by Jan Baross

It is always windy along the crushed lava trail of the Forbidden Cliffs. This is where the color of my day begins, a big blue bowl of sky over an emerald sea. Hundreds of feet below are the ragged lava rocks. Humpbacked waves curl toward shore and shatter on the volcanic spears.

My job is to fill an empty burlap sack with mussels kidnapped from their seaweed ledge. I speed through this job so fast that Mamá would be astounded. It leaves me enough time to sneak up to the Forbidden Cliffs where my half-naked Gabito and the other divers do their dangerous work.

Gabito's black dog, Coriander, guards the switchback trail down the sheer cliffs to the divers' ledge. Under penalty of banishment, a woman must never approach the cliffs, for she might distract a pulpo diver from his dive. But that will all change when I am a diver.

Coriander shakes his wet jowls to warn me. Bubbled spit flies into the dust. When I bare my teeth, he snaps the air close enough for me to smell the fishy odor of his breakfast.

There is a secret way to Gabito, a crevice that snakes down the cliff. Leaving Coriander to growl at shadows, I climb down the deep, battered trail. Two curtains of stone hide the entrance to my cave. My shawl blots dampness from the rough edges as I squeeze inside. Light pours into the cave from a large window in the jagged rock that frames the horizon of the sea. A browning banana from yesterday's lunch spreads its rotting perfume. I take a small notebook from my painted tin box and a brass telescope I found washed ashore on the black sands.

Slipping under a large black cotton cloth with eyeholes, I become one of the cave's broken shadows. My camouflaged body presses against the edge of the jagged window. I adjust the rusted eyepiece of the telescope until I am focused on Gabito in his goodluck yellow swim shorts. Fifty feet below, the forbidden divers' ledge is a dark rock that sticks out over the waves like a rude tongue. Gabito, his curly hair shifting in the wind, sits close to a small campfire and shoves a whole candy bar into his mouth. He works his face around it until even my eyes taste his chocolate.

Smiling Tomás, Gabito's brother, pulls a torn jacket up around his hairy neck. He is wiry and dark, with monkey-quick movements. His dark eyebrows creep up his short forehead into a thatch of black hair. If he were not Gabito's brother, I would suspect his line was linked to another species.

Skinny Vicente kneels near the flames in his canvas shorts. He has a tiny ass, and bones of a fowl that poke through his marigold skin. When he dives, he is like a weightless kite in the wind. His father, Señor Aves, worships every splayed step Vicente takes because he is the only son in a five-daughter family.

Big Luis circles the fire in his long dark shorts and beats his arms to keep warm. He may be the mayor's youngest son, but Big Luis has the long, stupid face of a burro. Even his ears droop, though his footing on the cliffs is rock steady.

Gordo, Keeper of the Flame, waddles over and drops a small log on the dying fire. He is lighter skinned than the others, and his hair is wispy. A mother-knit wool sweater climbs up the bulge of his stomach.

Gabito snaps a towel at this vulnerable place on Gordo's body. It is not that Gabito is cruel. Gordo invites pain. He makes himself irresistible because he will bear anything to be close to the divers.

Gabito stands and stretches into the sunlight. He shakes his shoulders and twists an octopus net into a belt around his waist. No loose ends to catch on the lava spears hidden beneath the surface of the sea.

Gabito's first dive of the day starts my own routine. I cross myself.

"Mother Mary, supreme hoarder of hope, let Gabito live another day."

Each prayer is one more layer of armor between his body and the sharp rocks. One week I was sick at home, and he slashed his leg on the rocks. I have kept Gabito alive since he began diving at the age of twelve, and I can say more prayers in a short amount of time than a priest.

"MaryMotherofJesusour LordGodprotectmyGabitoAmen! MotherMarylethimhit thewavessafelyAmen! Spreadyourdivinenetofprotectionand lethimcatchmanyoctopusAmen!"

I do not pray for the rest of the divers because I want their job.

Gabito's body rocks back and forth. The sun washes his skin in a warm lemon light. He waits for the perfect wave.

His toes grip the edge of the lava stone. He pumps his legs to warm up, bends his knees, and straightens. He slaps the blood awake in his legs, stomach, and chest. His curly head cocks one way then the other, as though he was already shaking water out of his ears. Finally he crosses himself with a prayer. His arms fly back, his knees bend deep. If he does not dive with precision, dive just as the trough settles . . .

Gabito pushes off the ledge, arms and chest wide, arcing his sea-bird spine.

"MotherMarydoyourjob! MotherMarydoyourjob!"

Under the black cloth my fingers move around my chest in a triangle of prayer for Gabito. God. Jesus. Mother Mary. I may have permanent bruises on my chest from the fast pecking of my fingers. The ritual is sometimes long and complicated, depending on how terrified I am.

Gabito's feet are pointed, hands together, nose down. His yellow shorts ripple against his thighs.

My fingers move faster than Papá's on his abacus. The telescope jiggles against my eye.

Gabito's body knifes between the lava spears. Green waves close over his pointed toes. I exhale my relief.

Then quickly, with one long inhale, I hold my breath. Until Gabito's head breaks the surface, until he breathes, I will not breathe. This is my diving practice.

"One, two, three . . ."
My mind sinks into Gabito's cold, silent world. I am the current caressing his brown ankles. I am liquid trapped in his goodluck shorts. I am a part of his graceful strokes downward past the yellow and orange octopus into the deeper crevices where the most tender gray octopus live in dark cliff caves.
Holding my breath. "Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven . . ."
I make the first entry of the day in my notebook:
"Monday morning, Oct. 4th, 7 a.m. Gabito's first dive. Perfection. The grace of a bird." Under "Improvements," I write, "ABSOLUTELY NONE."
I have lists of improvements for the other divers. Their faults teach me to be a better diver.
"Forty-three, forty-four . . ."
I feel the first hint of tightness in my throat. I look down at the waves, watching for Gabito. Only once did a diver die, many years ago. His adoring fiancée threw him a kiss and distracted him. Days later, his crushed body was washed onto the shore.
My chest is tightening. "One hundred, one hundred one . . ."
I never cheat at this. Some things, yes, but never this. I must prove to myself that I have lungs enough to make my dream come true.
Big Luis pulls his long burro face away from the flames. He places his feet precisely in the diving grooves and watches the waves. Then with a slow, deliberate inhale, Big Luis leans forward, swings his arms back, and dives head first. He always waits until the last moment to stretch his arms out in front of him, like a dare, and so far it has worked.
I make my entry in the book. "Arms scary as always. And no grace."
Smiling Tomás pulls up his black shorts and gives his balls a squeeze. He bends his monkey head over the ledge to see if either boy is in his way. Then he dives quickly, almost carelessly, as though his jungle body has a mind of its own and will take care of the details.
In the notebook I enter, "Idiot."
Holding my breath. "Two hundred, two hundred and one."
My nose feels hot. The pressure building in my lungs might cause a nosebleed. I sniff and hold the new air.
Skinny Vicente turns the ledge into a one-man circus for Gordo. He wiggles his bottom, a flat crack where a rounded ball of muscle should be. Then he dives into an updraft that suspends him for a second before it drops him down the side of the cliff to the sea. At least there is no blood, which is the best sign.
In the notebook under Vicente, I try but I can no longer write. Eyes water, chest hurts.
"Three hundred and one . . ."
It is too hot under the black cloth. I rip it off my head.
"Three hundred and fifteen . . ."
I am dizzy. My skin is too tight. Gabito has never been this late.
"Three hundred ninety-one, three hundred ninety-two."
My lungs plead for air. Weaklings!
"Three hundred ninety-three."
The air hardens inside my chest. Enough! I look over the ledge. He cannot stay down any longer!
"Three hundred ninety-six."
My lungs shriek, "Gabito! Hurry!"
I feel a hundred pulses in my head.
"Give me three more seconds!" I say to myself.
"Three hundred ninety-seven. Ninety-eight! Ninety-nine!"
Gabito's black curls break through the foam. His chest is high in the waves.
One more count!
"Four hundred!"
I gasp, and my lungs drag the salty air deep. I lay my face on the damp rocks to cool my skin.
Four hundred! I did it! I did it, Gabito! I beat you!
I crouch in the dark with my victory while Gabito climbs up the cliff with a heavy net of octopus strapped to his waist and the sun shining on his back. It should be me hauling the catch up the cliff. I have proven that I have the lungs of a boy.
Tortugina, girl diver!
Tomorrow, I will move toward Gabito the way the women in the taverna walk, stopping just out of reach. They make the men rise and come to them. I will walk like that tomorrow morning at the tortilleria, and he will not be able to resist my request.
Let me dive!

To be continued

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