sabella Island

I personally consider waves to be mildly attractive though pathetically boring. A wave, to me, is simply a fact a nature. I don't believe they have much purpose, much objective in this world. Waves also seldom change their ways. Not often do they pick their foamy selves up from the vast ocean to experience and envelop the world beyond powdered sand and seagulls. But sometimes, just sometimes, their feeling of weariness and dullness becomes unbearable and they erupt into what the world has named a Tsunami. At last the world takes notice of the seemingly insignificant hills of shining nature. The world goes into chaos as the waves absorb and diminish the ungrateful souls who took their presence as a mere passing. Finally, the waves have their much-awaited revenge. Finally, the world is suffering. Think of me, Alana Delmar, as a wave.

I live on the island of Isabella. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this island, which I believe must be many of you; it is located approximately 3 hours by boat from the main tourist island in the Galapagos, Santa Cruz.

I've always kept within me an unexplainable passion for life and beauty. Not the type of beauty that occurs within glossy magazines or in movies about the western world. I strongly believe in that beauty is a sort of essence that surrounds something in which makes them beautiful. Though I am not considered classically magnificent, and most of the people in my town fail to know I exist, I own the confidence to know that their sense of beauty is a mere illusion.

My birthday dinner was mostly spent within my modest one-story house, with my middle aged (both physically and mentally) parents. My Latino mother purchased a nutmeg ice cream cake from the one supermarket on the island- Guapo's. This purchase was not to be taken lightly or for granted for throughout our entire feasting her nagging on how much better HER cake would have tasted, or how 3.99$ for a cake was the most outrageous thing she had ever heard of and the shop keepers are thieves who will one day poison us all, invaded my ears and caused a painful migraine. In reality, if she'd baked a cake it would have caused me to vomit, therefore I considered the migraine a blessing. My father claimed a "horrible, intolerable backache", and rushed off to watch the one TV in our meager home. NOCHES E BESOS, his favorite soap opera was on tonight and nothing, not even my plump little mother's cries would keep him away from the tragic lives of Mario and Marissa. My migraine was now a legitimate excuse to depart from the creaky wooden table and enter my haven, my bedroom. Gulping down my mother's famous medicinal tea, I made my way to the front door for I had no option but to exit my home. The humidity was more unbearable inside than outside, for it was mist season. I've always despised the mist for it just seems so confused. Being neither really wet nor dry, it seems lost and therefore causes me to envelop in its aura of disarray. I pleaded for my mother to allow me to take a walk and clear my mind. I finally gave a suitable reason to be allowed out after dark- I had a migraine, it was my 16th birthday, and I was forbidden to see my best friend all day. Even though it was my birthday, it was also Sunday and Sunday is, el dia para el familia (family day).

As I walked along the coast of Santa Cruz beach, my eye caught an unattractive young man fishing off of my beloved rock. Whenever my mind enters a depression, or I experience loneliness, my body inhabits this very rock. It gives me a strange satisfaction, seated on the black beauty, gazing off into the horizon. I suppose it makes me feel powerful, and though power has drugged mankind over the years, the power that surrounds me is an innocent power. Therefore, when I see a gringo fishing off of my rock, I can't help but walk towards my rock and question him on why he chose that rock and if he would please depart.

I tried to speak but my words have withered away. I assure you it is not me that is so silent, for my words have decided to longer keep my company. The gringo stares at me with a strange sense of admiration and interest.

"Do you speak English", he spoke in a strong German accent. I lied and quickly nodded my head. A sudden rush of adrenaline occurred within me and I sprinted. I ran, I ran, I ran until I reached my humble abode. My clammy hands had never felt so moist, my mouth never so dry, and my legs never so pathetically weak. Desperately praying for sleep, god decided not to listen.

Words returned in the morning but I used little of them. I saw him three more times that week for Isabella is a small island. I've heard the word love only in western movies and once in a book I read when I was 13. Love. Love. Love

A month passed and I assumed he was gone, maybe back to Germany, maybe back to a wife. I finally admitted how ridiculous I always prove to be, and attempted to exile him from my mind. The exile ended when I saw him again, seated on my rock, two months later. Beads of sweat were forming above my chapped lip, the familiar loss of air occurred. But this time, my words stayed with me. My legs gained strength and my courage redeemed.

"You are on my rock", I said in bad English.

"This is your rock?” he responded in perfect Spanish.

"Yes, it is. Why do you chose to sit here", I attempted to say in now horrendous English.

"I love the way it makes me feel," he said, insisting on speaking Spanish.

We then conversed in the most beautiful conversation known to man. Discussing first the rock, then the island, then the meaning of basically everything- the seed of my heart no longer was parched. He had given it enough in order for it to grow into an eternal garden. For two months, every opportunity that we had we spent together on now our rock. Until one Tuesday, after my school, the garden was crushed. The wild flowers destroyed.

"My darling", he began with the grace of an angel, "as you know, I have come here on business. Business that I was not allowed to share because of the government and what they would do to me if anyone found out. My job here is done and they are sending me back to Germany. I am about to tell you something that may startle your precious little body."

"I am prepared.” I mumbled, as I desperately held back salty tears. I forbade myself to let him see my weakness.

"I belong to Nazi Germany, and my job on Isabella was to make relations with South America. I'm sure you have heard of the Nazi's in school, and as horrendous they may seem I assure you those are just rumors. I love you, Alana, and want you to move with me to Germany and be there for me. People are saying I am the new Hitler, and imagine you, Alana, a simple Ecuadorian girl, the wife of future Hitler! God d***it, Alana, say something!"

My words left again. Sometimes I wonder where they go, where could words possibly go? I stood there looking like both my parents had just died and I was forced to watch their execution. I stood there with a highness in my eyes, a drunken stare it seemed. He was right, I have heard about the Nazi's. Heard about their abominable camps, their ignorance, and their disgusting objectives. My German king fell from his throne. My tragic love withered away, and self-hate overcame my soul.

I ran again, just as I ran the first day I had seen him. I ran as fast as I could, faster than before, faster than those gringos on the TV’s. Instead of running home I ran to a different beach and found a new, uncontaminated rock. Uncontaminated with the body of a murderer, uncontaminated with the body of a thief. He stole every single flower from my garden. He didn't even care to ask...

My former simplicity was been abolished. I now crave to be a wave on a gray, windless day. I was a tsunami when I was with my gringo. I continue being one for I have now felt the endless garden of love, and I don't know of a wave that has felt love. The world has yet to notice me, but one day I promise you it will.