25

During last year’s Holy Week, Ben convinced me to take a few days off from the water project. La Lib tends to fill up with drunken merrymakers from the capital at Easter time. All the forecasts called for surf. The timing was good for me, as Cara Sucia’s workers also expected a break.

We rode a slow bus to Usulután, in the east of the country, then hitchhiked to a remote part of the coast meant to have great waves. Ben had been there once before, with a traveling surfer from Australia.

At this time of year, all of the stones were still painted with the colors and initials of political campaigns. Most bore the red, white, and blue of ARENA—the U.S. client party that’s held the presidency for years. The reds and yellows of the former guerilla party were well represented. Third parties gained some ground, including one that deftly usurped a green-and-gold look from the Brazilian soccer team.

Our final ride came from a pickup truck selling melons. The vendor let us ride in the back, along with our surfboards, backpacks, and tent. Melons rolled from side to side with each hill and bump. The driver often stopped to bargain with local merchants.

Ben tapped on the cab once we reached the tiny coastal town of El Cuco. It was smaller and less conspicuous than I’d expected, no sign of hotels or other tourist infrastructure. It looked to be little more than a sandy street shaded by tall palms. Humble restaurants and stores lined either side.

“This way,” Ben said.

We walked down to the coast. In the shore break, unrideable tubes—hollow and sandy—stood up tall and then collapsed upon the steep beach. There was swell.

“It’s a bit of a walk,” Ben said.

We made our way west, packs on our backs and boards under our arms. The town gave way to tall bluffs above the black sand. They said this area was littered with uncrowded breaks, but where would we sleep?

Soon, I saw a point in the distance. Not made up of round boulders like Punta Roca or K 99, this was a jagged outcropping of land. One small whitewashed building stood atop its far end.

“That’s the spot.” Ben pointed. “It’s not quite as long or hollow as La Lib, but we’ll have it to ourselves. Mostly sand bottom.”

For the rest of the walk, I stared at the distant foam taking shape until I could make out the takeoff spot and some workable sections.

“Don Goyo!” Ben hollered.

“What says the man?” a big-bellied Salvadoran called back.

We’d come upon a family’s home and compound at the base of the point. A small adobe house stood against the bluffs, along with a separate kitchen and composting latrine. A woman washed dishes at a cistern. Two shirtless boys turned to stare. Dwarf coconut trees sheltered the packed sand of their patio. The man with the belly came to greet us.

Ben shook his hand. “Do you remember me?”

“Of course.” Don Goyo’s face was dark and deeply lined by the sun. His grin was wide, his teeth white and straight.

“This is Malia.” Ben put a hand on my back.

“Mucho gusto.” I shook Don Goyo’s hand.

“Chinese?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Hawaiian.” It seemed the simplest explanation.

“Hawaiian!” He was impressed. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Do you have space for us?” Ben asked. “We brought a tent.”

“Of course,” Don Goyo said. “Over there, in the shade.” He pointed to a spot under the tree at the edge of his compound’s perimeter.

“Perfect.” Ben nodded.

“Meals?” Goyo asked.

“Please.”

“Beer? Bottled water? I’ll send the boys to town.”

“Yes and yes.” Ben took some bills from his pocket and passed them to Don Goyo. “Keep the change.”

“Very good.” Don Goyo crumpled the money inside his fist. “This is your home now. Relax.” He smiled again.

We thanked him and went off to the spot he’d indicated underneath the tree. Don Goyo walked toward his house, calling out for his two sons.

“He seems nice,” I said.

“He’s great. Here’s the deal: He enjoys the occasional beer and cigarette, but the wife won’t let him waste money on vice. Long as we offer him booze or smokes, we’ll stay on his good side.”

“Got it,” I said.

“She’s a good cook, too. Little heavy on the salt. Let’s get camp set up and paddle out.”

We raised Ben’s tent and stowed our backpacks inside. I changed while he waxed up the boards. As I went to leave the tent, I stopped at the flap and took in the view. A set hit the point break and threw a small barrel at the takeoff section, then formed a fun wall the rest of the way in. The wave was perfectly framed by the rainfly, the water a stone’s throw away. In my native city, this kind of view would have been worth several million dollars.

“Did you see that?” Ben said. “Let’s get out there.”

*   *   *

For the next three days, we traded fun waves at our own personal point break. We rose at sunrise and surfed the morning glass until we were starving for breakfast. In the shade, with the tent fully unzipped, it was possible to nap briefly before breaking out in a sweat. We often walked to town for lunch or Popsicles or simply to kill time. Once the wind died down in the evenings, we’d paddle out for our sunset session and surf until dark. Don Goyo’s wife stacked our dinner plates with beans and fried fish. His sons were thrilled to carry boxes of beer and ice back and forth from the store for a few extra coins. In the middle of the night, Ben and I made love, with the sound of the sea so strong inside our ears, I half-expected our tent to wash away.

One afternoon, Don Goyo lowered a cluster of dwarf coconuts from one of his palm trees. He gave lessons on opening them with a machete. I was lucky not to lose any fingers. The six of us spent the afternoon drinking the milk and eating the nutty flesh.

Each night after dinner, Don Goyo joined us at our tent. Ben would roll him a cigarette and offer him a beer. He asked questions about our country, confirming rumors and truths that he’d heard from returned Salvadorans. Did one really need a license to catch fish? Was it truly legal to carry a gun down the street but not an open beer bottle? Were there hospitals for dogs? We all agreed that he was lucky to live where he did. That was perhaps my favorite thing about Don Goyo: the contentment and peace he felt toward his home, his half acre of paradise.

*   *   *

On our final morning, I woke and saw Ben seated just outside the tent. The rising sun had not yet broken over the bluffs opposite the ocean. On the sand in front of us, a herd of cattle walked in the direction of town. A dozen bony beige cows, driven by two teenagers with short sticks, ambled along the tide line, their steps muffled by the sand, their long shadows stretching out toward the sea. They studied our tent and the ocean in turn, unimpressed by either. Behind them, the waves at the point waned in size, but they were still clean and perfectly shaped.

“Morning.” I sat down beside Ben and put my arm around his back, felt that manta ray–shaped muscle below his shoulder.

“You sure you want to go back?” he asked.

I grinned. “The water project needs me.”

He sighed. “I’m ready for this. I’m ready to do this full-time for a while.”

“How do you mean?” I asked. “Uncrowded waves? Sleeping on the beach?”

He turned to face me. “That and being with you.”

Blood rushed to my cheeks.

Ben looked back to the ocean, the cows now gone. “We should travel once we’re done,” he said. “Buy some wheels, hit the road for a while before real life catches up.”

“You mean, like, Mexico?” I asked.

“That’d be fun.” He furrowed his brow. “Fuck it. We could go all the way to South America.”

I laughed at the audacity of the idea, then saw that he wasn’t joking. “You’re serious?”

“Why not? Our combined readjustment money. Both our airfare payouts. I brought a little savings with me. It’ll be a nice chunk of change.”

“How do we get back home once we’re done?”

Ben shrugged. “Sell the car. Teach some English in Chile or Argentina. Get a credit card. People do it all the time.”

Don Goyo’s rooster crowed and startled us both. I put a hand up over my heart.

“Could be the trip of a lifetime,” Ben said.

I nodded. Suddenly, I was being persuaded. A minute of silence passed. I laid my head down upon his shoulder. Both of us stared out at the point. The waves looked worth one last paddle out before we made the journey home.

“Ben.” I lifted my head again. “I want to finish up this aqueduct. It’s important to me.”

He smiled and put a hand around my back. “I get that. This would be after. You’ll deserve a vacation.”

“Yes,” I agreed, the very notion rising up without warning and forming itself into a convincing peak. “I’ll deserve it.”