I’ve been both waiting for and prolonging the writing of this reflection. It’s such a beautiful memory. I desperately want to archive it for myself and share it with you, but I’m apprehensive that my words will be incapable of expressing it adequately. I suppose I shouldn’t be scared though, because when I get to the end of this page I’ll probably be very proud to at least have tried. It would be indecent not to.
Regardless of whether I am successful in my expression of this memory or not, I feel confident that there are very few things you can ruin with carefully crafted prose. Indeed, you can probably point to countless written documents that have ruined lives. That’s not what I mean, though. I’m talking about the kind of words that exist to give a story; words that share something. Words that you can take or leave and mull around in your mind, making all different kinds of sense out of them. They aren’t the kind of words that tell you to do or think anything. They are the kind of words that let you do or think anything, if you so desire.
It is my firm belief that these types of words, when chosen purposefully, can make even the most ordinary of things feel quite beautiful.
That being said, the memory and accompanying feeling that I am about to attempt to write here does not need the help of words, mine or anyone else’s, to make it beautiful. It is so all on its own.
I haven’t yet tried to articulate what exactly it was that I felt as I sat still out on that precariously protruding rock face, but I will try to now. Before we begin, I must note, that sitting still is not an activity I engage in often, but on this particular occasion, I did so voluntarily.
Ismael, a local surf instructor, who I consider de confianza (trust worthy) and buena honda (a good dude), showed me the beach where this rock face lives. It’s a secret beach (to extranjeros or foreigners like me, at least.) That being said, it isn’t very hard to get to; you just walk all the way to the end of Playa Hermosa (a well-known and quite beautiful public beach), bang a right, walk through some cow pastures, past a very large tree that looks quite perfect for a good day of climbing, and then after about 15 mintues of walking you’ll see a small clearing giving way to rocks and salt-water once again, and that’s how you know you’ve made it.
I reckon that anyone who likes to explore a little bit could find it quite easily, even without the extremely detailed aforementioned directions.
Admittedly, though, its hard to imagine why anyone would want to leave Playa Hermosa, it is one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever seen, and is largely undiscovered itself. At Hermosa, I can promise with certainty that you would never have to fight off an overweight, ironically-hairy-but-balding man dawning very short Speedo swimming trunks, to secure a spot for your towel. Indeed, there is demasiado (plenty) of space and speedo-less tranquility to be found on Playa Hermosa.
However, for me the allure of a secret beach is unprecedented. Thus, it is no real surprise that I found myself quite enchanted with the small, rocky secret that is Playa Tamarindo.
It certainty isn’t a secret, in the sense that no one else knows it’s there. On the contrary, it’s a very popular surf spot among local Nicaraguans. However, as I learned long ago from the many afternoons spent with my childhood friends, Auden, Emmy, Dempsey, Ryder and Hayden, in our secret clubhouse beneath the staircase in Smith House, secrets are beautiful not because no one else knows about them, but because they are yours to keep and yours to share; because you own them.
I certainty do not own Playa Tamerindo, but I do own the knowledge of its existence, and to me, that feels invaluable.
On my second time visiting the secret beach, I was doing the best thing one can do with such a secret; sharing it. I had come to Playa Hermosa that day with a group of friends who I’d met in town: four doctors from Australia, one Special Forces policeman from Germany, one Stanford PhD candidate. And me? All I had to offer was my knowledge of the secret beach.
We walked out to find the secret beach as the sun hung low in the sky. Soon after arriving, I separated myself from my distinguished colleagues. As they marveled at the beach, I hopped out along a chain of just-barely-visible rocks, knowing that against all odds, a better view was in store. Finally, I reached my destination: that precariously protruding rock face, that compelled me to sit still for the first time in a long time.
It jutted out into the ocean with authority and served as my only anchor to solid land.
As I sat, I felt, equally, very permanent and very malleable. In my mind, I was as safe as I ever had been, but in my body, I was acutely aware of the ever-decreasing inches of rock separating me from violent saltiness. It was perhaps the only time in my life I have felt such a combination of alert-calmness. I was ready to do anything, but felt as though I had to do nothing, save for sit there until I grew tired of doing so.
However, as the tide continued to rise and the inches separating me from a salty-submersion decreased in a seeming harmony with the sun’s meticulous descent, I had the passing thought that I would never tire of being there, in that moment.
As I stared out towards the pinkening horizon, I reflected on how I often have this thought of foreverness when I start to do something. At the beginning of a run, I often wonder what could ever compel me to stop? I’ll just live the rest of my life running, I think. Five minutes later though, I’m not so sure. Lying down in my bed at night, in my house at home in New Hampshire, my parents and brother asleep just down the hall, I often drift to sleep wondering what could possibly compel me to ever want to grow-up? I’ll just live here forever, I think. The next day when I’m getting yelled at to clean my room, I’m not so sure. Likewise, as I looked out at the swelling and faltering ocean, I felt the desire I’ve had so many times before; I wanted to make the moment permanent.
I wondered how anyone could ever get tired of sitting on this rock and staring out at the waves. It was like watching the largest creature you’ve ever seen, breath. It’s chest rising and falling around the rock, and me. You could almost go so far with the metaphor as to say it felt a little bit like I had found myself a seat atop of some monstrous life form’s heart.
It was a hard rock, though, and I realized that inevitably I would become uncomfortable. I would become not so sure. My back would start to ache. My feet would want to walk. My legs would want to run. It would grow dark. I would want to fall asleep down the hall from my family. I couldn’t stay here forever. I couldn’t make my current contentment permanent. But, as I looked out at the respiring ocean, I suddenly felt at ease with the lack of permanence of both this moment and all the moments before it.
I thought to myself,
"Some day, I might be so far away, I might be so somewhere and someone else that I couldn’t come back here. And even if I could, even if I did, Playa Tamerindo might not be the same. I’ll never be back right here, like this, ever again. One day, too many people will have shared the secret of this beach with too many friends and there might be 15 big old hotels, the man in the speed-shorts and too many brightly colored beach towels to even see these rocks. Indeed someday, the salty breathing of the sea would probably get to these rocks, dissolving them and leaving me out of a place to sit."
When I write it here, like this, it seems like a beautifully tragic thought to have, but that’s not what it was at all. It was beautifully infinite. Sitting there, having those thoughts, I didn’t feel sad, I felt lucky.
I realized: I’ll always have that moment. No one ever again will be able to have the same one. That one is mine. No, I will never be able to recreate it, but that’s what makes it so permanent. It’ll stay there forever. Behind me. It happened, and that can never go away. I was there. Then. It was, and will always be, my own little secret piece of time.
