spell
had been cast, it was causing an
irresistible urge to stay on the
island.
I once considered myself far
too adventurous to explore a
place that was so close to home.
I bought my ticket to Puerto
Rico on good faith on the
endorsement of a well-traveled
friend, but I was careful not to
raise my expectations too high.
Surely I would spend a good
chunk of my solo excursion
dodging honeymooners and
tuning out young children
begging their parents for
souvenirs, as I searched
tirelessly for a more “authentic”
experience.
Now I was shamelessly eating
those old, doubt-ridden words.
I was falling into the calm
intensity of the surrounding
surfers and the understated
sense of humor the locals all
seemed to carry. It was low
season in the area, and the
serene seaside vibes were
spreading as if they were
contagious.
When I drove out to the town
of Aguada, I didn’t realize
that I would be around for the
Festival del Descubrimiento,
commemorating the day
and place where Christopher
Columbus supposedly made
landfall in Puerto Rico. Now
I hoped that the inexplicably
somber smoothie man hadn’t
really bewitched any of his
pineapples, because the festival
was a big part of my agenda for
the day.