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It’s 3:50 AM. A layer of moisture sets on my face as the boat picks up wind. Muggy air blows through my hair, swirling it in different directions. I look up — it’s pitch black, not a star in sight. The waxing moon now hidden by dense clouds. I look around the boat. Mothers lap their children and hold them tight. Men pull their caps down in preparation for a two-hour bumpy slumber. I pull my hoodie over my head and blink hard, hoping I can make sense of this unruly jungle, but the only thing visible is the ghostly silhouette of a man guiding our captain with a small flashlight. How did I get here? I think to myself as I attempt to recollect my thoughts. I quickly lose focus as the loudness of the boat motor robs the night of its silence, forcing me to remain present. Four days prior, my dad and I had arrived to Quintin, a rural town in Darién, Panamá. Without a place to sleep nor food to eat, he asked a family making handmade bollos de maiz, a Panamanian corn bun, if they knew of a place we could stay at for two nights. Without hesitation, they offered one of their rooms to us. “Do you know these people?” I asked wearily. “You came to Darién to learn,” he sternly responded. “Look to them as teachers.” The room was large enough for one full-sized bed and a toilet. Showers took place outside and were limited to one bucket of water per person. We set our belongings down and returned outside where I helped the women peel corn off the cob, the first step to making bollos. I had never traveled like this before — rugged and solely driven by a passion rooted in understanding. I knew I was a guest, so I listened. They told me Quintin was named after a saint who built the town. Their dad, Maximino, lived here his entire life. For years he worked the land, fed the pigs, sustained the horses, built homes and raised generations in them. The kids, they said, would trek down a rocky path for three hours every morning, on foot, to get to school. On our last day, my dad and I joined them. That afternoon the kids guided us to a river buried in the jungle. The kids and I were ages apart but our ability to surrender to water united us as we eagerly jumped in and raced to and from. I felt deeply connected to them, my surroundings and acknowledged the power of immersion. How it strengthens your ability to empathize. That night a strange insect bit my dads foot. I watched as one sore multiplied, many of them swelling up into blisters. Within minutes an unbearable itch took hold of him. By nightfall, the itch transformed into a fever and completely consumed my dad. I suggested we head home, but he encouraged us to keep moving forward. “Elaiza, this is only the beginning," he confidently said. "We still have three more days to discover Darién." Two days later, after spending our last day immersing ourselves in the Emberá-Wounaan reservation, we head to bed. It’s 3:30 AM. “Wake up,” my father whispers. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and gather the remainder of my belongings. Upon stepping outside, we’re swallowed by immeasurable darkness. Quietly, we find our way to the dock and wait for our name to be called. In the meantime, I battle the urge to sleep as my body succumbs to the heaviness of my eyelids, each breathe pulling me in and out of daze. “Jose and Elaiza,” yells a man. I choose a seat that edges the ocean. My father, still ridden with a relentless fever, takes a seat in the front row. The motor revs loudly until starting, waking me right up. Within an hour the river opens up and welcomes the sea. A dark blue sky emerges as we’re met by dawn. I take one last look back before checking-in with my dad. “Wow," I say. A smile perches on his face. “The best adventures happen when you learn to trust blindly,” he says.