Every person needs to have their own secret place. My summers are spent in Puerto Rico where away from the confinement of my parents the sky becomes the limit for my freedom. Every day, instead of sleeping in like I do on summer days in the city, I would rise with the sun. The house is silent. My sisters sleep in the room next to me, while my parents have the entire second floor of our ranch to themselves. I dress in whatever I find first, grabbing a book, my camera, water, and my sunglasses as I walk out the door. My grandfather built our ranch house. Well his money did. My grandpa was the vice president of Puerto Rico's only electricity corporation. My dad was raised in one of the best Puerto Rican barrios on the island with every necessity and luxury available. Now in his 70's, my grandpa still works for the same company but more as an overseer than an authority. Our ranch was built in 2001. The year after my second sister was born. It's beautiful. Two floors, 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a paradise. Surrounded by flowers and trees and gardens, the front of the house looks straight out of a magazine. Nonetheless, my favorite part about our vacations isn't the house but what surrounds it. Less than a mile away, hidden beneath the natural forest of Puerto Rico's nature, there is a "secret" waterfall. The first night we spent in the house, I was 11 years old. My grandpa and I were always the last to go to bed: him a restless old man and me an excited little girl who refused to waste any minute of the day asleep. I remember the night I was introduced to my secret place crystal clear. He turned to me after flicking off the television. I have a present for you. Half asleep but still giddy, I grabbed my jacket and we both slipped on our hiking boots. Following behind my grandfather's footsteps I soaked in the beauty around me. The trees were taller than him, their leaves hung over us like tarps. Many of them held some sort of fruit, as did the bushes bursting with berries. As we continued to walk, grandpa reached up to one of the trees and handed me an orange after breaking it in half. I sunk my teeth into the sweet joy and smiled in the dark at the refreshing taste of the sweet juice that was now all over my hands and mouth. Not long after my grandpa stopped. Look chiquita. Even in the dark the beauty before me couldn't be hidden. A little waterfall cascaded over medium sized rocks a few feet in front of me. Here the trees had disappeared and the ground barren from their prescence was bright green in the moonlight. Bushes surrounded me but the sweet smell of the berries and flowers they held tempted me. We sat on the rocks, our hiking boots off, with our feet tired from the day and trip now dangling in the everclear water. A week later my grandpa put in a hammock there for me. My parents would told it was my escape, never to be mentioned to my sisters to inspire curiousity and never to be taken away from me as punishment. And it became mine. My place. My waterfall. My escape.