Washed Away

By: Angela Fetty

It was completely dark; the only light in our hotel room was a sliver shining through the crack where the curtains did not touch. It was a dreaded moment, my body and mind did not want to wake up and I knew I was going to be cranky until I got that treasured cup of piping hot coffee with a splash of milk. After a freezing cold shower, which was not my desire, but the hot water had all been consumed because my roommate beat me to the punch; I rounded up all my belongings, preparing for our 6:15 departure. The excitement was mounting, in a matter of hours I was going to be dropped off on a tiny island, where I would be in paradise for three days.

The chewable raspberry Dramamine began to take affect and my eyelids began to close like an automatic garage door someone had the remote to; the bus trip was a blur. Our miniature bus pulled up to a ferry station as our driver José maneuvered through the bustling crowds of people all in need of a ticket to cross the large body of water. Women wore bikinis with simple cover-ups, leaving areas of skin exposed, their brown skin glistening in the morning sun, which captured the eyes of men swarming around them. Children formed circles, playing patty-cake, laughing, and running around uncontrollably. While waiting, my stomach cried out and instantly I had to listen, but the idea of eating worried me because my history of motion sickness is a long one and has haunted me ever since those excruciatingly curvy car rides in Germany’s Black Forest, so the option of eggs and toast was not a possibility. As I was meandering down the crammed street an aroma of sweet citrus engulfed me. A young man with dark tanned skin was positioned behind a raggedy blue station wagon with the back hatch swung open and oranges piled high in the back in open boxes. His worktable, protected by an umbrella, was invisible and was covered with already prepared oranges, strategically priced at only 50 cents each. I craved this orange and would have paid $2 at that moment if I could just consume a piece of fruit, it felt as if I had not had fresh fruit for an eternity. The oranges were peeled in a circular pattern by a hand-cranked machine. He grabbed the first orange he could reach, took a small black knife and cut the top off like it was a small pumpkin, while the veins in his muscular arm bulged and I could not tear my eyes away. I asked in Spanish how I ate this new delicacy, because it was unlike anything I had seen. With a combination of Spanish and sign language, he showed me and by the end I had mastered the task. Imagine the orange is a tube of toothpaste, squeezing and wiggling and pushing all the juice to the small opening at the top and slurping. Then, tearing apart the soft skin to eat the mangled innards of the juiceless fruit.

Right: Slurping up the juice created a rather large mess, especially when the juice squirted on Chelsea and her cute new bag! Oops!

Above: The treasured treat.

The journey on the ferry was as equally a blur as the bus ride, probably because of the other disgusting raspberry Dramamine I chewed. I am now in Vieques, an island only 21 miles wide, but amazing. I am greeted at the guesthouse, La Casa Alta Vista, meaning the tall house with a view and the name is not a lie, by a woman with a barefoot baby balanced on her hip. Her English is perfect and she tells the group what there is to do on the island, which is not much except for the beach. We are advised that food at the tourist restaurants is ridiculously expensive, especially for us poor college students. However, there is a grocery store within walking distance, as much of everything is, so we discuss grilling out on the roof for dinner. The store was not like a grocery store I am used to, the yogurt was expired, there was a bizarre smell lingering in the air, and the cheese was spotted with white fuzzy mold. However, keeping my eyes peeled for reasonably fresh food was not as much of a challenge as I anticipated and I purchased enough food for a cookout and for my next few days here on the island. Night fell over the island earlier than in Oklahoma and as we sat in the air-conditioned lobby/store/check-in area we were eager to be dismissed from class so we could fire up the grill and pig out.

Five of us ladies started the grill and sat in the darkness with only a small flame flickering from a candle on the roof. Sitting in a white plastic lawn chair, the breeze kissing my skin was more than I could have asked for. The view, overlooking the scattered houses and small shacks led straight to the ocean. The trees with orange, yellow, red, and purple flowers caught my peripheral vision and made me wish, ever so hard, that Oklahoma had this much color and beauty.

Right: Absolute perfect beauty in Vieques.

The night passed quickly while sitting on the balcony next to my room. Darkness enveloped the balcony, but while leaning over Dawn’s shoulder our computer cast a warm glow on our faces. As the night cooled and the breeze grew more powerful the urge to journey to the beach loomed over us. A quick stroll to the boardwalk led Dawn and I to an entrance to the beach, a set of stone stairs, dark and mysterious, with palm trees creating a tunnel to the sand. Stepping down into another world, the nearly full moon illuminated the sand and rocks and the waves splashed on the beach. My feet sank and were sucked up by the sand; the ocean was eating me. Over looking the glistening water, with reflections of the dark clouds and moon it was like no one else in the world existed except the two of us. The ocean was endless with no sign of life. If the ocean had swallowed me whole, tomorrow night another person would overlook the never-ending water and realize how massive the world is and how small we all are.