Chapter 37
I ’M ONLY AFRAID FOR MY LIFE ONCE, ON A STEEP AND GRAVELLY hill where I never quite feel enough traction. I imagine my ATV flipping backward with me on it. And how I’d die looking like a giant dice rolling down a hill.
After about thirty minutes, René veers onto a dirt road ahead of me. I pull up next to him feeling more at ease maneuvering a large, dangerous piece of equipment than I ever thought possible.
The whole way here, René checked on me occasionally. I tried my best not to read anything into it. He’s just making sure the record label exec isn’t dead. But each time, I felt a warmth in my chest. It was a beautiful ride with the ocean almost always in view. I loved the straight roads, where we’d speed up to over fifty miles per hour.
Without removing his helmet, René flashes me a thumbs-up to gauge how I’m feeling. I give him a thumbs-up back, then move my hand around, mimicking a thumb on a roller coaster. His eyes crinkle in response, then he starts off down the narrow dirt road, splashing right away through a large ditch covered in mud.
I follow him slowly, driving around the ditch while also avoiding the boulders and trees on either side of us. Eventually the muddy water gets deep. At times it rises above the wheels, and I have to lift my legs to avoid getting my jeans soaked.
The carefree, childlike rush I feel sloshing down the long, muddy river of a road, weaving around large rocks only to dip into an unforeseen small hole, leaves me buzzing. When we reach the end, my cheeks hurt from smiling. I only wish I’d worn a more supportive bra.
René hands me a thermos of water and takes my helmet. He grabs our things out of the trunks and places the helmets inside.
“Resaca!” he announces, his arms raised high like a true showman. “From your dad’s song.”
I feel my cheeks flush. “This is Resaca?”
“Well, the beach is at the end of that path.”
I unmount the bike and my legs are wobbly. “I don’t know what to say.” I’m beyond moved he’s brought me here. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He leans against his bike. “I also asked around about a ‘dock beneath the sea,’ but nobody’s ever heard of it. Maybe it was more figurative and not a real place?”
“Poetic license?”
“Yeah. We do that sometimes.” He’s being smug, but in a way I find adorable.
“You’ve got a little mud.” I tap the bridge of my nose to show him where.
He laughs because we’re both covered in mud. “Thanks.” He wipes off his nose with a knuckle. “After you.” The trail to the beach is narrow, so he lets me go first. “I also tried to find a concert,” he says as we walk, “for the part about listening to bomba music, but the only thing I found was an event coming up in San Juan in a couple of weeks.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I appreciate you checking, really.”
“Yeah, so…” His voice trails off.
The path spills us out onto a clearing and my breath catches. The sun is setting on a literal paradise. A cove with a white sandy beach, palm trees and mangroves, crystal-clear water, all enclosed by small green mountains. In a movie, pirates would hide their treasure here.
“I called a couple of friends and told them we needed the bomba to come to us.” He points out a group of camping tents and tarps down the beach.
It’s all too much to take in. “You know them?”
“Not all of them.”
“Are you kidding me? You shouldn’t have gone through all this trouble.”
After a few minutes of introductions, I’m still trying to wrangle my emotions. I’m ecstatic, overwhelmed, and emotional. There’s a dancer, two singers, and three musicians who are in the midst of setting up their tall, barrel-shaped drums around a hefty bonfire.
In addition to the tents, there are lounge chairs, coolers, and a pop-up table set up with food. I think this group intends to stay a few days.
“Takes me back to when I used to perform at my friends’ parties.” René is nearby, unpacking the backpack he brought with him. “I used to have to set up the audio equipment and the speakers, as well as perform.” He undoes the cables wrapped tightly around a small microphone.
Something clicks into place. It’s not just for me. This is for the album. Getting down to business, I unpack James’s camera and take some pictures of René setting up small microphones on stands near the drums. This would be incredible for the making-of. The large bonfire, the loud crashing of the waves, the drummers starting to warm up.
“Please let me get James over here. I can’t enjoy this if we’re not filming it. It may as well not be happening.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
“I do,” I admit after a beat.
“It’s impossible anyway. He’d need an ATV and I had to have these ferried to the island.”
I let the weight of what he’s said hit me. “There must be another way.”
“You saw what it took to get here. Nothing else could make it.”
“How did they get here?” I gesture toward the musicians.
“Some were dropped off by boat, some walked.” He motions his chin in the direction of the mountains. “Besides, we should start right away before the sun sets.”
He’s right. Even if James could find a way to get here, it would be too late. Plus, clouds are beginning to gather. If I want to capture any of it, we need to start now.
René puts his headphones on to monitor the recording and, with a nod, gives the musicians the go-ahead.
A sole drum kicks off the music. The dancer starts to move, lifting her skirt and twisting it around herself. Then the other drums, the maraca, and the singers join in.
René appears beside me. “You know, bomba is perfect for you,” he whispers, removing his headphones. “You don’t have to keep up with the music.”
“Go on,” I say, intrigued.
“The dancer sets the rhythm for the musicians. They follow her lead. She marks the beat, not the other way around.”
“Hmm, I like that.” I’m transfixed as the dancer moves her waist and feet quickly, and then, as one of the drums echoes her moves.
A thin, older man dressed entirely in white bellows out a phrase, and then the others repeat it. The drumming and chanting seep through me, loosening every muscle. The deep, repetitive beats vibrate in my heart, and my shoulders begin to stir.
“ ?Eso! There you go,” René eggs me on. I smile and, feeling the music, begin to tap my feet.
René sets his headphones down and offers me his hand. When I take it, he holds it tight and uses his free hand to pull the camera strap off my shoulder.
I don’t know what it is exactly. The dancer’s improvisation, the rhythm of the drums, the comfort of being here—experiencing music my father loved in a place he wanted me to see so badly. But I want to dance and I’m not afraid about keeping up. More than that. I feel like the only mistake would be to stop moving.
René lifts our hands above our heads as we move. His face is inches from mine. The glow of the bonfire kisses his full lips and strong neck, enhancing his features. “Thank you,” he whispers near my ear as we dance.
A little voice creeps in. René would dance with any label representative who was here. He’d put his hands on her waist like this. He’d pull her closer and look at her like th—
The clouds burst, dropping an instantaneous downpour on the beach, and we scatter in different directions. René rushes to the aid of the musicians and carries the largest drum into a tent. I grab the camera and toss the microphones and recording equipment inside the backpack.
I end up drenched and alone under a tarp with a battery-operated lantern hanging from a tree. I sit there, squeezing my knees in, dazed by the incessant, shocking amount of rain. I start to pull off my soaked boots and socks when René appears holding two beers.
“Thanks.”
“So, it was short-lived, but what did you think?”
“I loved it. So much.”
I take a long sip of my beer and consider making a comment about the rain. How I’ve never seen so much fall all at once like this. As though upset with my intention, the wind picks up, causing the tarp above us to inflate for a moment before coming back down.
“My dad loved bomba. He’d play it in his truck.” I watch the bonfire wrestle with the rain. “I don’t remember it sounding like this, though.”
“It’s very different live.” I nod in agreement. “So, you like bomba, but you don’t like reggaeton. What else do you like?”
“I listen to everything.”
“Except reggaeton.”
“I never said I didn’t like reggaeton. Not out loud, anyway,” I mumble, making him laugh. “Honestly? It was probably the only thing I didn’t use to listen to.” I give him a look, letting him know he’s the reason this has changed. “So now , I really do listen to everything.”
“Everyone always says that.”
“No, really,” I insist. “I love the Ramones, Fleetwood Mac, Marvin Gaye,” I list out, “folk, funk, jazz, literally everything. Radiohead, as you know. I even listen to Cowpunk.”
He tilts his head doubtingly. “Cowpunk.”
“It’s a subgenre of punk combined with country music.”
René shakes his head, unsure about what he’s hearing. We finish our beers and watch the bonfire slowly succumb to the rain. When it finally does, we turn to each other, mouths agape, as though we’ve just seen something way more impressive. Like a shooting star. There are tiny drops of rain on his buzzed hair, and on his scruffy beard and mustache. Like morning dew on plants. Except I’ve never wanted to lick the dew off plants.
“Are you hungry?” René asks. “Dinner should be ready.”
“Yes!” I say, a little too eager. “Are you?”
“You should know this about me. I’m always hungry.”
You should know this about me. It’s the kind of thing you tell someone on a date. The kind of thing you share because it could be a valuable tidbit in our future.
While he’s gone, I give myself a sobering pep talk. We only have a few more days here. He’s agreed to the interview. I’m golden. All I have to do is keep things professional between us. Keep my thoughts professional.
A few minutes later, he sprints back carrying a small plastic bag. Before unpacking it, he lifts it, so I can appreciate how drenched it is. “So, I got some news, but why don’t we eat first.”
“Okay.” I stretch out the word playfully.
He carefully unpacks the contents of the bag and sets us up with a miniature picnic, complete with two more beers. Sitting across from each other, we share a large wooden bowl of fish that’s more sashimi than ceviche, soaked in lemon and some unidentifiable but ridiculously delicious spicy powder.
“Listen.” He sounds somber. “I won’t use the song on the album if you don’t want me to.”
“The one about me?” I feel an itch on my ankle. Sand fleas? Or maybe no-see-ums? Because I don’t see them, but I sure feel them.
“The one loosely based on you.”
I take a long sip of beer, feeling my pulse kick. “It’s a great song,” I say at last. “It’s good for both of us if you keep it on the album. We can just come to some sort of arrangement. You know, in case it does well. Like if it goes platinum, I get a new digital camera.”
“I was thinking more like a new car.”
“Oh, me too. I wasn’t done. I get a digital camera and a new car.”
He laughs heartily, and his whole body seems to relax. I have an image of how things could be after all of this. Of the song becoming a connection between us. Maybe it isn’t so horrible after all.
“Deal.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I am sorry if it hurt you.” His hand falls heavy on his thigh.
“I appreciate that.” Suddenly, I’m more comfortable with the rain hitting my back from time to time because the tarp isn’t big enough to shield us completely. “Wait, so what was the news?”
“The road’s flooded,” he announces nonchalantly. “Two of the guys are going to double up, so we can have that one.” He points behind me. Confused, I turn to see what he means. It’s a tent. An almost cylindrical-looking, narrow, single-person tent. A “there’s no way I’m sleeping with René in that tent” tent.
“How do you know the roads are flooded?” I ask, in denial.
“They just told me.”
“When?”
“When I went to get the food.”
“Are you sure? Should we go check?”
“We don’t need to. These roads flood when it rains like this. And they were already soaked.”
“We have big wheels. I think we could make it.”
As though objecting to my protests, the rain pounds harder on the tarp.
René gives me a look. “We could get stuck.”
“We are stuck!” I have to shout, the rain is so loud now.
René slaps his neck. “Are you getting bitten?”
“A little,” I lie. The truth is the itchiness around my ankles has escalated into an intense burning sensation. I feel hot stings on my neck and up and down my arms. We’re under attack by invisible bugs armed with miniature blowtorches.
“I can sleep here under this tarp.” He taps the sand we’re sitting on. “You take the tent.” Despite my hesitation, I know the truth. There’s no way he can sleep out here. We both need to get away from these bugs.