The Amazon is introduced to you early. When the world is still capable of astonishment. A vast green smudge on a classroom map. The lungs of the earth. A place populated by parrots so bright they look imaginary and rivers so wide they seem more like concepts than water.
Getting there feels suitably theatrical. A plane to a town called Coca – which sounds invented – and then two and a half hours by boat, sliding into a silence so thick it feels rehearsed. The jungle closes in slowly, ceremonially, as though drawing curtains on civilisation.
While I sat on that boat romanticizing a cinematic entry into experience and sinking into wonder, just behind me our tour guide watched Netflix. I hadn’t realised you could grow bored of the Amazon. That majesty could become background noise.
But it seems the Amazon never truly wears off because when the river dolphins arrived – pale, rubbery curves breaking the brown water – and a family of otters streaked past like living commas. The guide transformed. The headphones came off. His grin grew enormous. Excitement hummed off him like electricity.
I spent five days behaving like a junior naturalist. Squinting into trees. Interrogating every rustle. Listening so hard I half expected the jungle to confess something. There was birding – an activity I had previously associated with retired men and beige trousers – but the neat little checklist they handed out turned it into a competitive sport. I hunted toucans like trophies.
I formed a mildly codependent relationship with our nature guide. We shared binoculars. He pulled up bird photos on his phone so I could identify every fluttering speck in the canopy. Nature, helpfully subtitled.
The lodge itself was the sort of quiet that costs money. Old money. The kind that smells faintly of linen and speaks softly to staff. I counted at least six white fedoras.
I ate a grub. Then, every night, a three-course meal. The Amazon was immense. Ancient. Ferociously alive but carefully curated. Packaged with Wi-Fi. Served with dessert. It turns out even the wildest place on earth can be made comfortable. Even wonder, with enough effort, can be domesticated.
One morning we travelled by boat through canals so narrow you felt like the jungle was about to take a big gulp and you’d disappear. The water was the colour of old tea, thick and slow, reflecting the jungle in warped, trembling mirrors. Branches clawed at the sides of the boat. Leaves brushed our shoulders like careless hands. The paddles glided through the water.
The guide whispered now, suddenly reverent, as though volume might offend the trees. The noise arrived first. A distant shriek. Metallic. Like rusted hinges opening the sky. We rounded a bend and there they were. A wall of blue. Hundreds of parrots hung off a clay lick, blazing against the mud like spilled paint. Flashes of yellow and blue. Wings folding and unfolding with theatrical impatience. They squabbled. Screamed. Pecked the earth like addicts. The jungle, which had been solemn and still, became a stadium. The guide beamed again. That same glow. That same barely contained joy.
We floated past and into a cavern where the silence somehow deepened. First one macaw appeared, perched cautiously above a small stream. Then another. Then another. Each dipping down only when brave enough to drink. I felt the childhood awe return – the mythical made real.
And yet we hovered quietly in our boat, cameras raised, whispering in multiple languages, consuming the moment like a performance scheduled neatly into the itinerary. Wildness, on cue.
The guides took out their paddles and we slipped away, leaving the birds to their ancient ritual. Another wonder observed. Another box ticked.
And when it was time to leave this place, which felt like the inside of a children’s book, the jungle closed behind us like it had never opened at all.
The return to the city was jarring. Concrete after canopy. Development after wilderness. And then, finally, back to the coast – a break that had lasted long enough for me to almost forget why I gravitate toward the edge of land.
The descent down from the mountains came with complimentary air. My lungs filled. The air thickened, warmed, softened. My feet melted into playdough sand. Salt clung to my skin. Sand crept into every seam of clothing and thought.
The world simplified itself, my only concern was the tide and what time I should set my alarm for. Early mornings were back. The kind where you wake before the sun, check the horizon like it might whisper secrets, and convince yourself today might be the day. Because surfers live on expectation. Forecasts refreshed obsessively. Wind arrows analyzed like stock markets. Swell charts studied with religious intensity. Everyone’s always heard about something coming. A pulse. A push. A proper one.
The Ecuadorian coast, though, wasn’t exactly how I was envisioning my big return. The ocean looked friendly. Too friendly. No lines marching in from the horizon. No glassy peaks standing to attention. No peeling walls of turquoise glory. Just soft closeouts rolling lazily toward shore, like the Pacific was stretching after a nap.
The lineup was still full. Boards bobbing. People sitting patiently, scanning the horizon, hoping the next set would be different. Every now and then someone would scratch into a wave, pop up, and immediately outrun whitewater before it folded over itself in defeat.
Short rides. Long paddles back.
It’s hard work turning mush into something. Turning foam into opportunity. The locals were masters at it. Where I saw closeouts, they saw lines. Where I gave up on sections, they squeezed turns. Anyone who can make those waves look fun deserves a tour card.
From the beach, parents waited and waved. Kids unwilling to come out, and when they finally did, they gathered sand, patted it into a baseball and chased you round in a circle until you weren’t quick enough and ended up with a mouthful of it.
Somewhere between the second and third underwhelming swell, my body surrendered. The nervous system, which had been clinging tightly through mountains and jungle, finally stood down. Time loosened its grip. Life shrank back to something manageable.
It had been longer than expected since I’d last seen the ocean. Long enough to forget how quickly it resets you. How it wipes the noise clean.
The waves weren’t spectacular. But it was good to dip a toe back in. To spend days getting hot on the sand and jumping in to cool off. To meet locals and instantly have something to connect through, a shared disappointment wrapped in collective hope.
And while the mush was fun to play in, I’m ready for a proper swell. I’ve heard there’s one coming to Chicama.
See you there?
