The Mother and The Mockingbird

Everywhere I turn there are bodies. Smiling faces, bad teeth; arms pumping in time to steel drums. Squeezing through the mass of moving limbs, I spy an opening. “No gracias.” I shake my head at a dancer who clutches his chest and pouts as if I’m the last gringa who will ever cross his path.
Music is the heart and soul of Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica; every Tico in this village has told us as much.
The bright reds, yellows and greens painted on signs and on the sides of houses enhance the rustic charm in this one dirt, heavily potholed-road town. But come nightfall, the village’s true colours are revealed as Bob Marley’s music fills the rainforest.
My ears are ringing as I step out of the club and onto the beach. The sand vibrates. I’m alone. My mum would have a heart attack, never mind the poisonous snakes. But I can’t stop. Like a moth to, well, a flame, I walk toward a cluster of glowing boulders.
More than fifty long, white candles have been stuck to the volcanic rocks along the shore. The melting wax drips down the stones forming warm pools in the sand. I’ve never seen anything so simple, so beautiful.
Then I look up.
Tonight is the first night it hasn’t rained, in the moonless night, the Milky Way is on full display: twinkling whites, yellows and golds. I read once that there are more stars in the sky than grains of sand on earth. For the first time, I believe it.
Beside me, the Caribbean Sea is calm, flat, dark.
Despite the brochure quality, turquoise water, daytime swims have been out of the question thanks to riptides and sharks; however, every morning the surfers paddle out to the nine-year-old break created by the earthquake of ’91, making me question how shark infested the waters really are – though I suppose it only takes one.
I splash along the shore, sending ripples to Africa, until thoughts of creatures biting my toes send me back to the dry sand.
The Big Dipper is directly above me. Back home, in Victoria, it sweeps in a wide arc, always out of reach. Here, 9° north of the equator, we’ve never been so close; I could drink from the ladle.
My friends have found the candles, local boys, and lawn chairs. They sit in a circle, laughing.
I hide in plain sight, caught between them and the tide.
The notes of Bob Marley’s next anthem begin before the current one ends. As I listen to the laid back lyrics, my own anthem starts to shift.