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But history, as a palpable force, seemed strangely absent. And yet, as we were slowly
learning, the island was chock full of history, though much of it had been marginalized to
the point of being almost obliterated.
We had heard stories, for instance, about a long-deserted sugar mill settlement in the
western interior of the island just north of Playa Grande beach; armed with bottles of water,
a camera, and a rough map printed from the Internet, we set out to try to find the abandoned
site the last afternoon of our stay.
Unfortunately the terrain was considerably more rugged than we expected. Also, we
were wearing shorts and flip-flops, hardly the ideal garb for jungle exploration. After
maybe a hundred yards we questioned the wisdom of going any further. Our legs, lashed by
the thick prickly vegetation, were bleeding; we had been attacked by swarms of both fire
ants and mosquitoes; and one of my flip-flops had lost its toe-piece—in other words my
left foot was bare. We hobbled back to the beach in a sad state of disarray.
A few days later we found photos of the “lost city” on a Vieques history site.
As we studied the accompanying map it became clear that we'd approached the sugar
mill from the wrong side (duh). A year later we launched a better-planned expedition from
the north and got through easily.
As we made our way back to the beach that day I tried to imagine scores of workers
toiling in the thick Vieques humidity, chopping sugar cane on a twelve-hour shift, then stag-
gering back to the barrack-like dormitories that served as their home during off-hours.
I wondered if they ever had a chance to visit Playa Grande, our favorite beach on the
island.
Not often, I felt sure.
☼ ☼ ☼
We woke up to torrential rains the day of our return to D.C.
I always dreaded the puddle-jumper flight, from Vieques to San Juan, and rain never
failed to ratchet up my anxiety level another notch or two. Yes, I'd come a long way from
my hyperventilating, white-knuckle days of two-and-a-half years earlier, but I was still
haunted by a horror-fantasy involving:
• the pilot choking on a wad of gum
• a long and heroic struggle on my part to keep the plane aloft, followed by
• the inevitable spiral to a fiery death
My only consolation was that the view on the way down would be truly spectacular.
By noon, the rain had tapered off slightly, which wasn't saying much—it was still buck-
eting down at an alarming rate.
“There's no way they'll fly in this,” Michael stated matter-of-factly.
“I hope not,” I chirped in an anxious, squeaky voice, appalled at the thought that they
might even consider launching a tiny, single-engine plane into this churning maelstrom.
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