Browned beef sizzles as it’s tossed on the grill, waves crash as they sluice surfboards struggling to remain afloat and rat-tat against hulls of small boats, taco shells crunch underneath beachgoers’ teeth, children shriek and yell, punch and splash around — all these sounds woven into the buzzy fabric of the town, a place so lively and kinetic it’s almost animate. Cutting through the clamor is a shrill shriek, the kind that tends to erupt from the brakes of small stick-shift Volkswagens packed to their limit with families of five: namely, Lazaro Frago and his brothers, sister, and parents.

This summer day marks Lazaro’s sixth birthday and his first trip to Mahahual Beach on Mexico’s coast, three hours from his home of Tzucacab, Yucatan. A car door swings open as Lazaro runs to the sand, fingers eagerly grabbing, gathering grains and packing them together, sand sticking to limbs wet from splashing and playing — the greens, reds, oranges, purples, and yellows of coral reefs and fish swirling around him in an excited frenzy. Puffy clouds roll into a red and orange canvas’ starkness, then disappear into darkness. Above the ocean, Lazaro and his family munch on the day’s catch in silence broken up only by patrons’ hushed conversations, a distant band’s gentle strings and distinct rattle, and the lulling roll of waves.

At ten years old, Lazaro returns. He weaves through water on a new surfboard, fish jumping from the greedy grasp of birds, sun shining against tanned skin. At stands, fresh, shell-encased beef heats Lazaro’s hand, and dark streets light up with the glow of stoves sautéing shrimp and squid.

At fourteen years old, Lazaro returns yet again. His feet glide effortlessly like a skater’s blades through ice, and this time the water is just as still. Gray coral reefs desperately cling to the ocean floor, as if warding off the dissipation an ill-timed breeze might bring. Menus shrink in Lazaro’s palm, and pots that once held prawns stand empty beside clean sinks.

At seventeen, Lazaro’s hand clutches the gear stick, wheels spitting gravel as the car bumps to Mahahual. The streets are swept clean of wooden booths and metal trucks, and a woodpecker’s hollow taps beat a solitary rhythm, bottles and bags rustling in the sand. Fins flap as the last fish leave for waters free of wrappers and cigarettes. As Lazaro looks down, his brothers and sister around, no more can they see the ocean floor.

Lazaro is forty when he ventures again, pulling at the Volkswagen’s seldom-used trunk until it gives, coughing fast in a sandy cloud of summers passed. His fingers wander familiar scrapes, gripping the old surfboard now dusty from underuse. Lazaro steps over caution tape warning of exposure to pollutants, walking an expanse of sand that now feels more like an enclosure, treading carefully so as not to crush the sandcastles of his youth. He walks until he can hear the despondent beat of ocean against rock, pooling liquid devoid of the vivid colors of reefs and fish, resembling a murky brown. Lazaro, like he did when six, ten, fourteen, and seventeen, dips his feet into the current. Leaning forward, he paddles away, tilting back and forth to remain balanced, shielding his face from the wind, gliding through the current. For the last time, Lazaro surfs.

The crackle of browned beef sizzles into an abyss, the lull of waves silent with no surfboards to clatter or boat hulls to batter. No beachgoers to munch on taco shells, no children to shriek and yell, punch and splash around. The town, once so lively and kinetic, is left stagnant and moribund. All life seemingly packed up and went west, toward the cities of Mexico, toward the smoke and fumes that choked vitality out of Mahahual.