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the men standing on the reef right next to us again.
    â€œAw, shit,” I said under my breath. Brandon had continued swimming and was a short distance away from me now, still exploring the reef. “Brandon! We need to go . . . now!”
    I felt something sharp poke my lower back. I pretended not to notice. I put my snorkel in my mouth, dropped my face into the water, and started to swim.
    A harder jab this time, on the back of my surf shorts. I looked up to see one of the guys with a trident towering over me.
    â€œHow’s it going, bro?” I said. “You catch any fish yet?” I smiled and waved. “Have a good day, man!”
    Brandon was starting to catch on, and we swam away as fast as we could, slipping through narrow coral pathways we normally would have avoided. But these fishermen, or whatever the hell they were, obviously knew the reef much better than we did. At every turn, these assholes were right behind us or alongside us.
    We put our heads down and made a last hard push to get to shore as quickly as possible. As we sprinted out of the water and looked around, the men were gone.
    â€œWhere the hell are they?” I said, catching my breath from the swim.
    And that’s when we noticed that our stuff was gone as well. They’d taken everything, even our shoes and towels. Fortunately, I had stashed my truck keys under a rock a few yards from where we’d left our things on the beach. Otherwise, we’d have been screwed.
    â€œAw, man. They took all our shit,” Brandon said.
    â€œForget it, man. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
    We hightailed it down the beach toward the truck, wondering if the guys were going to jump us along the way. The beach was hot as hell and covered in pebbles and small shells, tearing and cutting into the soles of our feet. At the entrance there was a small park and a lookout area with benches. Sure enough, the ass-hats were sitting there, waiting for us.
    â€œAmigos! You looking for something?” They said something else in Spanish, but hell if I knew or even cared what it was. One of the men held up my gear bag, a big shit-eating grin on his face.
    â€œWhat are you going to do, man?” Brandon asked me, as if I were actually going to take on a couple of guys carrying spearguns.
    â€œNot a goddamn thing,” I said.
    I’d learned before we even moved to Puerto Rico that most robberies and thefts are committed against tourists because they’re suspected of carrying more cash than the locals. Local thieves also know that foreign visitors generally don’t pursue charges once they find out what’s involved. In order to press charges or file a theft report, the victim must be willing to sign a contract with the police stating that if the criminal is apprehended, the victim will return to the island for the trial at his or her own expense. If for some reason the victim will not or cannot return to testify, the Puerto Rican government will issue an arrest warrant for the victim for failing to appear. And who’s going to take the time and incur the expense of coming back for a lost camera or, worse, risk going to jail themselves?
    In other words, I knew these guys were going to get away with it—and I knew they knew it too.
    â€œWe need to get to the truck fast, okay?” I said. “On three, you run your goddamn ass off. You drop something, you leave it behind. Am I clear?”
    One of the other men waved more of our things at us, laughing.
    Brandon and I looked at each other. “Three! Go! Go! Go!” I may have been a lot older, but I could still outrun a teenager when I needed to. The men stood up and raced after us.
    I clicked the door locks open with the remote, and we jumped in and locked the doors behind us. Safely inside, the engine running, we realized the men had given up the chase about halfway to the truck. We should have been relieved, but we quickly realized we’d