Above the canopy of El Yunque National Forest clouds of dense, evaporated water begin to blow west across the island. From one angle, the edges of the ocean brush against the white sand and lush greens of Puerto Rico. From another, it is only a vast wash of foliage that climbs up until it is met by a thick veil of rainclouds - pushed by trade winds from the southeast. Locals and tourists drive the rain-soaked PR-191, stopping on blind turns to view las cascadas or las buenas vistas from roadside turnouts and Yokahú Tower. Slivers of hiking trails that lead to waterfalls and more intimate parts of the rainforests split off from the highway. Along pathways and up the stairs of lookouts, multiple languages carry over the sounds of coquí frogs and San Pedrito birds. The mixture of human life is as diverse as the animals and plants that are endemic to this area.

Trapped by a tarpaulin of moisture, depth of field is limited to a few hundred feet. Warm, wet air condenses on the skin, cooling any heat generated from walking through the damp pathways leading to Mount Britton tower. Over the calls of birds and amphibians, voices are heard, but faces are never seen. The pavement is cracked or broken into pieces of loose gravel. Named after botanist Nathaniel Britton who - with his wife Elizabeth - spent time in the 1920s documenting local tree and plant species, the trail covers .8 miles one way, and leads to an observation tower that takes its name from Mr. Britton. Faces of hikers appear from the mist when pausing to take a photograph. They are quickly lost again, ascending or descending the slippery walkway of roots and shoots. The peak reveals nothing on this morning. Blank. White. Beautiful. There is no closer opportunity to have a head in the clouds than now. There has never been a time when that phrase is more appropriate.  Dana and I hike through these sections of El Yunque.  This trip is shorter than the last, and we only have one day to ourselves before our red Nissan becomes an adult clown car.

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We pulled into Rincon at sundown last night in time to siphon off an hour of daylight in front of Taino Dive shop. Three hours of solid shoulder to head high waves peel through Domes this morning. Light, variable cross-shore winds have driven most out of the water and onto the beach. Changing tides and a reduction in swell forced the last few in one-by-one. Looking out to sea, one only remembers how many people are also staring at the same blue void when turning to paddle for that lone ripple. Dropping in becomes a level in Frogger. Turn high? Stay low? Shoot the section? Pull off? Crowd thinning occurs only when exhaustion and hunger fully set in. Every wave becomes a contest - an eyeball game of priority and measurement making. Tourist. Kook. Local. New Yorker. Springbreaker. Longboarder. Local Longboarder. Maybe a local. Too many descriptors exist for the number of estimates being made on all those who paddle around. Each one feels the same. Some are naturally entitled. Others want to think they are. Watching people get repeatedly snaked or shacked provides ample entertainment between sets. From the hood of the car, Kyle and Dylan observe all the late-drops, collisions, poorly timed exits, and back flop duck-dives.  

Pressed on in the dirt parking lot at Steps Beach, Dana gives her mask a dry run. She checks the tension, adjusts the straps, and fits the snorkel.  The piece of swell that pumped in over the weekend has receded to a plate glass surface.  The forecast claims high seas tomorrow, dropping in size over two to three days. Exploring the reefs becomes the next best choice for water time. Around her, cars of tourists - and locals with a mid-week day-off - filter down the single-track road leading to the reef. The sand has yet to reach foot-searing temperatures, and the water’s surface has not been agitated by the wind that will come up with sun-rising regularity. Under the water, the silent hustle of snorkelers applying sunblock, fitting masks, and tripping over fins is placed on mute. Dana’s hair follows the rhythm of undulating current that jostles the myriad grunts, parrotfish, and blue tang over reef shelves. Snorkel tips and matted hair bobbing along towards friends or fish follow blasts of water at the surface. Inside of an hour, the Tres Palmas Marine Reserve will swell with human traffic. Unaware, and surrounded by blue, Dana swims through the schools, learns about the marine life, and listens only to what the sea has to say.