We arrived in San Juan, Puerto Rico on a Wednesday afternoon. Immediately after checking in, the air in our hotel room was saturated with a fine mist of SPF 50. Suitcases were ransacked, searching for bathing suits and flip flops. The tidy hotel room quickly became a disheveled mess that I was eager to inhabit for the next five days, as long as I wasn’t tasked with laundry and cooking.
When we went downstairs to the resort pool, the kids didn’t waste any time kicking off their sandals. Soles tender from winter and wool socks, eager to suffuse into the sun-warmed poolside concrete and the mosaic tiles shimmering through the clear pool water.
Just through the gate that separates the resort from the turquoise waters and white bubbling surf of Condado Beach. We didn’t even get through the first celebratory vacation cocktail when the kids were asking, hands frozen from thick virgin pina coladas, adorned with fresh prickly pineapple slices and red round cherries, to visit the beach.
I threw on my cover-up, and we walked to the beach. Almost immediately, I was cradling four drinks, a towel, and two cell phones. The waves at Condado Beach are rough; I read this before we arrived at the resort. There are heavy rip currents, so we proceeded with caution, ensuring that the kids always had an adult nearby. My best friend and I stood knee deep in the water, while the dads took the kids into the water.
Our feet dug into the wet sand below the surface, shifting with each pull of the strong tide. The waves were crashing strong against our legs, strong, forcing our bodies to become steady against their rhythm. But ultimately, an unrelenting wave kidnapped my footing, and one of the cell phones I held in my hand became its victim.
We reached down unsuccessfully, digging our fingers into the sand, murking the water. But it was swept up in the trail of frothy bubbles that lead to the massive abyss of the ocean. It was beyond our control. Beyond our reach.
I spent the rest of the day reaching into my purse at random times. At dinner. When we walked through San Juan that evening, the kids were holding a frozen treat in a half pineapple. When the sun was setting. Phantom gestures. Muscle memory. Movement without a conscious effort. Each time evoking a panicked feeling, like you’ve forgotten something. Or something is missing, but you don’t know what it is.
The first night was the hardest. We left the patio door cracked, with the intention of falling asleep to the slapping, soothing sound of waves crashing. At home, this was something that we could only achieve on the calm app. While my family slept soundly, I was awake, distressed by the distant roar echoing from the ocean. I envisioned my phone floating in the ocean, an outlier among the creatures of the sea. I felt ashamed for allowing this trespasser (thank you, Kay Chronister) to inhabit an underwater life among the untouched earth under the ocean. I woke up frequently throughout the night, checking and double checking to ensure that I had my wallet, my ID. The separation summoned an uneasiness that was troubling. How could I be so attached to this?
The next morning, I went to the resort gym. While others listened to their headphones and streaming on their phones, I read a book. Later on that afternoon when we visited San Juan, I tasted my meal instead of photographing it. Conversations, moments, became stored in my memory instead of on my phone. And as the week went on, I realized that the chains that held my wrists to my phone had been broken. I could survive without the bleating ping of my phone, the incessant text messaging and social likes and noise. My best friend and I went for a run, and instead of stopping for a photo to add to my stories, we stopped and took in the view. And yes, I did borrow my husband and kids’ phones to capture photos and videos when we were whooshing down the natural waterslides at El Yunque National Forest, but I was happy to hand them back.
When we returned home, and Apple expectedly refused my warranty, I cringed at the thought of getting another phone. Yes, I do believe I would have been even more on edge if my kids were not with us and I was without a phone, but in the end, it ended up being the most relaxed vacation I have ever been on. Is it because I unintentionally opted out of the information overload granted daily? Or was it because I was able to be with my family and friends, fully immersing myself in spending actual time with my favorite people without distraction?
Either way, it was a vacation I will never forget. The one where I unexpectedly took a vacation from my phone.
Runs Through Life 