The Gringa Trail

La Paz, MX.

 "Like," I pause taking in the rickety, rundown-looking boat out of some 1980s horror movie, "you're sure this guy knows what he's doing?" The owner of the hostel who had given us a ride to the docks, as well as, set us up with his "incredibly experienced" tour guide friend, nodded and said in his best English, "No problem! No problem. He the best. He takes you all the best spots. No problem! I come tomorrow." I looked at the boys confused, "Did he say tomorrow?"

We all stood there as he drove off, at the edge of the water, taking in the boat and thinking the same thing; no one saying it because we had already paid. I was starting to understand why our whale shark diving tour cost $100 less than all the others—with their fancy speed boats and catamarans and live DJs and cocktails and snorkeling equipment that didn't look like it had been sitting in a Goodwill bin marked "free" for the last 20 years. The boat was made out of wood and was accessorized in flaking paint and bird poop. The name on the side of it read "Ojala," which translates to "Hopefully." Not my first choice of names for an object that was supposed to be navigating us through the open ocean.

But good ol' Tommy Boy with his unshakable positive outlook and love for saving a penny finally made the first move towards the boat and motioned us all to join. "If it wasn't slightly unadvisable, it wouldn't be an adventure!"

As we approached the boat, a rugged middle-aged man covered in leathery tan skin and faded tattoos surfaced from below deck and shouted, "Hola chicos! Dale!" The man motioned us to hop onto the gently rocking boat, extending his hand to help me, apparently deciding I was first. "Hermosa! And what is your name?" He asked as he continued to hold my hands long after my feet had hit the deck. His eyes were a sharp light blue and full of warmth, it was that moment that settled my nerves, despite the disputable condition of his rig.

Once all the boys had climbed aboard, we made our formal introductions and learned that Rodrigo's boat had been in his family since his grandfather had made it with his own two hands. As a La Paz local, he grew up swimming with the whale sharks every year they migrated down to their warm water feeding haven, claiming he knew every single one by name and they in turn recognized him and his beloved Ojala.

He finished with his safety regulations which basically boiled down to try not to fall overboard because I don't have life jackets or extra fuel to spend time searching for you. Nervous laughter was all that any of us could manage in response, except for Tommy, of course. "Sí, Capitan!" he shouted, playfully saluting Rodrigo as he followed him around, helping get us underway and pestering him with 1,000 questions.

Without warning, the boat lurched suddenly as the engine fired up, a concerning puff of smoke coming from the back of the boat, and I stumbled back crashing into Oliver.

If my life was like a Romcom, that would've been the moment he catches me, our eyes lock and we share our first kiss. But, because my life is more like, well, a cautionary tale for children, I ricocheted off of Oliver's muscly body, tripped over a pile of ropes, tried to catch myself on the side of the boat but only succeeded in smearing bird shit all down my shirt, and finally landed on the deck in a pile of Rodrigo's fishing gear.

I'm an alluring woman, what can I say.

Oliver rushed over to help me up as Rodrigo shouted back, "Lo siento! Forgot to mention she's got a bit of a kick when she gets going. You okay?" I looked down to see no less than six fish hooks sunk in my hands and arms. "Yep, all good" I lied, looking up at Oliver who was desperately trying not to laugh. He moved me to a bench there at the back of the boat while our captain warned the other boys to "hold on to your hats we're headed to our first stop."

"I'm going to count to three, okay?" Oliver shouted over the sound of Ojala's painfully loud engine. "One, two," he yanked the first hook out before I realized his sneaky trick, but was pleasantly surprised by how painless it was. "How do you know how to do this," I asked as Oliver's steady hands looped fishing line around the final hook in my hand and pulled the string in one direction as he pushed down on the hook, popping it free in one quick and only slightly painful motion. "My dad and I used to go fishing all the time, so I know a thing or two about getting hooked."