In this place, time seems to stand still. Where waters meet through the cascading Sierra Madres down to the lapping shores of the Pacific. A bay within a bay. A constant record spins bird songs and boat motors. The shores give way to a cobblestone maze hugged by lush green flora, whispering ancient stories in your ear as you pass by. A historic trading port turned fishing village turned getaway destination. This is where my great-grandmother came as a girl to accompany her family in their trade routes. The ancient ‘parota’ trees which were once carved into grand canoes to traverse the coastline, now stand, unwavering, reminding us where we came from. This is where my grandpa came to raise his children. Where my dad grew up, learning the twists and turns of the jungle like a map etched onto the skin of his back. Where my mom ventured as a young and eager traveler searching for solace, for a slow feeling place she wasn’t sure still existed in this high-speed world. Like a relic from a time long forgotten, a pearl hidden deep within the shell of a country marked by its tumultuous history, this is a land with which I share the intimate relation of kinship. This is our story; one of family, place, and the resilience of community. This is Yelapa, ‘where waters meet’.