XVI

Liberation

With only three days remaining until the young turtles will be officially free to find their way in the watery world, excitement is stirring at Hotel Oaxtapec. New arrivals are thrilled with the timing of their vacations, especially on learning that they too may participate in the ceremonies leading to and including the dramatic finale of the grand liberation. Each guest will be given a turtle to escort to the water’s edge, to instruct and assist in a little prayer, presumably to God, who is sure to be listening.

Guests scheduled for departure prior to the ceremony can only wish they’d known, and many promise to time their vacations properly next year. Some bid farewell and luck to the young turtles, most often with a wave and a cheerful “Goodbye, little turtles!”

Down on the beach in personal isolation, swaying again like a solitary weed as his habit has become, Baldo stands between the world of his alienation and the one that beckons.

These days are most troubling to Antonio, who feels the sting of loss of tips rightfully accruing to Baldo, who has brought the turtles along, but now they’re going down the drain, the tips, or worse, into Milo’s pocket.

Milo also sees but won’t complain with tips coming in. He urges more, assuring well-wishers that donations will go directly into the turtle fund.

The turtle fund? Antonio will see about that.

Baldo gazes longingly seaward, but a man can’t go live in the sea. Baldo knows this with each breath he takes, as he knows he must continue to breathe, unlike the fish, who can live indefinitely underwater. Then again, it’s not like they don’t breathe. They do. This we know. They breathe between the water, which a boy of unique insight to certain things knows and has, in fact, experienced. Even if it was only a dream, it was real.

Baldo could breathe between the water in his dream. He could surface easily as a turtle, but still, he is too soft and has no shell to tuck into. Then again, neither do the turtles have a solid defense against those who would take a bite or even a nibble. Some survive for many years for no other reason than they are chosen to survive. Perhaps the animal angels protect them, or maybe a spirit residing in the infinite depths chooses who will live and who will die, as surely we must live until we die, each in his way.

In keeping with the Law of Life and Death, the depths beckon with their clarity and soothing sibilance. Do not the depths offer a greater freedom in life, no matter how long that life will be? Who can say if a being is chosen or protected, or that a life will be a short one or a long one?

The poster proclaims the little turtles will soon be Officially Free. Isn’t that just like the world of alienation, to burden freedom with organization, administration, pomp and ceremony?

The turtles know better. Baldo senses this as well.

They may live for more years or fewer, but wisdom comes easier to a turtle than to a human. Just look in their eyes and sense their longing for the deep blue sea. Watch their reverie in only a few feet of water, and you will see a grace and compassion the humans can only attempt to organize and administer and still fail miserably at learning. What human was ever so sanguine at ninety days? Who needs to count the days anyway?

Baldo knows who was ready ten days ago and who needs a few days more. Still they will go together for the benefit of the guests, as if the guests too will throw off a yoke of their own making and for a while be free of the tubs of their own making, where they are destined to struggle for air eternally between feedings.

This morning a new uniform waited on a hanger in a plastic bag. Baldo wears it now, but its color and decoration lose their zest. Epaulets and colorful badges on the chest and sleeves give the shirt a festive look, because the march from the plastic tubs to the beach will have the trappings of a parade. It will be as if Hotel Oaxtapec won the cup and will now roll slowly down the main street for the hometown crowd to cheer.

Baldo will wave the big baton. He’s not in the Navy, nor does he exactly understand what El Secretario Pesco does, but he has the patches. Oh, well, it would have been fun and a great sendoff for the babies who have waited for so long.

Some are now five inches across. Some only four. Some weigh half a kilo, mas o menos. Baldo observes them for symmetry and stroke, haunch and focus.

Do they look this way and that, or do they gaze straight ahead in their paddle through thin air? Do they eat their fill? Do they peck back when pecked? And what about posture and stance?

Baldo will pick two young turtles for early release, perhaps these two who now swim in mid-air with considerable excitement, which is understandable here, for the first time so near the sea of their dreams. They can see that it’s real, has been real all along, that they were right and never lost faith, even in the confines of a world called Rubbermaid® where no one would listen or believe.

Just look. There it is.

They can see and smell it and know that dreams come true. The big one thrusts his head high in the air and would arch his back and neigh while standing on his hind legs if he could.

The small one is more circumspect and perhaps uncertain, but she’s certainly unafraid. She only finds her way more slowly, which is no slower than fast, given the infinite nature and timeless schedule of the deep blue sea. What’s the rush? She may need companionship is all, until she grows a bit bigger. Mario will lead. Baldo and Chiquita will follow.

Of course these are merely the idle thoughts of a troubled boy. What can a silly daydream amount to but foolishness and perhaps a little time harmlessly wasted? Still, he has chosen to wear the colorful new uniform three days ahead of schedule, because he thinks he will wear it now or never. He’s never had a uniform like this, reflecting elevation and importance in the world of men, and it is fun. Or, if not fun, at least it lets him sample the feeling of a life in uniform. Perhaps, given a chance of a different nature, he would be on the rise to become El Secretario himself one day.

Even as the bright and frilly uniform feels more and more like every day, people pass by and stare and talk privately to each other. So it must be impressive. Let Quincy see this and wonder who’s in control. Baldo contemplates a life of garish color, in which he will take his place on the reef and guard his home from intruders. Officially.

He sets the young turtles in hand onto the sand and holds them gently but firmly in place so they will know to wait there. Don’t move.

He pulls his machete from its makeshift sheath that hangs from his belt and raises it in the air, because the leader of a marching band must show those behind him where he’s going, so they can see and follow. Baldo knows no one is behind him but himself in long-lost youth. Still, he looks back. He could have told you what was there; it’s nothing but sandy beach up to the pool deck where Antonio sits with the two soft men who eye the baby turtles frequently and now and then eye their keeper. Baldo suspects an appetite for turtle soup to go with a little brown round steak.

The softies listen intently to Antonio, who seems to speak mechanically while staring across the beach, which is nearly empty today under gray skies. A few tourists walk it, but Antonio is watching his former brother, the unlikely bandleader who waves his machete in the air but has yet to march, maybe because of the difficulty presented in high-stepping with flippers on his feet.

Hot today and breezeless, the stillness resonates with Antonio’s voice in the distance.

Antonio strives to make a point that he saw concisely illustrated in a movie not too long ago. That is, a moral message can outweigh the appearance of violence and maximize the gate if the set is sufficiently lavish and the effects are up to snuff, which seems obvious, of course. But this particular movie really illustrated the point like no other, though he can’t remember the name of it. So he sits back and calls the waiter for more coffee. Nor can he be entirely certain what it was about, which illustrates another point, mas o menos, that content doesn’t really matter, as long as you entertain from frame to frame, which is actually what Thorny and Sally have been saying all along.

The soft men adjust to new positions, and the darker-skinned one asks who was in this movie.

Antonio pauses on the verge of speaking. He prompts himself and snaps his fingers to indicate that it was, uh, uh, you know, uh. “I will remember in a minute.”

The lighter-skinned one asks what kind of movie it was.

The breeze whispers nothing as Antonio thinks, until he looks up with a nod and decisive smile and says, “It was made in California.”

The soft men nod and shrug, so Antonio proceeds with elaboration on further theory of this, that and the other that will no doubt enhance margins and bid formidably for market share.

The soft men shrug and nod some more.

Baldo tries these gestures on himself to see how they feel. He wants to know if the feeling will somehow tell him what is next felt, just as his new uniform lets him know how something feels. He nods and shrugs and nods some more. He prompts himself with a forward rolling hand and snaps his fingers on the verge of speaking. He listens for what the still, muggy air will tell him.

He stops listening and looks down. Scanning quickly left and right and then dead ahead just in time, he sees Mario and Chiquita poised on their tiptoes ten paces ahead. They brace at the top of a wave wash that tickles their chins, for the first time in direct contact with Mother Ocean, who bathes her baby turtles with seawater untouched by human hands.

Baldo sheathes his blade and slides the sheath around to the back as he steps forward slowly. He moves with the awkwardness befalling those species who find grace most easily in the water, yet must walk on dry land from time to time.

The wave wash recedes and now tickles his youthful compadres from the hind side. They give in to it and crawl with difficulty to knee-deep and then shoulder-deep, which depth is, of course, much easier for them, adding buoyancy.

It’s only ankle deep for Baldo, who slowly follows, watching over and above them, casting an eye as well beyond and beneath them. In a few paces more they swim and seem happier than they ever could have imagined, or maybe it’s the action of the shallow waves tossing them about that makes their effort look like a romp.

Dos tijerillas fly overhead and circle back until Baldo pulls his blade and spreads his wings to convey the message. With sincere conviction, he lets them read it and further informs all parties that he will deliver the message if either bird swoops to swinging radius, even as he peers to see if one is perhaps his own Tijerilla. Such is the way and the hand of God, who surely listens and knows and moves through this, the hand of His agent.

He thinks neither of these birds is his, but even if one is, we have come now to the law of nature, which cannot be broken no matter who thinks it can be.

The birds read the message clearly and fly away.

Meanwhile, Mario merely treads while Chiquita has no doubt. It’s only a phase he’s going through, in which he needs a minute to adjust, or he senses something, or maybe she’s the one who senses. Never mind; it’s time to go knee deep and watch his young companions give in to seduction and find their stride.

Baldo slides his mask from his shoulder where the strap of it squeezed an epaulet. Trussed up in a fancy shirt but looking very peculiar indeed with flippers on his feet and no trousers, well, at least now, with a mask over his eyes, he can see. Looking away from one dimension and into another, he sees that dreams are real—just look at Mario and Chiquita!

This shirt would best fit a clown, but if it is left here to catch the next wave just as a mute boy once waited to catch the next bus, so too is trouble left behind. And confusion.

Beyond the break, nothing breaks. It undulates receptively, and a lanky boy finding his rhythm moves into it with faith.

The clouds cleave. The sun shines. Beneath is a clarity Baldo has seen nowhere but here. There are his friends, Wrasse and Tang, Butterfly and Angel. And there are his great good friends Trumpet fish and Puffer.

¡Hola, mis amigos¡ Hey, Mario, Chiquita, wait for me.

And so on a gentle transition from vertical to horizontal, Baldo Garza eases into a soft, gentle stroke similar to that of a young turtle. He urges Mario along, because it’s time to go and there is nothing more to sense here in the shallows than the deep blue sea before us, which is plenty to sense, especially at first blush, with so much infinity and eternity drawing us in.

Mario must learn that stopping for every feeling of immensity that comes along will open him to attack no less than a sitting duck. Of course he, Mario, is neither sitting nor a duck. But treading water isn’t much different than sitting still, and you’re still smaller than a duck and just as defenseless.

So you move through the fear to the feeling that will be known as home, until the feeling too disappears, and all that is known rises in a bubble through these, the waters of our forgetting.

With luck we’ll have time until then, perhaps a long time.

Mario finally catches up with Chiquita, with Baldo’s help, and the two small ones rest, treading lightly but mostly resting. Shadows play across the bottom at fifty feet, and a swimmer can easily tell where clouds block the slanting shafts of glimmering light. He can tell which shadows are cast by denizens of the reef, and which ones move in tandem with three young siblings of two different sizes.

Baldo hovers and feels his skin tighten with knowing. He cannot be certain what he knows, but he knows it with certainty. The chill upon him is removed from official scheduling, and he thinks it will pass, given a minute to warm up. Then Chiquita dives for the feel of it, and he follows. She only goes ten feet or fifteen, and the chill surges with circulation.

Mario follows for cavorting at far greater depths than a tub could allow. Then they return to the surface and make their way.

Baldo knows the way. It draws him in, as a homecoming will welcome a weary traveler.

Such is the departure forevermore of Baldo Garza, who will be known in the short term as a loco boy who killed himself because he was depressed. Some will further speculate on whom else he may have killed or if he impregnated his brother’s fiancée.

In the long term he will become the legendary turtle boy who swam so far out with his young charges that he joined them in spirit and may still be swimming. Perhaps he will age gracefully and live for many decades with barnacles on his shell. Or maybe he turned to the left and swam back to shore farther south to begin a new life as a cabaret mime in Acapulco. He was really very good, you know.

In the moment he only swims, watched by the brother who has witnessed his progression from the edge of their father’s grave to appointment as El Capitán de las Tortugas. Antonio ponders the net effect of brotherly guidance and briefly considers mortal sin as a lingering shadow on a family. One brother is shamed and the other sways like a weed, staring idly through once-idyllic mornings.

What difference does a brother make? What is the difference between watching Baldo over gruel and tortillas and watching him over power brunch? Nada is the answer. Nothing makes a difference. Nothing will help. Nothing is what Baldo will come to, and so too what he touches.

Yet Antonio watches to keep his own peace of mind. He doesn’t worry, because Baldo can’t harm anything by standing on a beach or going for a swim. Tourists pass by, but he only gazes back dolefully, harmlessly, unless they, you know, break the Law of Baldo’s Land.

Which they will, surely as that gang of monkeys will type the National Anthem of Mexico, given a decent chance. Inevitability plagues Antonio’s days no less than the mosquitoes plague his sleep. Here he loses his train of thought at a critical juncture, a point worked toward and longed for, only to find himself forgetting the names of fabulous movies and their stars. He agrees distractedly to Thorny and Sally’s continuing perambulations on margin enhancement, and he watches.

Baldo’s new uniform looks different with a machete on his belt and a mask and snorkel on his shoulder, but not for long. He’s putting the mask on now and taking off the shirt and leaving it in the surf. And, Madre de Cristo, what is that tiny splashing in front of him? Well, he won’t hurt the little turtles. But why release them now? Where is he taking them? Antonio watches his brother’s awkward walk to the sea, his casual disrobing and easy stroke, herding two little swimmers in front. What difference can it make if two little turtles go now? Baldo can swim to the rock and back without flippers if he wants to, even if it’s twelve miles round trip and might take till noon.

But what is he thinking? How can he leave his brilliant new uniform tumbling in the break? Let’s face it; he’s más loco que una cabra. Only Baldo and a goat would shun success. And Antonio might as well eat tin cans as apply reason to one so troubled.