Kissing Frogs - A Tropical Fairytale

Surf's Up

We speed down the dirt road out to the highway. Enrique turns on his music and Bob Marley croons from the speakers. I rack my mind for something interesting to say.

"How long have you been surfing?" I ask. Not fabulous, but not terrible either.

"All my life," he says. "It's the best. Nothing but you and your board in the ocean."

"Is it hard?" My hands fiddle with my sarong beads.

"Where we're going is good for beginners. The waves are small."

"Oh." For some reason, my acquired repartee skills seem defunct around Enrique.

"So you are in Panama to help your little friends?" he says.

"Harp and Juan?"

He laughs. "No, the frogs."

"Oh, right, yes." I clear my throat. "Actually, can I ask you a few questions about that?"

"You can ask me anything you want." He punctuates his words with a suggestive look.

I take the primitive recording materials from my bag, feeling a little foolish as I uncap my pen. "So, um, why are the frogs so important?"

"They are Panama's national symbol," he says. "You can find them everywhere — on our lottery tickets, our signs, but to tell you the truth, I am not sure how much the average Panamanian thinks about them."

"Yeah, that's kind of like back home," I say. "Everyone says how important something is and it gets all this attention in the media, but most people forget pretty fast."

"But there are people like you who work hard to make a difference, no?"

"Well, the people I'm here with do. I didn't really have a choice," I confess.

"You are here against your will?" His tone is teasing.

"Kind of."

"So you are my prisoner." He turns his head again and winks at me.

"Um, I guess so." I tame a piece of hair behind my ear that the wind has blown astray, glad that sunglasses hide my face.

We turn off the highway onto a dirt road and bump and bounce down to the beach. The sand here is pure ivory powder, and blue-green waves crest frothy white, like an aquamarine cappuccino. We park and Enrique gets out of the Jeep and hauls down the surfboards.

"Can you carry yours?" he asks.

"I think so," I say, not really sure how.

"Just pick it up and balance it on your head. Hold the sides."

He helps me hoist the board up and onto my head. It's heavy. My head sinks down on my neck and into my body. I'm positive I now resemble a turtle. He swings his board easily onto his head and we walk down to the water. The heat of the sand sears my feet.

"First we will have a little lesson on the beach." He puts his board on the sand then helps me, his arms coming up to take the weight off. He smells like pineapple.

"Most important thing: safety first. When you fall off the board, duck your head and cover it with your hands." He demonstrates, bulging tattooed arms coming up to encircle his head.

I nod, obedient.

"I've seen lots of people lose their front teeth and break their noses," he says.

I'm not sure that would be a good look for me.

"Look here." He points at his jawline where I can make out a long faint scar. "Twenty-two stitches." He looks into my eyes. "You don't want to damage that beautiful face."