The Edge of the World

My stomach dropped sharply about six feet below my body, then jarred up to just below my throat. Clutching the edge of the vinyl seat, I couldn't suppress a grin. Outside the window, propellers roared. The brilliant white of the 13-seat plane's right wing was blinding, reflecting the afternoon sun. Gusts of sea air buffeted us back and forth, and passengers swayed into each other.

Stepping out onto the steaming tarmac of the Ambergris Caye airport, I took a deep breath of humid equatorial air. This was the furthest I had ever come from my suburban, manicured front lawn back in Texas, and I felt like an untethered balloon, whisked by a southerly breeze to a new and exciting place. It was almost as though a part of my lungs I'd never filled before was now expanding, and I was drunk on the influx of oxygen. Sun sparkled off the ocean and the engraved skull ring of the copilot as he handed me my backpack from the plane's tiny cargo hold.

By the time my brother, my grandparents, and I jounced to our beachside hotel room in a minivan taxi that was about twice as old as I was, the sun was riding low above the horizon. I wanted a taste of this island before bed, though, and borrowed a bike from the hotel to head into the town of San Pedro. Along the road, the only other vehicles I saw were golf carts, bikes, and a few more dusty minivan taxis. A stray dog lounged in the sparse grass of an empty lot, dappled with shade, tongue lolling. Soon I was in San Pedro, and the sun's last gleams had nearly faded. I stopped my bike and stood, staring down the cobbled main street. Some sort of commotion was going on; harsh yells in Spanish advanced my way, meshing with the shrieks of entertained children.

"Cabra!" a man yelled, dashing toward me. I looked around, oblivious as to the meaning of the word; it was beyond my Spanish 3 vocabulary, I supposed. Stepping off my bike, I prepared to move it to the side of the sidewalk and let the man through. Suddenly, I realized what "cabra" was: ungracefully galloping toward me, frayed tether trailing, muddy up to his knees, was a goat! He'd caused a veritable stampede as his owner and some local boys chased after him. Everyone was watching, and the goat was headed right for me, a gringa tourist! I saw no other options but to drop into an athletic stance, feet apart, and snag the goat's rope as he ran by. I was rewarded with a cold orange Fanta, a firm handshake, and a story I'll never forget: the day I caught the runaway cabra.