L
a Finca
Love,
Loss
,
and
Laundry
on a Tiny
Puerto
Rican
Island
La Finca
Love, Loss, and Laundry
on a Tiny
Puerto Rican Island
Corky Parker
Trinity University Press
San Antonio
Published by Trinity University Press
San Antonio, Texas 78212
Copyright 2021 by Corky Parker
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage
and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Book design by Corky Parker and Pinafore Press / Janice Shay
Cover design by Kevin Cox
The Guest House, by Rumi. English translation copyright 2004
Coleman Barks. Reprinted by permission of Coleman Barks.
La Finca Pasta recipe, by Alice Waters. Copyright 2013 Alice Waters.
Reprinted by permission of Alice Waters.
ISBN 978-1-59534-905-7 hardcover
ISBN 978-1-59534-906-4 ebook
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and materials in an environmentally sensitive manner. We favor working
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Printed in Canada
Contents
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Introduction
G
uests ask. All the time. So what made you want to do this? Howd you ?
or Why ?
Funny, it seems so natural to me. Dont we all want to grow up to be inn-
keepers on tiny tropical islands? Isnt the Swept Away/Gilligans Island/Fawlty Towers combo fantasy simply basic human nature? Regardless, I never know how serious the guests are, or how much time they have. Because answering could take a while.
Sometimes I wonder if theyre asking for do-it-yourself instructions on how to
ditch the work world. They may want to know if its safe, or a good investment, or if anyone can do it. Sometimes theyre pretty open about being jealous of my good luckIve learned to laugh that one off. Im usually busy hanging the laundry, or duct-taping a fix to some emergency, so I am able to dodge the questions. But even if I am in the mood and have the time to answer, I still get stymied on where to begin. Its a bit like peeling an onion. One layer reveals more of whats underneath. If I go deep enough, someone might end up crying.
Truth is, Im not sure exactly what made me fall in love with a piece of property
on a small Puerto Rican island when I was forty years old, now twenty years ago.
Not just fall in love, mind you, but act on it make a commitment,
and to a foreigner no less.
This is the story of La Finca Caribe: three acres in the hills of
Vieques, a small Caribbean island just off Puerto Ricos eastern coast. Its about why and how I and my family found it, loved it, and held onto iteven though we had pretty much no idea what we were doing. Its about listeningeven in the din of tropical depressionsto your spirit place, inside and out. Ultimately, its about discovering how much we can learn from a place, and the futility of asking, Por qu?
Its difficult, and a little daunting to try and capture ones
memories over forty years with certitude. Im so bad with numbers, whole years could be off. Luckily, I usually have my journal and sketchbook nearby as some oddball form of witness. Nonetheless, in case I got anything wrong, Ive changed some names and locations, and condensed conversations to the best of my memory. The part about the magic, thoughIm totally clear about that.
Theres a goat leg
in the front yard,
a small frog who
lives in my shower,
a bong on the front
desk,
and a guests
underwear soaking
in the main house
kitchen sink.
Living the Dream
C
orcho, what you need is a finca.
Rocios thick Barranquillan accent made it sound so exotic: a feeeenka. I was in
my early thirties, old enough to have traveled a bit, and knew a little Spanish, but
not this.
Okay Maybe Ill get one, Rocio Whats a finca?
Finca just means a place in the country, like a ranch, a farm, a beach house, or
just a little garden plot, anywhere you go to escape from the city. Youre not a city
girl, Corcho.
I wonder what Rocio saw in me at the timeyoung wife, mother, and harried
small business managerthat made her see so clearly what I needed. Maybe she was psychic. She was certainly right about the escape part. I had begun to wonder what I was I doing living in the suburbs.
My husband, David, and I had moved to Seattle with our baby, Tyler, from Alaska,
where wed met. Seattle held more opportunity for growing our film production company, but we had mixed feelings about leaving Alaskas open beauty. David was from Oregon and Montana. I was from northern California, and lived in Vermont for college. We both sought out the far horizon, or at least the rural parts of wherever we lived. We were more than comfortable heating with wood, rafting rivers, and wearing sweatpants. Seattle was a rugged, soon-to-be-grungy city back then. It seemed natural we would buy a home to the north, far enough out of town to have a woodsy yard with raccoons and possums. It helped us feel at least distantly related to our wild, wilderness-filled pasts. It was 1986. Tyler was in preschool.
18 CORKY PARKER
I had wanted to get a real job in Seattle for a few years
and then bring all the business savvy I could soak up back to our mom-and-pop creative team. The winery where I had been hired to manage public relations and write wine labels (and ignore the executives overt flirtations) seemed as unreal as its phony French chateau headquarters. My female coworkers seemed hell-bent on climbing the corporate ladder in those godforsaken padded-shoulder suits and girl-style neckties that only served to strangle me.
