"Taking Root" by Ava Sylvester
Three coconuts sit atop a counter, two sliced open
They say that coconuts are more of a threat to human lives than sharks. And so, they say I am lucky to be alive. I was five years old with short golden ringlets and round pink cheeks. My family and I had lived in Costa Rica for only seven days when we stood on Guapil Beach and heard a sharp crack overhead. Before we knew it, a colossal green coconut grazed the left side of my head—my first brush with death. If I had been standing one inch to the left, chances are, I wouldn't have lived to tell the tale.
In the small town I grew up in, where the mountains meet the sea, there wasn't a movie theater or a chain restaurant and certainly not a bowling alley in sight. So, on the beach we made our own, trying to get a good grasp on a sandy coconut with our tiny hands, rolling them into pins made of sticks by the water's edge. When we were kids, coconuts were how we kept busy, ditching chairs and playing “Musical Cocos” in the blazing heat until I spun too much and fell over from dehydration. “Here, drink this pipa fría,” Mom would whisper, bringing me back to life with the cold coco water.
When my footprints got bigger and my shadow grew taller in the sand, my sister and I made it a routine to build delicate houses for hermit crabs whenever we camped on the beach. Meticulously constructing them with coconut husks, almond fruit, and discarded shells, we played with them like dolls until the sun went down.
In Costa Rican Octobers, the leafy jungle trees didn't change color and you'd be fooling yourself if you believed you were going to find a real pumpkin. One balmy afternoon, mom dragged huge dried cocos into our living room and triumphantly announced, “These are what will decorate our house this Halloween!” I sat on the cool, concrete floor, painting the odd-shaped “pumpkin” a vibrant shade of orange; then, with black paint, I made it my own eternal jack-o’- lantern. November turned October onto its head, and dad chased our creations out of our house to the edge of our driveway. For years to follow, you could still spot the faces of their warm, melting grins when you rolled up to our home. Many moons later, new palms erupted, and we began to spot little green sprouts bursting from the faded orange husks.
As my childhood slowly escaped me, like the seashells that are taken out to sea when the tide comes in, coconuts became less of a plaything and more of a medium of social connection. I still loathed the sweet-sour-nutty taste of the fresh water, but I knew that friendships deepened on the walks down Hermosa Beach to the coconut stand.
When friends with salty wet hair and towels wrapped around their waists would declare, “I am going down to get a pipa—does anyone want one?” I would jump up and walk barefoot down the beach road with them, under the shade of the almendra trees.
Soon enough, I began to endure the taste but could hardly ever finish my own, spitting out pieces of husk and the occasional but unfortunate ant that would fall into the belly of the coco. The cocos were heavy, but I could awkwardly carry two if I tightly wrapped both of my arms around them. Barely able to see my feet, I would walk carefully, trying not to spill the water down my front. After taking one sip, I would hand off my pipa for my sister to guzzle. Once it was empty, I would return to the stand.
“Could you cut this open for me?” I’d ask.
William the Coconut Man would swing down a rust-covered machete. Crack! Suddenly it was split in two, the white meat glistening, and I, eager to see how much I could get off the inner shell, would shove it into my hungry mouth.
On a glistening day, after a long swim out past the blue-green waves, I found myself parched and deeply craving the cool pipa water. I swam back to the shore, pulled a coin out of my bag and rushed over to the Coconut Man. I held in my hands the coldest thing on the beach and, in that moment, it became a treasure to me. It is incredible what you can receive with just one coin. The water was sweet and light, and I suddenly loved the way the husky rim brushed my lips.
For my seventeenth birthday, my mom took me to the beach with golden sand. We sprawled out on lounge chairs with the breathtaking view of the offshore islands and books in front of us.
You could hear the Coconut Man from a mile down the beach, pushing a metal cart through the coarse sand. “Pipa fría, pipa fría, coconut!” Over and over, he’d chant. When he finally reached us, he insisted that we have one. It was my birthday after all. Soon he was elbow-deep in his cart, fishing for the perfect one to give me. Proudly pulling out an exceptional coco, he adorned it with hibiscus flowers and bestowed it upon me. The Coconut Man sang and gave me many blessings. Of course, once the show was over, he extended his hand, “Eso sería dos mil colones.”
“Four dollars for a coconut?” my mother teased as he pushed his cart away. “He totally ripped us off!”
“But this is the biggest coconut I’ve ever laid eyes on,” I replied as we exchanged laughs.
The world was more vibrant than usual that day, and mom took me—her daughter prone to motion sickness and with a radical fear of heights—parasailing. From all the way up there, you could hardly believe it was real. An outstretched bay corralled by a verdant jungle. My eyes greedily absorbed all of the sights.
I blinked once, and it was all gone. The straps that made a seat disappeared, and a leathery airplane chair was under me in its place. My views were reduced to a single porthole that showed me an aerial view of my new home. A twinkling pool of lights, like the reflection of stars on the ocean.
Suddenly, I didn’t live where the pipas grew anymore. I traded palms for pines and my heart broke like a coconut under a machete. But like the new palms that grew from the heads of our improvised jack-o’-lanterns, something changed when I got a taste of a different sun.
I found myself buying a bottled version of home. Boxy with red bubbly letters, it still sits in the door of my fridge. I know I will never drink it, but it serves as a reminder for all that I have lost and simultaneously for all I have yet to gain. It is a token of my happiness. Here, as my toes now wriggle in the sand of different lands, the pine trees still produce the same shade for me to read under, the salty ocean breeze still cools my face.
They say, “grow where you are planted.” While, yes, this may be true, it also holds true that, like a coconut which travels for miles and miles upon the wavy sea before taking root, it is possible to grow so far from where you intended.
Ava Sylvester is a senior at Casco Bay High School. After moving to Portland seven months ago from Puntarenas, Costa Rica, she has learned to embrace the city and winter lifestyle. In her story, she reflects on her childhood and the changes she faced while making the transition. Ava loves blueberry muffins, and she is excited for what the future holds.