A wave of fearlessness

by Jamil Moscoso (Ecuador)

A leap into the unknown Ecuador

As the bus snaked along the shore, aided by a set of headlights that guided it through the night, my anxiety grew bigger and bigger. I tried to suppress it with music, listening to a remix of one of my favorite songs, but it did not quite still me. I had almost forgotten that a wide ocean was lying just beside me. I removed my headphones and tried to capture the sound of the waves crashing into the sand. Just as it began tranquilizing me I saw him coming. ‘‘Sir’’ said the cobrador—the chauffeur’s helper. ‘‘We are dropping you in two minutes. Get ready.’’ I landed on my feet, fortunately. I stood there for a minute inspecting my surroundings. The houses on either side of the dusty highway were eerily quiet. No music being played and no household conversations my ears could involuntarily overhear. Nothing except the ocean’s sound. So I followed it. Down an unpaved street and then to the right laid the room I had booked online. As I made my way to the guest house, I was preparing myself to falling prey to the common predation haunting travelers with cumbersome bags—robbery. ‘‘Press on, trudge through, you are almost there’’, I kept reciting to myself, in a disquieted voice. ‘‘Nothing is going to happen.’’ Exiguous dots extended across the softness of the sheet. Inspecting the bed on which they were lying, I realized that they were sand grains. I did not raise complaints to management, which consisted only of my host, Pedro. Some might have protested the presence of the grains, but I was rather amused by them. I felt sand was a normal aspect of a beach trip, and I thought, perhaps, the wind might have brought it into my room since the house faced the shore. Pedro had welcomed me into his house a few hours prior, a two-story home serving as a guest house for frugal travelers. The estate was large enough for comfort and my room had presented no other issues. I was just grateful that I had arrived safely, and Pedro had assured me Machalilla was a very safe fishing village. At Machalilla National Park (a five-minute drive from the hotel) a desert-like landscape reigns supreme. The paths leading to the Pacific Ocean are bordered by grayish bushes and almost no trees, which allowed the blazing sun to pierce right through my body. As I walked through one path—the longest one—I wondered whether I had made a mistake, as the sun was shamelessly launching an assault on my skin. But, as I had done the evening prior, I just kept on walking. As the fierce echo of the waves approached, I flashed back to the moment I had seen a couple standing nonchalantly on the edge of a cliff, trying to picture their best beachy spirit. Now, standing before the blueish water, I recalled catching an unexpected glimpse of a bare buttocks. A fellow traveler who had let go of his swim trunks. I giggled briefly at his insouciance. Now, however, it was my time. Not to undress entirely, of course. But to embrace the mysteriousness of the ocean, the saltiness of its water, the swinging motion of its waves. I laid a towel on the ground and glanced to and fro. Very few tourists for a late December date. I supposed they had found other beaches. Initially, the shallow surface clawed at my legs with its coldness. It was normal, I surmised. But as the current dragged my body farther out into the water, I could feel its warmth and savageness. Without hesitation, I plunged into an incoming wave and that is when I felt it. Moving, swirling, swimming. A feeling of elation took over me. A feeling of fulfillment and fearlessness. No longer was I afraid of adventuring by myself. No matter how deep might the sun have dug into my skin, or how terrified might I have been walking through that lonesome path, I had finally defeated my anxiety around solo travel. I surmised that the bather I had seen at the beach and myself were not so different after all. We both had let go.