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My godfather Steve and I stand at Fisherman’s Huts on the northwest coast of Aruba in the exact spot he and my father windsurfed thirty years earlier. “This is how I remember it,” Steve says, gesturing to the shacks on the white sandy beach as the sun takes its first spoonful of the sea and the sky turns sherbet. “Not like that,” he turns in the opposite direction to the line of fancy hotels. I take it all in: my first adventure in Aruba and my first kiteboarding trip without my dad. We turn back to the colorful huts lining the coast, battered by the wind that blows side-off shore. Concerned by the idea of kiteboarding in an off-shore wind, we are looking forward to checking out the beaches on the opposite end of the island. However, Fisherman’s Huts is an ideal spot for a sunset dip. I dive into the buoyant water, floating on the last rays of the day as salt seeps into my February chapped lips. Steve narrates the drive to our Airbnb, pointing out all that has changed since my dad and he adventured here in the eighties. Steve navigates roundabouts and Dutch road signs as I lean my head out the window into the strong breeze. The Columnar Cacti sway in the wind and tower as tall and taller than the Divi Divi trees shaped in a southwesterly direction from the consistent trade winds. I breath in the warm breeze that destined this island to become a wind lovers retreat. The next day, I awake to the wind making the palm fronds sing. Steve outfits our gear while I make coffee and breakfast, taking extra joy in the rituals of a morning slowed down to island time. The habits of home ground me on adventures: coffee, breakfast, and journal writing. There is no relaxing in rushing; Steve and I take our time. I am grateful my dad taught me to do less and enjoy each thing more on vacation. “Now this I like far better than the more touristy beaches,” I say as we arrive at the undeveloped, northeast end of the island. Rugged desert meets wide open coastline with white capped waves promising strong winds. Boca Grande shines, a stunning crescent moon beach met by aqua ocean. I spot colorful kites dancing in the sky and feel my heart pumping with the trade winds. Steve points out the wind mills on the distant hills moving in synchronized motion. We bump down the dirt road to Boca Grande. A friendly local shows us the great set up for self launching and landing to keep all kiters safe. He generously gives us a tour of the beach, pointing out where the coral reef gets shallow. Already fifteen kites navigate a small space in front of Boca and it is early in the day. I hear five different languages and take in the diverse group of international kiters. I am the only woman out on the water and as I kite the inbound tack toward shore, Steve gives a “woohoo.” I take in the raw coastline and sharp cliffs southeast of the beach and feel the jagged edges of loss inside. Cancer took my dad or he’d be here with us. I howl with the wind, wishing my dad could see me dancing across the water. But unlike the longing for my dad that I feel at home, Aruba offers healing. I boost off a wave into the sky and for a few moments I am flying. Suspended between sky and sea, I feel truly alive again for the first time since my dad’s death. This adventure isn’t about running away from the pain of loss, but rather chasing it like the wind.