“Hola,” I say tentatively, wondering how I am going to communicate beyond a simple greeting.
When he stands and wipes off his damp hands on his shorts, then turns around, I realize it is the man from the tortoise breeding site who tackled me yesterday. “No es cierto,” he mutters, closing his eyes for a second, as if he could blink me away.
Well. At least I already know he speaks English.
“Hello again,” I say, smiling. “I wonder if I could rent your boat.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, it’s not my boat,” he says, and he shoulders past me, walking away.
“But you were just in—” I run after him, to catch up. “Look. I realize we got off on the wrong foot. But this is an emergency.”
He stops, folding his arms.
“I’ll pay you,” I try again. “I’ll pay as much as you want to get me to Santa Cruz.” I don’t have very much cash left, but there have to be ATMs there, at least.
He narrows his eyes. “What’s in Santa Cruz?”
“The airport,” I say. “I have to get home.”
“Even if you got to Santa Cruz, there are no flights in or out.”
“Please,” I beg.
His face softens, or maybe it’s just an illusion. “I can’t take you there,” he says. “We’re in the middle of a strict quarantine. There are federal officials enforcing it.”
By now, I’m fighting back tears. “I know you think I’m a stupid tourist,” I admit. “I should have left with the last ferry. You’re right. But I can’t stay here for God knows how long while people I love are stuck …” My words evaporate; I swallow hard. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake?”
He flinches as if I’ve hit him.
“Look, I don’t much care what happens to me,” he says. “But if you’re arrested for traveling to Santa Cruz, that’s not going to get you home, either.” His eyes roam over me, from the crown of my head to my sneakers. “I hope you figure something out,” he adds, and with a brief nod, he leaves me standing alone on the pier.
By the late afternoon, I am not only wondering if I can get off this island, I’m wondering if I’m the only one on it.
Even though I know it can’t be true, it feels like I’m the last person on earth. Since being dismissed by the man from the tortoise breeding center, I have not seen a single soul. There is no movement or light in Abuela’s part of the house; the beach is entirely empty. Even if there are no tourists descending on Isabela Island—even if people are being cautious because of coronavirus—it feels as if I’ve been dropped onto the set of a dystopian movie. A beautiful set, but a very lonely one.
I find myself walking in the same direction I went yesterday, toward the tortoise breeding center, except I get lost and wind up instead on a wooden walkway through a mangrove forest, with long-fingered tree branches bleached and twisted above me, knuckles bent. It is desolate and oddly beautiful; it’s the place in the fairy tale where the witch appears. Except there is only me, and an iguana perched on the handrail of the walkway, its Godzilla hackles rising as I walk past.
When I see the sign for Concha de Perla, my memory is jogged: I had bookmarked this page in the travel guide that is still lost somewhere with my luggage, as a place for Finn and me to visit. It’s known as a snorkeling haunt, arms of lava encircling a small part of the ocean to create a natural lagoon. I do not have a snorkel with me, but I am sweaty and hot, and diving into cool water becomes a mission.
I read the sign diligently, thinking of poisoned apples, but there is nothing warning me off. The walkway ends in a small, enclosed dock that looks out over the water. Two sea lions are sprawled on the boards, the wood still wet around their bodies, like a crime scene outline. They do not even twitch as I pass to lean over the railing and peer at the water: green-tinted but clear, with a family of sea turtles swimming just below me.
Well. If I’m the last person in the world, there are worse places to be.
I toe off my sneakers and peel off my socks, hiding them under the bench of the dock. It feels exhibitionistic to undress, but there’s no one else here, and I have too limited a supply of clothing to get it wet. When I’m down to my athletic bra and panties, I start descending the staircase into the water. I let it lap at my shins, and then do a shallow dive into the lagoon.
The water is cool on my skin, and when I stand, I can almost brush the sandy bottom with my toes. There are mangrove trees at the edge of the pool, and through the ripple of the water are black shadows of lava. Some of them are large enough to rise from the surface, jagged as teeth. I tread water for a few moments and then start to swim in the direction of the lava outcroppings. The sun is so strong that it feels like a coronation. I lean back, floating, blinking up at the clouds that drift across the sky.