Inception
Call me América Medina. Although I have never killed a whale, I have a tale or two by the sea.
During summers, our fathers dropped our families to our three-month vacation at Cayo Muerto (Death Key), the tiny atoll on the Venezuelan coastline. To our moms, this version of paradise offered shallow beaches, gentle velvet waves, glittering turquoise brinies, saffron orange sunsets, moonlit seas, and time away from mounds of alterations and their sewing machines.
Crossing the island by foot in less than thirty minutes, sand flees, and swarms of mosquitos did not offer enough stimulus to us kids. Watching an eel slither in the coral reef or a sharp-nosed puffer fish inflate a dozen times can tax a child. Boredom inevitably leads to risk-taking, like the morning Angel and I stole the oxygen tank, swimming fins, and diving masks left unattended by a tourist at the shore. Moments later, baby sharks swim in circles above the bubbles floating toward the sun.
After the local fisherman caught us stealing lobsters from fisherman’s traps, our trick lost appeal. Even the sunken ship at the Cuare Wildlife Refuge got old. Rusted metal covered with barnacles does not offer much excitement to a nine-year-old.
On the first day of summer at Cayo Muerto, I faced the endless sea and sighed, sitting next to the radio as Roberta Flack killed me softly with her song.
After sunset, I visited El Capitan Roman. The poor soul lived alone and had plenty of stories to share–some as thick and dense as cold hotcakes.
“I recall hearing about the entrance to the cave in Cuare inside the rocky mountain. The mouth hides between ledges of overgrown mangroves southeast of Varadero Beach in Morrocoy,” Capitan Roman said, feeding a log to the firepit to keep mosquitoes away.
The rising flame floodlit the dark porch with sand floors, revealing old and dusty fishing nets hanging from concrete walls, leaning against each other. The older man grabbed a bottle and gulped down a mouthful of one hundred-proof bitter Cocuy, the Venezuelan version of tequila.
“A hidden cave?” I frowned.
“The ocean swallowed the sun, child. Go check if the rooster laid eggs,” he said, laughing and coughing.
Capitan Roman’s long straw-like hair had not faced a comb in years. After clearing his throat, he reached for the wooden box with broken hinges on the rusted table. A cricket hopped. Thick, cracked lips smiled under the shaggy, nicotine-stained silver mustache.
Parsimoniously, Capitan Roman’s calloused hand pulled out a cigar, leaned towards the kerosene lamp, and turned the hand-wrapper until a ring of bright orange lit.
On its way to dark indigo skies, the spirit of tobacco rose in the brackish scent of the ocean. Facing the full moon, Capitan Roman stood up.
“Please, Capitan, tell me more about the cave,” I begged, hoping the storyteller would return to the spotlight.
The retired captain coughed and sat on his hammock. Swollen red feet buried the toes under the cool sand.
“El Cerro Chichiriviche emerged 7 million years before the present. Made of coral, it includes many caverns and caves. Near the beach is la Cueva de los Indios, a place our Native ancestors often visited thousands of years ago. The rock wall falls straight into the sea. Its steep and dangerous cliff is unreachable from land.” Capitan Roman stopped and released a loud burp.
Capitan Roman leaned forward and whispered to the flames, “During high tide, at the point where the mountain splits is the only entrance to this magical spot.” He sat back and inhaled a mouthful of smoke. The tip of the cigar wore a ring of fire.
Admiring the rings of smoke emitted by his congested lungs, Capitan Roman smiled. The fire rose and made his eyes glitter.
“And?”
“Crowned by trees and overgrown vegetation, the top of the cave opens to the skies. At noon, the sun filters through tree tops and washes its inner walls, making its ancient treasures visible.”
My left foot repeatedly tapped on the sand. I clenched my teeth. The muscles around my neck tensed.
“What kind of treasures?” I squinted.
“Pictographs carved by our native ancestors thousands of years ago. Roosting bats live in crevices and guard the cave.”
“How do travelers find this place, Capitan?” My lungs tightened with all the smoke. I pulled out my asthma inhaler and inhaled a few shots.
“It can only be reached from the sea.”
With a stick, Captain Roman drew Varadero’s coastline on the sand and the pier facing the canal.
“The beach ends at the cliff,” he said after drawing a mountain. Over many centuries, the waves carved the rock. The massive boulder appears to float over the water when the tide is low.
My eyes opened wide. I had walked to the edge of Cuare Mountain a million times and always wondered what mysteries were held captive inside the tall rocky cliff.
“Aaaand?” I asked, getting impatient with his snail pace.
Holding his large panza, Capitan Roman laughed.
“From this point, one swims north into the sea to the first buoy, then due east to the second buoy, and then south towards our target. A tongue of water leads into the center of the cave.” Scratching his yellowish mustache, Capitan Roman stared at me with one eye closed.
“That’s a lot of swimming, child,” el Capitan said, squinting. “Hungry sharks and nasty barracudas fiercely guard this sacred place.”
“What happens to those who survive these guardians?”
“The ocean smashes their asses against the rock wall,” he said, vigorously slapping his hands. “This tale reached its end. Calabaza, calabaza. Go home and wrestle with the mosquito net, muchachita.”
Before leaving, I memorized the treasure map on the sand. The idea of a new adventure made me smirk. Chest stuffed with anticipation, I stood up and brushed the sand off my butt.
“How come I did not see you last summer, mija?”
“I was sick, Capitan.”
“Hum. You look more alert than a roach in a chicken dance.”
“My mother calls me weed, and my father says I have more lives than Dionisio, our neighbor’s cat.”
“May la virgin bless you, inquiring feline,” he said, kissing the Virgen de Coromoto gold medallion hanging over his hairy chest.
The full moon shone over the sea, drawing a glimmering path on black ink. Cayo Muerto was a tiny key without water and electricity. Regular visitors paid a small fee to Roman, a retired captain from the port authority and former sailor, to squat illegally during summertime.
I left El Capitan’s fish, aguardiente, and cigar-reeking shack. A cloud of mosquitos followed me inland on my walk back to our hut. When opened, the old red metal windows displaying Coca-Cola advertising looked like kiosks at the local fair. The generator roared.
Tip-toeing, I reached the hammock hanging from the wood poles on the long, open porch near the front door.
After washing the dishes on the shore to conserve the little water harvested from the rain, my mother visited my mosquito net.
“What were you all day, mijita? Be careful with those ideas floating inside your head.” My mother kissed my forehead through the fabric.
The night was humid, windless, and hot. Swarms of mosquitoes kept their distance from the burning spirals of Plagatox. Captain Roman’s cuento buzzed inside my head like the city alarm during a hurricane, flooding my brain with lively brainstorms. I must reach to La Cueva de los Indios.
Nico and Angel slept on their hammocks, mouths open like caimans after a heavy lunch. I wanted to wake the two boys and share my findings, but they were noisy and terrible at keeping secrets.
Heart racing, I churned and turned like a seashell at the mercy of the ocean’s ebb and flow. Biting the corner of my lower lip, I waited until everyone fell asleep. After turning off the generator, I stepped out of the mosquito net. I tiptoed around Bella, Angel’s old border collie, whose only job was alerting our mothers of potential mischief. The dog sighed. I froze. Brown chin over white paw, Bella returned to Morpheus’s arms. I managed to escape.
Under the full moon’s glare, I followed the meandering sand trail north among palm trees and stepped on the deck covered by mangroves and sea grapes. The theme of Thunderball played in my head as if I were James Bond heading to the Bahamas to recover the warheads stolen by SPECTRE.
At the edge of the long pier overlooking moonlit waters, Pochi sat next to the small radio. I joined my beach buddy. Holding hands, we stared at the flickering sea. The moon, the waves, the chimera of wishes, spy movies, and longings swirled inside my brain. I had miraculously recovered from the kidney infection that left my arms looking like colanders from all the injections.
“I recall a magical cave filled with bats and petroglyphs inside the Cuare Mountain.”
Pochi’s ponytail swung to the side. In my head, Agent 007 pulled out of the pool and escaped the bite of a golden grotto shark. After sharing Capitan Roman’s story, Pochi’s round eyes opened wide.
“Patricia’s boyfriend arrives tomorrow. My older sister would give anything to spend time alone with Carlos.”
“What about your parents?”
“They loaded the catamaran with camping gear, food, and wine and sailed to Cayo Borracho early today. They won’t be back for a few days.”
“Our dads only come during weekends. Agustin picks up Mami on Wednesday mornings to go shopping at La Bodega and the fish market in Playa Norte. Between bartering and sharing stories, Mami is gone all day to buy groceries for the week. Ana stays and reads Hola and Vanidades magazines all morning and sits under the afternoon sun with cucumber slices over the eyes on the other side of the island, away from us kids.”
“I’ll talk to my brother Rafi tonight. Not one word to Angel and Nico.”
“Understood. We need lifesaver jackets and scuba fins. Is a long swim.”
“We can hide stuff inside the Styrofoam cooler.”
Neither of us closed an eye that night.
At the first beam of sunlight reached our hammocks, we rushed to the beach and boarded the 28-foot, scarlet-red boat. Patricia navigated the vessel, wearing a black striped bikini and an Aguilas del Zulia baseball team cap. Pochi, Angel, and Nico bounced their butts, sitting along the edge of the proa. Keeping our ropes taut, Rafi and I, the apprentice, followed the boat on slalom water skis.
Rafi had taught me to water ski on a windy day. The water was choppy and rough, and I constantly fell and swallowed a mouthful of seawater. The ocean appeared silky and smooth, like an old flannel t-shirt.
Holding tight, Rafi raised the rope above the head. Steering with my left foot, I crossed the wake under the rope and curved to the right, leaning my body towards the surface until my ear almost touched the sea, creating a water curtain.
“I did it, Rafi,” I screamed. Skiing on a slalom was not merely a rite of passage. Now, I could again enjoy the outdoors and would beg for a boat ride, wear a lifesaver jacket three sizes bigger, and manage to ski using a borrowed slalom with boots larger than my feet.
At the pier, Rafi unloaded the large Styrofoam cooler. Each kid picked a metal water canteen.
“Rafi is in charge—no quiero problemas. I will be back before sunset,” Patricia shouted from the idling boat. Underwater, the propeller of the Mercury engine produced a muted rumbling sound.
Once on Varadero, Pochi, Angel, Nico, and I ran on fine white sands lined by coconut palm trees toward Cuare Mountain. Carrying the cooler, Rafi followed the pack until we reached the tall rocky cliff. The early morning sun lingered over the sea, tinting it with a ghostly ochre sheen.
I faced the waves. The tide is high. This is meant to be. I thought, made the cross sign, and kissed my thumb.
We unpacked the lifesavers and fins and hid the cooler behind coastal grasses. As we ran to the waters, a cute, skinny brown puppy with a white patch around one eye emerged from the dune, barking.
“What do we do?” I petted the sweet dog.
“Let’s go,” Pochi said, grabbing my arm.
The puppy fearlessly followed us into the sea. Barking at the waves, he splashed on the shore towards me.
“We can’t leave the puppy on the shore. He is going to drown.” I ran back to the cooler and grabbed the top.
“I’m not leaving Aventa’o,” I said, naming the dog.
“Vamos, mija. We are not swimming to Tobago,” Pochi screamed.
Balancing on the cooler’s top, Aventa’o barked on our journey by sea to the first and second buoys.
As we approached the rocky cliff, the sea roared. With cramped legs, we floated beside each other, holding onto the floater. Aventa’o continued to bark, leading the expedition.
“Look!” I pointed at the opening in the mountain.
We waited for a tall wave and surfed on the crest. Unexpectedly, a giant wave rose, and the sea swallowed us. The dog and I struggled to reach the surface.
As I flipped in circles underwater, dragged by the surf, I held the last strand of air in my lungs. The furious element smashed me against the rocky ocean floor. When I thought I was swimming towards the surface, another wave crashed my face against rough sand.
Aventa’o climbed a nearby rock and barked incessantly. After spotting me, the puppy jumped back into the water and paddled towards me.
Lungs wheezing and my asthma inhaler missing, I hung onto a tree log and floated to the tunnel carved on solid stone by relentless waves. Mirroring the canine version of a pirate’s parrot, Aventa’o hung from my shoulder, claws piercing skin, as I paddled towards the shimmering glow pulsating inside the womb of rock.
One by one, each kid reached the tongue of water leading to the belly of the cave. Inside Cueva de los Indio, as the sun washed the steep walls of the hollowed mountain, a world filled with pictographs gifted our exploring eyes. A rock carving rendered a wolf with a gaping mouth; another appeared as a laughing monkey. Ancient people and animal depictions abounded, including a rabbit. We stood hypnotized by the work of ancestors who had inhabited the coast thousands of years before us.
The sanctuary, as real as bat grime, emulated the ever-changing and mutable illusion that exists only in the land of dreams. Echoes played as the voices of crashing waves bounced from stalagmites to moss-covered rocks opening into the central chamber and showering spiny lizards and transparent silver frogs. The briny scent of the ocean mixed with earthy musk.
Standing in the circle of light, I faced the window at the top of the mountain with outstretched arms. Squinting, I offered a boisterous full-body smile and jumped repeatedly as high as I could. “I found you!” l screamed.
That night, we all landed in our hammocks before sunset. Aventa’o slept on my chest and found a permanent home with Pochi’s family. Thanks to El Capitan Roman, our summer turned into an unforgettable adventure.
Author’s Note:
Inception is based on real life. Names have been changed, and the dialogue has been recreated as closely as possible. This autobiographical hybrid fuses memoir with storytelling and elements of fiction.
Mariel Masque
Copyright 2016 – All Rights Reserved
(Including International Rights)