innocent optimism—a characteristic that mostly annoys me, but occasionally inspires. For better or worse, Layla doesn’t wear the protective mask that most people do. No, her face is wide open, ready for anything.
“Layla,” I sigh, “how can you be so”—I pause, searching for the word—“sure it’ll all be okay?” I finish. “I mean,how can you trust that everything won’t devolve into chaos?” That’s as close as I’ll get to the topic of the alleged curse.
“Just take what the tide brings you, love.” As if it’s as easy as that—a beachcombing approach to life.
“But, Layla,” I insist, “don’t you worry—or at least
wonder
—what we’ll find? What J.C. will be like?” Last year, Layla was worried he’d think she was a bad mother. But she’s apparently let go of this concern. I study her face, searching for any trace of anxiety. “You think he’ll be the perfect man, the one you’ve been waiting for?”
She gets on a dreamy Rumi-quoting face.
“And no Rumi!” I add quickly.
She smiles. “I’m not waiting for a man, Z. And there’s no such thing as perfect. If you have no expectations, you’ll be happy with whatever little treasure the ocean brings you, no matter how flawed. If J.C. and I fall in love, marvelous. If something else happens … well, we’ll make that marvelous too.”
I wonder if it’s possible to put a marvelous spin on a curse.
Some of Layla’s optimism must’ve rubbed off on me. After a restless night, I wake at sunrise with a renewed sense of purpose. I’ll prove the superstitions wrong and make Cabañas Magia del Mar a wild success. As Layla’s bells and chants create a ruckus outside my window, I open my notebook, determined. I sketch out the plan that formed in my mind as I tossed and turned all night.
Over a quick breakfast of mangos and yogurt, I tell Wendell about my plan, which he deems
“muy padre, güey”
with a half-grin. His eyes light up. “Hey, let’s bust out the machetes for this, Z!”
Ever since we discovered the machetes—left behind by former managers in the shed—he’s been looking for excuses to use them. Probably a little boy’s jungle fantasy come true. We grab two and head through the patch of jungle between our cabanas and Punta Cometa.
Inside the forest, it’s cool and dark, like a cave of leaves and blossoms and rich soil. We sit down on a smooth rock, lean our machetes against it. I spread open my notebook, position it under a few hazy beams of sunlight that filter through the layers of leaves. We survey the two-page spread that maps out my plan for the paths, my wild garden vision.
I trace my pen over the lines, excited. “See? There’ll be one main circular path with little offshoots.”
“Like rays from the sun?” Wendell asks.
“Exactly!” I smile, pleased with the perfect symmetry. “And each of those rays will have a surprise at the end.”
“Surprise?” He raises an eyebrow. “Like being devoured by a jungle creature?”
“Very funny.” I jab my elbow into his side. “Layla will provide the art.”
“Ahh.” He nods knowingly. “Her famous trash sculptures.”
I clear my throat. “For the guests, we’ll call it found-item art.” I admit I have a certain fondness for Layla’s junk art.A little tree-stump seat embedded with bits of sea glass and metal soda tops. A seaweed-hair mermaid sculpted from rotting planks and frayed, water-worn rope and faded pink and blue plastic bottles. A driftwood mobile dangling rusted cans. In theory, they ring out a peaceful melody in the breeze, but in reality, it would take a tempest to produce the slightest sound—a grating, metallic rattle.
“And listen to this part of my plan—it’s
muy chido
,” I continue, excited. “One of the rays will shoot out toward the cliffs over the beach. See? There’ll be an amazing view of the ocean.” From my bag, I pull a big ball of twine I found in the shed. “We’ll use the twine to map out the
“Layla,” I sigh, “how can you be so”—I pause, searching for the word—“sure it’ll all be okay?” I finish. “I mean,how can you trust that everything won’t devolve into chaos?” That’s as close as I’ll get to the topic of the alleged curse.
“Just take what the tide brings you, love.” As if it’s as easy as that—a beachcombing approach to life.
“But, Layla,” I insist, “don’t you worry—or at least
wonder
—what we’ll find? What J.C. will be like?” Last year, Layla was worried he’d think she was a bad mother. But she’s apparently let go of this concern. I study her face, searching for any trace of anxiety. “You think he’ll be the perfect man, the one you’ve been waiting for?”
She gets on a dreamy Rumi-quoting face.
“And no Rumi!” I add quickly.
She smiles. “I’m not waiting for a man, Z. And there’s no such thing as perfect. If you have no expectations, you’ll be happy with whatever little treasure the ocean brings you, no matter how flawed. If J.C. and I fall in love, marvelous. If something else happens … well, we’ll make that marvelous too.”
I wonder if it’s possible to put a marvelous spin on a curse.
Some of Layla’s optimism must’ve rubbed off on me. After a restless night, I wake at sunrise with a renewed sense of purpose. I’ll prove the superstitions wrong and make Cabañas Magia del Mar a wild success. As Layla’s bells and chants create a ruckus outside my window, I open my notebook, determined. I sketch out the plan that formed in my mind as I tossed and turned all night.
Over a quick breakfast of mangos and yogurt, I tell Wendell about my plan, which he deems
“muy padre, güey”
with a half-grin. His eyes light up. “Hey, let’s bust out the machetes for this, Z!”
Ever since we discovered the machetes—left behind by former managers in the shed—he’s been looking for excuses to use them. Probably a little boy’s jungle fantasy come true. We grab two and head through the patch of jungle between our cabanas and Punta Cometa.
Inside the forest, it’s cool and dark, like a cave of leaves and blossoms and rich soil. We sit down on a smooth rock, lean our machetes against it. I spread open my notebook, position it under a few hazy beams of sunlight that filter through the layers of leaves. We survey the two-page spread that maps out my plan for the paths, my wild garden vision.
I trace my pen over the lines, excited. “See? There’ll be one main circular path with little offshoots.”
“Like rays from the sun?” Wendell asks.
“Exactly!” I smile, pleased with the perfect symmetry. “And each of those rays will have a surprise at the end.”
“Surprise?” He raises an eyebrow. “Like being devoured by a jungle creature?”
“Very funny.” I jab my elbow into his side. “Layla will provide the art.”
“Ahh.” He nods knowingly. “Her famous trash sculptures.”
I clear my throat. “For the guests, we’ll call it found-item art.” I admit I have a certain fondness for Layla’s junk art.A little tree-stump seat embedded with bits of sea glass and metal soda tops. A seaweed-hair mermaid sculpted from rotting planks and frayed, water-worn rope and faded pink and blue plastic bottles. A driftwood mobile dangling rusted cans. In theory, they ring out a peaceful melody in the breeze, but in reality, it would take a tempest to produce the slightest sound—a grating, metallic rattle.
“And listen to this part of my plan—it’s
muy chido
,” I continue, excited. “One of the rays will shoot out toward the cliffs over the beach. See? There’ll be an amazing view of the ocean.” From my bag, I pull a big ball of twine I found in the shed. “We’ll use the twine to map out the
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