Journals from the Jungle 30: Leaving Paradise

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Journals from the Jungle — stories from my recent travels, drawn from my journals. Raw reflections on nature, adventure, freedom, and the unraveling of old beliefs in pursuit of a more embodied, autonomous life.

Am I addicted to journaling? I am writing so much—more than ever.

I get so many text messages—so many invitations. Does the new chapter start now? Mañana, the final day here.

Middle-of-the-night thought: What a trip. Best ride of my life.

I sleep heavy and hot, dream of waking up to rain, dream of my family and feeling sad to be so far from them in so many ways. Dream of waking up in my mom’s bed as she’s getting ready for work—watching how beautiful she makes herself while not realizing that she is. Her hands are too big, she says, and I defend them insistently because they are mine, too.

I half-dream, half-wake to the sound of a text tone and grab my phone. My coach has been texting me since 5:45 a.m to surf. It’s 7:15 now and he says I should join him for the surf competition.

I think: Maybe I should quit Instagram after this trip. I won’t, but I want to quit something.

I love this morning routine. I will miss nakedness in all senses.

An hour later, I found myself sitting front-row beside the surf judges and announcer. Despite being brand new to it, I feel like I fit right into this new dimension of this other world, which continues to unfold itself for me while unfolding me. My new best friend (we’ll call her Amelia) joins me and we sit there for hours beside my coach, who hovers and leans in close to tell me things about the surfers’ techniques or the way the competition works—but mostly we sit silently and watch wave after wave, ride after ride. I love that Amelia is both quiet and excitable—and a committed surfer, strong and brave. She lives in the same way. (I have much more to write about her.)

I find the event’s soundtrack of Insane Clown Posse humorous and unpretentious, which is what so much of this is—bare feet and wet hair, zinc-smeared faces and clothing optional.

I watch the sea and lose track of time, sedated by the sight, the warmth, and the relinquishing of however many hours this competition will be, which turns out to be most of the day. Spanish surrounds me. Again, I feel lifetimes away from my old life and from where I’ll be in two days. I marvel at how fast I fell into the scene here and how easy it feels.

I know that I’m somewhere in a process, but not more than that. Not what exactly is happening, nor why. Nor where it will lead, nor how it will leave me. But, I have always believed that motion is life. We know that change is growth and so, simply because I am changing, I trust and allow myself to be led.

I feel my brain’s inability to calculate time—as in, beyond the hour ahead, or what else I need to do, at what time, in order to be done, or somewhere else, by another time. I can’t remember ever feeling this way before. I’ve known fairly exactly what time it was since I was a child.

When I leave just to find a bathroom, my coach whistles and chases after me, waving me back, afraid that I’m leaving. Cute. I laugh and hug him and tell him I’ll be right back. He insists I have to come to reggae night tonight too. He has apparently adopted me.

I return and he sits beside me again. He’s not hit on me, but he’s definitely staying close. I don’t mean to be so warm and open with him, but it comes naturally. We are instant friends. He’s hot, certainly, but not in a way that’s not making me hot—yet.