All the Little Lives I’ve Lived

As a kid, we fly through phases that we think will last forever. I’m a gymnast, I am going to the olympics, I’m a ballerina, I’ll surely be in the nutcracker. Like every other kid, I definitely committed to the bit and eventually moved on with the closure of knowing I tried and enjoyed it while it lasted.

Age taught me the mighty difference between willfully switching hobbies and reluctantly acclimating myself into new environments. How dramatic! My intention isn’t to come across like I’m the only person in the world who has experienced big changes (although, every morning, for a split second, I do think I’m the only girl in the world) but I figured I would make a little series about all the little lives I’ve lived… So here goes.

I was four months old when my parents brought me to Guatemala. A business venture for my dad metamorphosed into three decades of complete cultural integration for my family. I grew up going to an international school, in Guatemala City, where spanglish was the preferred language. Every Friday my mom, sister and I would drive to the Aeroclub, hop in my dad’s Cessna 185 and fly West to the shrimp farm that shaped my childhood.

A Cessna 185 is a tailwheel aircraft, which is much harder to fly than the more common nose-wheel aircraft. Taildraggers’ center of gravity is behind the landing gear, making it more difficult to turn while taxiing, face crosswinds while flying and ultimately requires the least amount of error while operating. My dad’s plane can take off before reaching 500 feet of runway space; the weight is transferred to the wings sooner, lifting the tail wheel off the ground first, allowing the aircraft to become airborne incredibly quickly. My dad, being a seasoned pilot, challenges himself to take off and land in record short distances. Let’s just say air traffic control thinks very highly of him (and it's not because of all the shrimp he gifts them around the holidays). 

This beautiful photo of my dads plane taking-off in Guatemala City displays the taildraggers’ rear wheel lift before it becomes airborne.

A very long time ago, when danger seemed like more a suggestion than a fact, my dad would execute a trick he coined “zero-gravity.” The stunt would entail his pushing of the yolk (AKA the steering wheel of the plane) closer to himself, causing the aircraft to shoot upward. Although it is recommended to keep a steady, calm and slow hand on the yolk, if you yank it towards you, the aircraft you’re in will increase its altitude in stomach flipping time. That’s only the first step of the stunt; right as the plane leveled off at its new, higher altitude, my dad would then rapidly push the yolk away from himself, dead dropping the plane too fast to keep us and anything inside of the cabin from actually touching the cabin itself. 

Due to the plane's swift and long dive, everything within it would float for about 8 slow seconds before my dad re-regulated our altitude. Everything and everyone would abruptly come crashing down onto the belly of the cabin, or if we were lucky, right back into our seats (my sister and I had experienced this feat too many times to keep our seatbelts on and risk the inability to float around like astronauts). My mother, of course, was the only party opposed to the stunt, so, as you can imagine, her seatbelt never unbuckled. Her strong, sassy opinions would fill our headsets for longer than the zero gravity itself lasted, but we would always end up repeating the stunt because, when she thought no one was looking, a tiny smile would crack her frown (and we took that as a sign that we were keeping her young and ran with it).

TG-JSF taxiing in Guatemala City.

At the edge of the Coast, parallel to dozens of giant shrimp ponds, was my first real home. Equipped with a runway to land on and even a hanger for my dad’s taildragger, was acres of land that was so uniquely ours. Our backyard was the ocean, a living entity that you could sense before sighting it. The air tasted and smelled like salt, and if that wasn’t enough, the ocean voiced its strength through thunderous waves that crashed violently into the volcanic ash sand. No other beach I would visit in my life would compare to the magnificence of the Pacific ocean in Champerico. 

A recent picture I captured showing just how black the volcanic sand is.

We had birds, horses, turtles, lizards, geese, cats, goat hybrids and a dog (of course) filling our backyard with liveliness. Every morning, we would gather around the dining room table to eat breakfast. Some mornings, when we would open the giant window that faced the table, my breakfast would vanish before I could finish it. Our hungry clan of horses would stick their long necks into our home and join us for breakfast.. What can I say, we’re an inclusive family (and we couldn't build chairs big enough for our hoofed friends). 

Treasure, my hoofed friend and I sharing corn.

CIRCA 2007

If I wasn’t accompanying my dad on missions around the farm, keenly observing the life cycles of shrimp, I was riding horses, teaching my parrot to talk, watching my mom paint or spying on my mysterious teenage sister. 

Leaving the farm to go into town was a stunt in itself, as is anything that requires four wheel drive. An estuary that opened into the sea separated our slice of heaven and the town of Champerico. This body of water fluctuates regularly; one week it would be carrying a strong current that shaped the sand, deepening its floor and the next it would mellow into a small stream, giving the sand a chance to shallow its passage. Let’s just say we cycled through a few cars, all of whose undercarriages ached with rust, and occasionally had to ditch our ride when its poor tires got stuck in the thick loose sand.

This is the estuary when it’s open at high tide. Notice any cliffs?

Out of a Jeep Wrangler, a Land Rover Defender, a Toyota Tacoma, a Nissan Pathfinder and a 1988 Range Rover, only two cars have survived. I bet you didn’t have your money on the Range, but it's still kicking and it happened to be the car I learned to drive in. My dad thought it imperative that my sister and I learn how to drive a stick shift before anything else, so after an entire summer of killing the engine, denting Mahogany trees and wanting to give up with frustration, I was practically a pro. My final test would be making it across the beach without stranding us in the sand. 

The 1988 Range Rover pictured with me in 2024. It’s still running.

I’ll never forget that day. I was determined, confident and terrified. My plan was to kick it in first gear the whole way and focus on the clutch. Little did I know there were many more obstacles that demanded my attention (like a literal sand cliff). There were a couple things I had learned watching my dad drive across a loose sand beach for so many years; don’t slow down too much and never stop the car. I was so focused on maintaining the correct speed and weaving in and out of pre-laid tire tracks that I didn’t notice the sand cliff. The strength of the ocean's waves had built the sand up to about 6 feet high, but it felt much taller when the Range dove hood first down its wall. 

Our tired old car went from struggling horizontally to stalling vertically. Before I could feel the seatbelt sting my collarbone or catch the breath that flew out of me, I heard the windshield crack against my dad’s head. Yes, he had escaped the chest aching whiplash of a seatbelt but in turn flew headfirst into the windshield, splintering it under his weight. In a panic all I could yell was “DAD?!”, in hopes that the world around us would take a quick intermission so that I could make sure I hadn’t just killed my dad. But the world kept spinning and relief washed over me when (still pressed up against the windshield) he (not so) calmly uttered, “keep going, keep going, keep going.” 

Before that day, I had killed the engine almost every time I released the clutch, but, by some miracle, my muscles found the perfect balance between the three pedals and the car slowly inched forward with groaning jerks until the back wheels smacked into the sand and we became level again. I drove for three more minutes, keeping my eyes on the remainder of the beach ahead until we reached the solid dirt road where I could shakily put the car in park. 

I had successfully driven across the beach! But I had also nearly flipped our car over and given my dad a considerable concussion. I immediately started crying at the sight of the blood spilling down my dad’s forehead. Although my father knows exactly what to say and when to say it, and I have an unletting reputation of talking way too much, we were both completely speechless. Despite feeling undeserving of any sort of acknowledgement, he told me he was proud of me. After that day, I never caught my dad in a car without a seatbelt again. 

My sister leaning on the car she also learned to drive in.

If you look closely, there is crack on the upper left side of the windshield.

This story doesn’t end here (don’t worry) but I’ve babbled long enough for one article. All the Little Lives I’ve Lived part I, volume II will pick up where this left off in the next article. Thanks for reading.