We pushed past the barefoot children on the shore and the brightly colored fishing boats to have our adventure. It was why we had come.The day before, we’d left the more predictable resort scene in Negril and headed southeast, not knowing where we would land. We traveled well together from day one. John was the spontaneous pied piper, the one who’d swerve the car over, saying, Let’s go—let’s get out and do this. I was the navigator, riding shotgun with a variety of guidebooks, reading aloud historical and cultural tidbits as he drove. He loved that, being a team. He called me Chief, and I called him King.After we were no longer together, he’d send a postcard now and then from his travels. A riverboat in Asia. A midsummer bonfire in Finland. And from Costa Rica, a card covered with golden toads that said, “It’s a beautiful country, but I must confess to feeling ignorant about the place without you.”At this point in our lives, we were like a puzzle and our different pieces fit; I held him back a bit, and he pushed me to go further.
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