23 Swimming Hole

Lily

 

“ What about you? ” I asked after I’ d explained everything and answered Arturo ’ s many questions.

“ My name is Arturo Antonio Juan Cruz de la Montoya. ”

I laughed. “ Seriously? ”

“ Of course. In Mexico—”

“ S o that ’ s where you were born? ”

“ No. I am American. I born in California. ”

“ But—”

“Why I don ’ t speaking English good ? Because I grow up in Mexico. Is long story, complicado . I need break, Lily. Too much English now. Adem ás , maybe we start movin g .”

The sun was farther down in the sky, but it was still blistering hot—even here in the forest—and hours yet until dark. Arturo read my thoughts.

“ Pues , still long time until dark, and is very hot. You swim, Lily Amaya? ”

“ No, not really. Ma wanted me to learn, but it was difficult without any pools nearby. ”

“ And the river? ”

“ She didn ’ t want me in the river. I think she was afraid. Sometimes I went to the reservoir with Clare ’ s family, but I ’ m not a g reat swimmer. ”

Arturo lifted his eyebrows and smiled mischievously. “ Maybe, you are, how you say . . . modesta ? ”

“ Modest? ”

He nodded.

“ I dunno; I never had lessons . . . ”

“ Well, ” he said, jumping up, “ we will see. On the bike, ” he ordered , hopping on as he spoke. I climbed on behind, reaching around his torso , no longer shy after so many hours of riding together.

Arturo had a fine sense of reading the landscape and it wasn ’ t long before he had located a nice-sized stream. It wasn ’ t near a road, so no one else was around. He parked the bike and walked up to the water ’ s edge .

“‘S okay,” he said, after sniffing the air.

“ What ’ s that supposed to mean? ”

“ Not . . . I don ’ t know how to say. But the river is okay ,” he said, hitting each syllable like a hammer hits a nail. “ But, ” he continued, “ here is, mmm, no big enough. ” He held his hands apart, up and down, indicating depth.

“ It ’ s deep enough for me, ” I said. Okay, so it was about 30 centimeters deep. I was perfectly comfortable with just wading around, getting my feet and ankles wet.

Arturo took off running. There was nothing to do but follow. Soon we were in brush and tall grass, no longer running, slowly making our way through the thick growth along the water ’ s edge.

“ Arturo —”

“ Almost, ” he said. “ Continue. ” A branch snapped in my face. My ankles were getting scratched and torn. I worried how far from the bike we had ventured. Arturo was out of sight; I could only hear him up ahead: snap, crackle, pop.

“ O — kay,” I heard at last. It was long and slow. Such a contented “ okay,” as if a whole lot of other extraordinary words he couldn ’ t say in English were packed into those two little syllables.

“ So we ’ re there? ” M y voice was tiny, a thin whistle of a voice I sent on ahead, hoping he heard.

“ Oh, jess ,” his deep voice answered back. Then a crash and he stood in front of me, holding out his hand. “ Come. ”

I grasped his hand and he pulled me through the last thicket.

I don ’ t know how the river did it. The shallow, rocky rapids had made a slight turn and ended. A deep and tranquil pool surrounded by trees opened before us, and a tiny beach of pebbles extended toward the water. Along the river, ragged stone steps walked up out of the beach, leading to larger and larger rocks and finally to a spacious stone cliff. I had never even seen photos of anything so perfect, so beautiful and amazing. The color of the water changed according to the depth and shadows: deep blue, blue-green , clear and crisp near the shallow edge.

Arturo watched m y response , his face happy and proud. “ Nice, huh? ”

“ It ’ s beautiful. ”

Like Izanagi and Izanami standing on the Floating Bridge of Heaven, or Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, I felt like we were the only two people on earth. I drank in the breathtaking colors; felt the fresh, cool air from the water rush ing over the rocks; and listened to the voice of the river singing its way toward and away from the pool. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. When I opened them, Arturo was gone.

Splash! A spray of water . A few moments later, Arturo ’s bedraggled head popped up near the edge of the pool where he grasped the rocky edge.

“ Lily, ” he called. “ Is nice. Come in. ”

Suddenly, I wondered what Arturo was wearing—or wasn ’ t wearing. There, in a bush, hung his jeans and shirt.

“ I . . . uh . . . I don ’ t have a swimsuit. ”

Arturo was climbing out of the water. I covered my eyes. He laughed, and I moved my hands apart , peeking out, then let them drop in relief. He wore dark blue boxers, a bit saggy with water, but decently covering him. I watched as he deftly climbed the rock ledge, smiled widely, and dove into the blue-green pool.

“ Hey, ” he called, sputtering above the water again, “ why you still out there? ”

I sat on the beach and began untying my shoes. “ It ’s okay,” I replied. “ I’ ll just sit here and put my feet in the water. It ’ s much cooler here, ” I added, hoping to quell further invitations.

This worked for about ten minutes. Arturo scaled the rock and dove in several more times, swimming around like a fish or a crazed dog or something. He tried all sorts of strokes, including simply floating on his back, arms outstretched, staring up at the blue sky. He looked so relaxed and peaceful that I couldn ’ t help feeling envious. Then he dove under and came up about two meters away. He got his bearing and walked out of the water to where I reclined, sweaty and uncomfortable, despite what I ’ d said about feeling cooler. He plopped down next to me.

“ You need to get cool, ” he said.

“ I’m okay.”

“ What ’ s your problem? ”

“ I told you, I don ’ t have my swimsuit. ”

“ Me either. ”

“ But you have your shorts, ” I said.

“ Lily, you wear shorts at Meg ’ s house. ”

“ I know . I thought about it, ” I admitted. “ But it ’ s my only pair. I don ’ t want to get them wet. ” Unlike Arturo, it would also mean getting my bra, undies, and a shirt wet—too much of my overall clothing supply.

“‘ S dumb, ” he said.

This offended me. “ It ’ s not the same for a guy. ”

He looked at me without expression. “ There is other option . . . ”

What other option? What did—!!! He was watching me closely and saw the moment I understood . My astonishment made him smile, but he didn ’ t laugh.

“ I can turn away, ” he suggested. “ You can shout when you are safe in the water. ”

I jumped up, grabbed my backpack, and stomped into the brush. “ Fine, ” I called back. “ I’ ll get my clothes wet . I just hope they dry in this humidity. ”

His deep laughter reverberated in my head, long after it had actually ceased.

Once I got past my initial embarrassment and display of anger, I was able to relax and enjoy the cooling and cleansing effect of the stream. Arturo coaxed relentlessly for me to dive from the high rock, but I refused . Everything necessary for reenergizing and recuperating could be accomplished by a simple dive from the lower rocks, or by wading in and pushing off for that matter. Maybe I would do it the next time. It ’ s not that I don ’ t take risks, after all. I was perfectly capable of jumping without fear. But today, to be in this beautiful place and paddle around in the cool water, it was simply enough. Sometimes enough is just enough.

We swam and splashed and played until exhaustion urged us out. The water was refreshing, but not frigid, so there was no reason to get out except to rest. We lay side by side until we were hot and our energy restored, and then back in we ’ d go. The cycle of swimming, sunbathing, swimming, continued until our sunny spot was completely swallowed up in shadows, a message that nightfall was near . Only once had I attempted conversation again, and Arturo had reminded me he was resting his brain from English.

Back in my long pants and a dry shirt, we returned the way we had come, scattering birds like stones as we pushed through the thick ets . The bike stood untouched where we had left it. Accustomed to our routine, we mounted the bike and rode off without speaking. I knew Arturo would do his best to find easy yet safe places to ride; he knew I ’ d be watching for signs of danger such as drones.

The setting sun ’ s echo of light lingered, twilight astounding me more in this place than it ever had at home. Nature: lonely, scary, beautiful, magical. I was glad to be back on the bike, lost in thought about the new world I was discovering.

After several kilometers I breached the silence, calling over the wind, “ Remind me again, where exactly we ’ re headed? ”

“ Find friends, ” he called. “ Is no other option. Aaron d on’ tell us nothing more. I am afraid to use nav-map . . . mmm . . . GRIM we saw maybe find us. We need to see signs. Like your friends see .”

Clare and Dante. Aaron told us that Clare and Dante had identified friends by using Ana ’ s paper and later by reading the secret Seed Savers signs—purple lupines and the double circle symbol. But Clare and Dante had also been caught on camera and were lucky to have escaped. Although they had escaped and were now living somewhere in Canada. I thought about all of this as we moved northward through the dark.

“ But how will we do that in the dark? ” I asked.

“ Dime una oraci ó n, m’ija .”