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It is the middle of January; a time in which I am used to waking up to snow and subzero temperatures. Today is different, which becomes uncomfortably apparent as I jolt awake from the bead of sweat running down my back. The window above my bed, open to account for the lack of air conditioning in this shabby seaside hostel, lets in the first rays of morning light. As the sun gets stronger, the old rusty fans become powerless. My shirt sticks to me. I toss and turn, yearning for another hour of sleep until I eventually give in and drag myself away from the slightly too firm mattress I've been sleeping on. The hostel is precariously perched atop natural rock pools and close enough to the ocean that our clothing hanging on the clothesline outside our door becomes stiff with the salty ocean air and never fully dries. Acutely aware of the dozen or so people sleeping beside me, I quietly sneak outside to explore, careful not to wake my fellow travelers. My bare feet are welcomed by the soft green grass, a feeling that is unfamiliar to me after so many months of snow and cold. This exhilaration is short-lived as I step onto the harsh black rock that surrounds the tide pools. Under the weight of my sleepy walk, dozens of scarlet-colored crabs scatter across the obsidian. I admire their cohesive motion. When the waves violently crash into their homes, I expect the crabs to wash away. They never do. Wave after wave, not even one is knocked off of their perch. I wonder if they are aware of how early in the day it is for so much motion. The thought of being slammed by the waves in that moment makes my stomach turn. When I finally look up from my crustacean friends, I spot two manta rays lovingly speckled with blue and white spots. My limited experience with sea animals is increasingly obvious as I am consumed by this discovery. As they glide along the coastline, I follow their path on the land and attempt to keep up. Mesmerized by my newfound companions, I stumble and scrape my knees against the rock. I haven't scraped my knees since I was a child playing out on the blacktop at recess. That memory seems so distant from where I am in this moment and brings a nostalgic smile to my face. I find myself envying both the manta rays' gracefulness and my younger self's naive clumsiness. A moment too soon, the rays flap their wings and swim away from the rocky shore until their mesmerizing blue and white pattern melts into the turquoise water. An older woman wading in the nearby waves, blissfully unaware of the magic she had just missed, calls out to me after witnessing my embarrassing misadventure. She inspects my knees and insists I slather them in Aloe until the skin heals over. Adamant that the seawater would "clean the wounds", she urges me to join her for a swim. I dare not reject the invitation of a local, so I oblige. In my broken Spanish, I tell the woman about my experience with the manta rays that had paid me a brief visit a mere 20 feet from where she was swimming. I think she could see my eyes light up as I spoke of them, but she left me with only a simple response: "Pura Vida". Looking back, I don't think I could have described it better.