I laughed. “Yikes. Please don’t. Imagine if Beckett found you like that?”
“Talk about being blessed!”
“Okay, maybe no more mimosas at breakfast,” I suggested, only half joking.
“Buzzkill.” Mom puckered.
About an hour later, after returning to the hotel, changing into our suits and cover-ups, and boarding the water taxi, we arrived at Renaissance Island. The taxi was driven by a beefy guy named Hugo, whose calves were easily the width of my head. I overheard a nearby couple gushing about how Hugo had been working as the water taxi driver since back when they honeymooned at this resort twenty years ago. He was like the human version of an English bulldog. Stocky, solid, and with a gentle underbite. He steered the boat effortlessly, his dark eyes shielded by sporty, black sunglasses and thick brows, and I noticed him staring off into the horizon with a look of contentment on his face that exuded calm. He wasn’t what I’d imagine the picture of contentment to look like, and yet, that was howhe appeared to me. While most employees were on the bubblier side, Hugo was extremely quiet, contemplative. Like it was just him and the sea.
Naturally, my mother took a liking to him and decided that he would become her buddy. When approaching the dock, Hugo used a single hand to spin the steering wheel expertly this way and that, flexing his forearm while casually parallel parking a boat that was easily twenty-five feet long. He threw a rope on the dock and tied up the front, then hopped off the boat and tied up the back. Hugo climbed out and we all began to exit in a single file. He offered a hand to passengers so they wouldn’t get hurt stepping up onto the dock. Mom and I were last to depart the vessel on this trip, and after she took his hand, Mom said, “Ooh la la, such a firm grip you’ve got, Hugo. Hugo? Is that short for something?” She batted her eyelashes at him.
I climbed up out of the boat on my own, as she was still holding his hand. This poor guy was probably subjected to ladies like my mother all day.
“Si. Hugoberto,” he said, giving her what looked like a handshake so that he could remove his palm from hers.
“Well, Hugoberto, this has been a lovely ride. Thank you very much for your smooth driving.”
“Si, claro.” He nodded.
“Oh! Solo hablas español?” she asked.
He nodded again.
“Hablo un poco de español, Señor Hugoberto. Mucho gusto. Me llamo Birdie, y ella se llama Melody.” She waved her hand as she spoke.
Hugo offered a small smile. “Mucho gusto.”
“Gracias por el viaje,” she continued.
“De nada, Señora Birdie.”
“Buen dia,” she sang, flashing a smile and holding up her hand in a delicate wave.
He bobbed his head gently, held up a silent hand in an understated return wave, and turned to get back on his boat.
I took my mother by the arm. As we walked away she looked back at Hugo and smiled some more, tossing her hair beneath her floppy hat.
“You’re ridiculous,” I said.
“If by ridiculous, you mean vivacious and delightful, then yes, I’m inclined to agree,” she replied. We grabbed towels from the towel hut and headed back the other way toward the adults-only beach. The mama flamingo was seated primly on her nest, a mound of muddy sand beneath her measuring about eighteen inches high. She looked like a queen on her throne, her velvet rope a yellow stream of caution tape alerting visitors to look but not touch. A sign tacked to a nearby tree shared the nesting habits of flamingos, and the remaining, non-gestating pink birds milled about, eager for children to feed them kibble from the nearby dispenser. For the low price of fifty cents, people squealed as rounded beaks nibbled straight from the palms of anyone offering food.
My mother paused to wonder at the mama bird perched on her eggs. “Look how majestic she is,” she noted. “So protective. Like even though all these people are around, she is firmly planted on her baby.”
“There’s probably more than one baby,” I pointed out. “Don’t nests have, like, a bunch of eggs?”
Mom shook her head. “Not flamingos. Read the sign. They usually only have one egg at a time. Two, tops. This whole nest,” she gestured, “is all for one little bird.”
“Hm,” I replied. “That’s interesting.”
“Yup. And she ignores everyone and everything around her. It’s just her and the baby,” she continued. “It’s very sweet.”
I nodded.
“Also, did you know that the mama will lose all of her color when she’s feeding the baby the crop milk?”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma’am. Once the baby is born, Mama will create special secretions called crop milk and will regurgitate it into the baby’s mouth. It’s full of essential nutrients that the chick needs. But Mama will lose her color, because she’s draining herself of all those nutrients.”
