Let the Waves Come: How a Man on a Panga Changed My Life

by Jen Baranovic (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Nicaragua

With adventure in my heart, I hopped a single prop to the Caribbean isle of Big Corn. From the microscopic six-seater, I gazed dreamily at the geometries of irrigated fields, blue-black oceans, then the welcome sight of an island oasis. Just after landing, the weather turned on its head and the rains began. Laughing in the sudden downpour, I ran to the dock ticket counter. The lazy bump of the boats on the wooden beams was then but music to my ears. Soon it was time to go, but the mood had swug collectively to unease, the tone set by armed guards counting the commuters boarding for Little Corn. A warm drizzle lapped our faces like eager puppies insisting all was well, but the furrowed foreheads of the men stowing the rain-damp luggage and the concerned chatter over the radios said otherwise. A month before, a panga carrying 30 had capsized in the treacherous channel. Thirteen had drowned. There had since been limits set for the wind speed and wave heights for the journey to be allowed, and we were over the maximum. With the boat loaded, we awaited the coast guard’s decision. A beautiful dark-skinned mother sat to my left with her girl. Anxiously, I asked if she thought the boat passage was ok in these conditions. She looked at me like I had two heads. “Oh nahhhhhh, girl! Ain’t nothin bout dis safe.” A tawny man with no shoes slipped aboard when the guards were busy with paperwork, so we scooted down on our painted plank to make room. Minutes later we left the port, the rain steady, the waters of the harbor eerily tranquil. Our faded orange neck-wrap floatation devices bumped together as we hit the first waves. The next part I remember in clips, like parts of a dream, because I could only keep my eyes open a few seconds at a time. Waves poured over the sides of the boat, drenching us and pooling water at our ankles. The boat pitched in the boiling sea. Clips of madness: the captain cutting the motor and yelling as we dropped in free fall off of wave cliffs; people crying; people throwing up on their feet. Coughing salt water, I looked out from under the tarp to the harrowing sight of the foamy, erratic vastness clawing at us with endless arms. I have never felt the raw elements overwhelming my fragile animal so completely. I knew without doubt that if the boat spilled us into the ocean, I would not survive. I glanced left at the man who’d come aboard last. As the rest of us clung to each other in helpless terror, this man laughed in the face of an angry god. Awestruck, I watched as this madman rode the waves, brilliant white smile gaping open, water pouring over him. The worse it got, the harder he delighted in it. Yelling into the wind, eyes open through the crashing swells, grinning insanely but genuinely from ear to ear. He caught my gaze. “Feelin’ it!!!” he yelled to me in his accented English. I laughed with him then. At the waves. At this boat ride. At my crazy beautiful life. At my impending death in the sea. Feelin it. As the shore approached, my bewilderment subsided into a clumsy gratitude, readjusting in emotional fragments back into plans and practicalities. When my friends arrived three days later, the sea was as flat as glass. We shared sunny, timeless days on pristine beaches and in flip flop bars. Slow reggae and banana bread. Wandering dirt paths and worrying about nothing. The island itself was the most idyllic, serene place I’d ever known, and the journey to get there made it ever more worth it by contrast. I will never forget the man howling with wild excitement as we plummeted over nine foot waves in our tiny boat. Now, in the midst of my life’s hopeless moments, this memory gives me strength and resilience: I can catch my breath and remember to let the waves come as they come... and when I remember that man on the panga, I can smile in the face of all of it. “Feelin’ it!”