Chapter 4: Champions

By the time they reached the beach, the sun had risen fully, and everything was already glowing in that particular way Margarita seemed to hold—soft but vivid at the same time, as if the world had first been painted entirely in shades of blue before anything else was slowly added on top. It wasn’t just the ocean that carried it, but the sky, the distance, even the shadows, all touched by the same color, like the island itself had been created from a single tone and then shaped gently into life.

The beach was already full, music drifting through the air from somewhere unseen and blending with the sound of the waves and the low hum of voices gathering in clusters along the shore, where people moved easily between sand and water with boards tucked under their arms, laughter rising and falling as naturally as the tide. It didn’t feel like a competition so much as a celebration, something shared and familiar, as if everyone there already understood each other without needing to explain why they had come.

They entered the competition early, just after the first sets began to roll in, and the hours passed almost without her noticing, carried forward by the rhythm of the waves and the constant motion of the water, where time seemed to dissolve into movement and repetition. Marisol surfed the way she always did—not perfectly, not carefully, but fully—throwing herself into each wave, adjusting as she went, falling without hesitation and trying again, her body learning and responding in ways that couldn’t be taught, only felt.

She loved that, more than anything.

There was no spell for it, no shortcut, no way to force the ocean to meet her halfway, and if she wanted the wave, she had to earn it through effort and patience, through the quiet understanding that came from watching, waiting, and trusting her own body to respond at the right moment. She had to paddle, to fall, to climb back up again, over and over, until something aligned—not just outside of her, but within her as well—and when it did, even if it only lasted a few seconds, it felt like something close to magic, though not the kind she had been taught.

Something else. Something human.

Marisol had always believed that people carried their own kind of magic, even if they didn’t have spells or training or names for it, because there was something powerful in the way they created, in the way they learned, in the way they kept trying even when something was difficult, something that required effort and time and choice. Sometimes she thought that kind of magic was even more special, because it wasn’t given.

It was made.

She felt it most clearly in moments like this, moving with the ocean while her muscles burned and her breath came uneven, her balance shifting constantly as she stayed present inside her own body and inside the water at the same time, with no separation between her and the movement around her, only instinct and rhythm and trust. Around her, Charlotte’s laughter carried across the water when she wiped out, Martín’s voice rose somewhere behind her, and their shared glances when a good set was coming felt like part of the same language, something understood without words.

They stayed in the water until a little past noon, long enough for the sun to rise higher and the light to sharpen, long enough for the energy of the morning to settle into something slower, heavier, more still—and it was in that shift, almost without thinking, that Marisol finally looked toward La Azulita.

The moment she did, something inside her tightened.

Out in the distance, near the island, there were boats—larger than the ones she was used to seeing, heavier, built for work rather than fishing, sitting low in the water as they carried equipment and machinery that felt completely out of place there, their presence quiet but undeniable, like something that had already begun without asking permission.

The feeling that followed wasn’t loud, wasn’t sharp, but it settled deeply, like something misaligned beneath the surface of everything she knew. Without saying anything, she let the next wave pass beneath her and turned back toward the shore, paddling with a growing urgency she didn’t try to explain, the water loosening its hold on her as she reached the sand and stood, grabbing her things more quickly than she meant to.

“Marisol?” Charlotte called after her.

She didn’t stop, and the absence of an answer was enough to make both Charlotte and Martín exchange a quick look before following her.

“What’s going on?” Martín asked as he caught up beside her, still trying to read something in the way she moved.

Marisol kept walking for a few steps before finally stopping, turning toward them as if she had reached the point where holding everything in was no longer possible, the words already forming before she fully decided to say them.

“I need to go back.”

“To where?” Charlotte asked, more carefully now.

Marisol hesitated only for a moment before answering, even though saying it out loud made it feel more real.

“La Azulita.”

They both watched her more closely now, waiting, and when she didn’t immediately continue, she realized she had to explain, that there was no way around it anymore. So she told them—about the light, about the island burning, about what she had seen the night before, and then about the place she had somehow entered, the jungle, the creatures, the mermaid—expecting at some point for one of them to interrupt, to question her, to laugh even, but neither of them did.

Charlotte stayed quiet for a moment, thinking through it carefully, her expression focused in a way Marisol recognized.

“The burning…” she said slowly. “That was a vision. Only you saw it, and the island is still there.”

Marisol nodded, relieved and unsettled at the same time.

“But the other part,” Charlotte continued, lifting her eyes back to her, “there’s only one way to know if it was real.”

Marisol already knew what she was going to say before she said it.

“We go.”

Martín didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. We go.”

Marisol shook her head slightly, a trace of fear returning now that the decision wasn’t just hers anymore. “I don’t know what that place is. I don’t know if it’s dangerous.”

“We’re not letting you go alone,” Martín said, steady and certain.

Charlotte stepped closer, her voice softer but just as firm. “If it’s real, we’ll see it too. And if it’s not… at least you’ll know.”

Marisol looked down at Sal, who had followed them quietly and now sat beside her.

He blinked slowly.

That quiet reassurance she had learned to trust.

She exhaled, the tension in her chest loosening just enough.

“…Okay.”