Two Cousins; Two Countries: Costa Rican Wonder

My father’s departure left me with just twenty-four hours of solitude before my cousin John was set to arrive in Golfito. I cooked up a hearty breakfast before firing up the engine and making the short hop across the Sweet Gulf to land-locked Golfito. Spits of rain greeted my arrival, and I anchored off Tim and Katy’s Land and Sea Services once more and passed the remainder of the day reading and relaxing on board.
On August 21 I passed the morning straightening up Aventura, filling her diesel and water tanks, and headed ashore. After a quick shower I caught a bus through town and got off at the airport. I sat beside the airstrip under the shade of a lone shack serving as the office and waited in the midday heat. Around noon the hum of a prop plane pierced the silence and I watched the small Sansa airplane circle around over Golfito and come in to land. Moments later the dozen passengers disembarked and I met my cousin on the airstrip. We greeted with a handshake and a hug, loaded his two bags into a taxi, and returned to Avventura. While John settled in I got to work replacing the boats charging system that he had brought down for me. With the battery monitor and regulator replaced, I fired up the engine and my heart sank. Not charging!
Frustrated, indeed downright pissed off, I headed in to the Banana Bay Marina and got on the internet. After failing to reach Xantrex by phone I delved deep into their website and at long last came across a troubleshooting guide. For my series of symptoms there were two possible causes: bad alternator (which I knew wasn’t the case), or a voltage drop in the positive cable leading to the regulator. Armed with this info, I returned to the boat and traced out this wire yet again. I replaced its fuse even though it hadn’t blown and fired up the engine. Still not charging. I jiggled the wire a bit and heard the alternator start to work for a second. Knowing I’d found the source of the problem, I sought out the more specific location and quickly isolated it as loose wiring in the fuse holder itself. Another trip ashore where I bought a new fuse holder for $1.50. Returning to the boat in a steady rainfall, I replaced the fuse holder as lightning began to strike about us, and lo-and-behold, all was well once more! After all my effort and worries and purchasing of new parts a simple fuse holder had held me hostage!
As if knowing I had prevailed over my electric problems the lightning storm passed on and the skis began to clear revealing an amazing sunset. I joined my cousin in the cockpit for a couple beers and we clinked beer cans in anticipation of the fun and adventures that lay ahead. The celebration continued with a bite to eat ashore at the Restaurante la Cubana, a beer and a guaro shot in a local bar, and the return to Avventura where we remembered the old days and recalled fun stories.

There were a few days between when my cousin John arrived and when my cousin Ryan was set to return to Golfito. This meant occupying ourselves and seeing out adventure in a town seemingly devoid of much to do. We took a trip down to Playa Zancudo and spent a day at the beach, surfing and throwing a football around, just generally enjoying the sunny day. And we spent one day hiking through the foothills of Golfito hunting for waterfalls and wildlife and found plenty of each. We swam in the small pools at the base of each falls, showered in them, and generally immersed ourselves in the aura of the jungle.
The day after Ryan’s return we set about preparing to flee Golfito one last time. After our water and fuel tanks were filled it came time to check out of the country. My three month visa was set to expire in a few days, and our plan was to visit a bit of remote southern Costa Rica before continuing on for Western Panama. Our first stop was at an internet café where I typed up and printed a couple crew lists. Next stop: migracion. When we arrived at the immigration office a sign on the door proclaimed it to be closed from noon till one o’clock. We had arrived at 12:10. Thus we turned our attention to provisioning, found a nearby supermarket, and bought what felt like half its contents. The Ticos were all quite impressed with our burgeoning cart, but I knew our stockpile likely wouldn’t even be enough to get us to Panama City.
Once our groceries were stowed aboard Avventura we returned to migracion where a middle-aged overweight Tico lady walked us through the paperwork and stamped our passports before directing us to customs—the next step. The customs office was at the Duty Free Zone, but when we arrived there the man I needed to see was out. While waiting for him I visited the bank inside the Zone and paid the $20 for our International Zarpe. By the time I returned to the Customs office the man we needed to see had arrived. He looked at a couple of my papers, filled out a new one, and sent us on our way to the Port Captain’s office. At the Port Captain’s office (located in a small shack at the base of the Commercial Pier) I shelled out another 2,000 colones for a few colorful stamps which were put on my Zarpe, shook hands with the Port Captain, and was told to have a nice sail. With the check-in process complete I looked at the clock on the wall: 4:00—too late to leave for Puerto Jiminez.
One final night in Golfito, some beers with fellow cruisers on the deck of Land and Sea Services, and a morning departure for Puerto Jiminez. A north wind had begun blowing through the anchorage in the night and I was optimistic of a nice sail to our next stop, but as soon as we reached the entrance to Golfito the wind disappeared, and we motored for the entire crossing. A day of enjoying Puerto Jiminez was enough for me, and after a second night of northerly winds turned the anchorage into a lee shore the time had come to flee the Sweet Gulf once more. My first idea was to stop at Pavones, but when we emerged into open waters I realized there was but little swell running. This coupled with the possibility of more dangerous north winds in the evening caused me to shift our destination to the earthly paradise of Drake’s Bay.
Our first day at Drake’s saw us return to the Rio Claro by land, boards in hand. John and I paddled out in the head high surf and had the break to ourselves while Ryan went off exploring the forest. Alternating waves and thrilling in the atmosphere of the place, all John could say was, “We’re surfing in Costa Rica.” Life was good. After a few hours a couple guys paddled out and John and I headed in. We found a trail leading south from the beach and followed it along the cliff catching glimpses here and there of the blue Pacific below. The trail seemed to lead on indefinitely, so after a while we returned to the beach, retrieved lour boards, and followed the wildlife-riddled path back to Drake’s. Back at the boat in time for a spectacular sunset, a great day of cruising wound to a close.
With one last day at my favorite Costa Rican anchorage, the weather turned sour. Cloudy skies greeted the dawn, but after a morning of reading the skies began to clear and my cousins and I loaded in the dinghy and zipped over to the east end of the bay. Landing the dinghy, we bodysurfed some fun waves offshore, walked along the beautiful beach, and gathered a couple coconuts before returning to the dinghy and zipping straight across the bay to the Rio Agujas. After diving off the drawbridge a couple times, we each cracked open a coconut and savored its contents. John and I then hiked into the forest till we spotted on last troop of white-faced monkeys, said good-bye to the splendid fellows, and, after a brief stop in town, returned to the boat for the evening.
As our final day in the earthly paradise crept to an end the sun dipped in the west, painting puffs of cumulus and strips of cirrus clouds a bright orange. As the sun set beside Isla del Cano the clouds passed through the color spectrum from orange to fiery red to pink to a dull purple before night closed in. It was as though Mother Nature were bidding me one final farewell, ensuring Drake’s Bay was a place that not only myself, but my cousins as well, would never forget.

Another day at sea, anchoring in the late afternoon off Pavones. As a light rain began to fall we paddled out for a sunset surf session. The waves were small, but the crowd was light and I picked off a few fun waves. Beautiful vistas surrounded me, and I thrilled at the feel of the warm water on my legs, the cool rain on my shoulders, and the light breeze caressing my face. Only darkness could chase me back to the boat.
After a night of light sleep it seemed as though nature were telling us the time had come to flee Costa Rica. The surf dropped overnight, and dawn revealed tiny waves and a small crowd in the lineup. I consulted with my cousins, and in the end we decided it’d be a good day to make our way towards Panamanian waters. A quick check of the chart revealed Punta Burica was twenty-five miles away, and we could be at anchor once more by nightfall. The decision made, we spent the gorgeous, sunny day motoring along the last stretch of Costa Rican coastline—mile after mile of deserted white sand beaches lined by dense rainforest. In California, I thought, this would be priceless prime real estate; but here in Costa Rica it went for miles without a single sign of human life.
In the early afternoon I cautiously crept in towards Punta Burica and anchored about a half mile offshore in thirteen feet of water over a poor-holding rocky bottom. I left ample scope for the bad anchorage, but once I was sure we were secure John and I grabbed our boards and jumped in the water. Ryan elected to stay behind. To each his own, I thought, paddling for the shore. Punta Burica is actually a series of small points, all of which appear to be home to its own wave. A series of lefthand point breaks dot the scene, though at the time of our visit the surf was too small to see them in action. The coastline was gorgeous, and the rocky reef reminded me of my home in Southern California. After making our way past two points and glimpsing a third identical one in the distance we turned about as the rim of the sun touched the blue horizon. We reached Avventura with the last minutes of daylight, satisfied after another nice day of cruising.
The anchorage off Punta Burica was exposed to the southwest wind and swells; but as long as the wind blew it held Avventura’s bow into the swells and kept things comfortable. I went to bed at nine o’clock comfortable that we were safe at anchor, but by eleven the wind died, Avventura turned broadside to the swells, and we began rocking wildly. Sleep was impossible. After an hour and a half of trying in vain to shut my eyes again, and while my cousins remained oblivious to the motion and slept soundly, decided we might as well be at sea if I were going to be awake. At forty-five minutes after twelve I fired up the engine, jolting my cousins awake. I told them my plan, and said they should go back to sleep. They each laid back down as I picked up the anchor and inched my way offshore with the aid of the depthsounder, and with the radar scanning the black void. After a little more than three months in Costa Rica the time had come to flee her majestic coastline for the unknown splendors of Panama’s western isles.


Western Panama—Fun and Foul-Ups
There are two ways to cruise Panama’s western isles: the legal way and the not so legal way. As the legal way entails a long detour around Punta Burica to Puerto Armuelles (where rumors were circulating of check-in fees ranging into the hundreds of dollars), I decided to forego legality for the practicality of a direct sail to my first desired stop—Isla Parida. Some forty miles northeast of Punta Burica, Isla Parida is a miniature cruisers paradise. More than a handful of anchorages encircle the island, all with a very secluded feel and all with spectacular scenery. Our destination was the little bay of Ensenada Santa Cruz on the west end of the island.
The new day blossomed beautifully as the first rays of the sun slowly ignited a swath of clouds overhead. A menacing squall lingered off to starboard, blackening the horizon and reminding me the rainy season was in full swing. No wind, and but little swell as Avventura glided along gently piercing the glassy Panamanian waters. My cousins slept below, and I thrilled in the solitude. Leaving the cockpit, a pod of dolphins greeted me at the bow, dancing and playing beneath my feet. As the sun leapt into the sky the dolphins disappeared, and all was solitude once more.
By seven o’clock the island came into view, and the remainder of the morning passed with it growing ever-so-slowly on the horizon. Shortly after eleven o’clock I guided Avventura through the opening to the cove, leaving an islet to starboard and a cluster of small rocks to port. As we dropped anchor in seventeen feet of water our friends, Cameron and Jenny off Velella, paddled over in their kayaks to greet us. With no other boats in sight, I asked what they were doing. “Just checking out the island a bit. We’re anchored up north in Ensenada los Negroes.” After a brief chat they continued on their way and I set about the task of shutting down the watermaker.
By the time my chores aboard were complete sweat was dripping from my brow. Without a word I walked past my cousins in the cockpit and leapt into the refreshing water of the cove. I swam in the direction of the beach to the east where Cameron and Jenny were exploring, and my cousins soon followed. Ashore a narrow concrete road led inland and we all followed it through the trees where it emerged onto the beautiful stretch of sand at Playa Grande. I was again quick to jump in the water and bodysurfed the fun little waves rolling ashore. From the water the beach looked spectacular. The long white sand beach was devoid of people and a row of coco palms guarded the sane from the onslaught of the rainforest. The beach ran a few hundred yards, guarded on its east end by a tall rocky point. Emerging from the water, I returned to Avventura, unwilling to leave her unlocked and unattended for too long.
We passed the rest of the day swimming around in the cove and exploring her small beaches. The beach on the cove’s south side was guarded by steep hillsides covered in tropical growth, and felt like something right out of the movies. Aside from the tracks of a couple birds it looked as though we were the first life form to pay a visit to the hard-packed sands. Here John and I laid in the cool sand, relaxing in the shade of a tree, thrilling in the silence of the scene. We returned to the boat as a squall descended upon the island, and emerging from the cove just as the rain began to fall, I retrieved some soap and shampoo and showered in the steady downpour. The squall lasted just long enough to rinse me clean, and nightfall followed quick on her heels. My first day in Panama drew to a close, leaving me optimistic about what lay ahead in the country.
A night of rest was followed by another morning of exploration. A panga had arrived early in the morning, unloaded a few things on the beach, and anchored just offshore. Once all was clear again John and I swam ashore and returned to Playa Grande. The surf had picked up and we had a blast catching the short rides, hooting and hollering as if the short closeouts were the best waves ever ridden.
Once we’d had our fill of surf we struck off down the beach to see what we could see. At the east end of the beach a second paved path led up into the trees once again, and as we climbed the steep road and approached the top of the point we saw three Panamanians planting grass on a barren hillside beneath a little house where the sounds of construction were ringing out. After exchanging greetings with the locals I asked if what I saw above was a private residence. When they replied in the affirmative I turned to leave, but was assured we could go up without any trouble. The owner was home, they said, and he was also a foreigner.
Our curiosity piqued, we continued up to the newly-built structure and saw the construction continuing on the larger concrete frame of a house beyond. From atop the point beside the house you had an unobstructed view down to Isla Paridita and the blue of the Pacific beyond. Around to the side the rolling hillsides swept inland and one part was covered in tall, wild grass. While admiring the view a gringo walked up and said, “Welcome to the yacht club,” a big grin forming on his face. He said he assumed we were off the yacht anchored beside his panga, and then offered to show us around. Introducing himself as Nico, the tall white-haired gentleman reminded me of an aged sea captain as he swept his hands out across the cleared hillsides and explained that he owned 300 acres of the island including most of what we could see and indeed had seen since arriving in Ensenada Santa Cruz. He was an eccentric Hare Krishna originally from Canada who had most recently lived in the hillsides of Hawaii’s Big Island. A couple years earlier he had begun the search for a remote island on which to raise his three children (1, 3, and 5 years old) with his wife. Hearing this I couldn’t help but utter, “what a bitchin place to grow up.”
Nico explained that the finished structure would serve as a sort-of garage and also the nerve center of their abode. He showed us the bank of batteries and the large inverters which would be powered by the solar panels already gracing the roof, and those which were still to come atop the house itself. He explained about three pumps he had down in wells in a valley beside the home which would provide their water, and stated that his goal was to become completely self-sufficient. This would be the fifth solar-powered home he’d lived in, and Isla Parida was his third choice of where to live. He owned an island in the Phillipines, he explained, but for various reasons found living their impractical. Next he attempted to buy some land in Fiji, but his bid was blocked by the Fijian government. He had found this chunk of land on the internet and was able to talk its old Panamanian owner into selling it. The house was now three months from completion, and he was clearly looking forward to moving in permanently.
After an hour talking with the man John and I took our leave and returned along the path Nico had built to the boat. After a late breakfast we picked up anchor and sought a new bay to call home for the night. Motoring north out of the cove, we passed the resort and mooring buoys in the wide bay of Ensenada los Negroes, rounded Punta Caña Brava, and glided past the pristine uninhabited north coast. Rock outcroppings separated stretches of white sand beach and the rainforest lurked omnipresent in the background. A pod of dolphins paid us a visit as we made the turn around Punta Jurel and a couple minutes later I guided Avventura into the cove off Playa del Socorro and anchored beside Velella. The familiar green hull of Celtic Dancer and sleek lines of Thulani sat anchored off the nearby chunk of rock termed Isla Gamez.
Our new surroundings was a veritable cruisers paradise. No houses or people to be seen, numerous secluded beaches in sight, ample coco palms bearing fruit, and clear blue waters all about. Unable to contain myself, I leapt in the water for a swim even as Derek and Zaraida from Celtic Dancer pulled alongside to chat. Derek is a classic cruising character. As I continued cruising the stories he told and stories others told of him grew more and more wild. Before reaching Panama City he had been dubbed the Godfather of Cruising thanks to his genial attitude and willingness, bordering on insistence, to lend a hand whenever possible. He knew everything, it seemed, about sailboats and cruising, and his Irish wit and heavy accent lightened every situation. Derek had met his girlfriend Zaraida in her native Mexico where he was working, and though by all outward appearances they were the epitome of the odd couple, their personalities meshed and they had more fun than almost anyone I’ve ever met.
After chatting for a bit the Celtic crew continued on to Playa del Socorro, and my cousins and I gave chase, swimming in. We were soon joined on the beach by Cameron and Jenny (Velella) and the cruising couple off Thulani, Jeremy and Danni (I had first met this couple in Manzanillo, Mexico whilst having problems with my fuel pump. Their problems were far more depressing than my own as they had been forced to turn around some six hundred miles into their passage to the Marquesas due to a cracked chainplate. By the time they reached Manzanillo and replaced all their chainplates it was too late in the season for them to head for the South Seas again, so the opted to put off the trip and cruise Central America and Ecuador first.) On the beach we talked story and enjoyed the beautiful surroundings while trying desperately to get some coconuts down from a tree without climbing it. We tried just about everything imaginable to get the nuts down, from chucking rocks at them to tossing an anchor and rode up, and in the end succeeded in retrieving but a handful. These were divided amongst ourselves, and once the spoils had been reaped the gathering of cruisers dispersed to their various boats while the crew of Avventura remained, lying in the warm sand and silently absorbing the beauty of the day.
Aside from its beautiful beaches and quiet isolation, the anchorages around Playa del Socorro and Isla Gamez were a veritable underwater wonderland. Sea turtles swam and floated past throughout the day, and below a mix of tropical fish bolted from rock to rock. Big starfish sprawled across the seafloor and oysters could be seen here and there clinging to the seafloor. A day of snorkeling and spearfishing ensued, at the end of which Derek had speared half a dozen edible fish while Cameron had collected a handful of oysters. A bonfire was in order.
The bonfire is the classic cruisers get-together. Find a secluded beach on a remote island, gather some driftwood, catch whatever seafood you can manage, corral some booze from your private stash, and the good times flow as fast as the stories that are told. The beautiful little beach on the north side of Isla Gamez was the perfect spot for a bonfire, and with four boats in the anchorage the gathering was bound to be a lively affair. We met on the island in the late afternoon where Derek took charge of the fire, and before sunset the flames were burning high and hot. A gentle breeze rustled the palm fronds overhead and the buzz of insects grew as the light of day dwindled. The fish were gutted and cooked whole, and Cameron and Jenny shared some homemade bread. The booze flowed and the stories followed suit. Laughter and merriment abounded and for a time the nagging bites of the “noseeums” went unnoticed.
Then the rains came. This was, after all, the rainy season, and we cruisers knew it all-too-well. Should we call it a night and end the bonfire prematurely? Not a chance. Danni off Thulani whipped out an umbrella, and we took turns keeping the rain off the fire, huddled close around the fire and beneath the overhanging coco palms. A few lightning bolts brought shrieks from the girls and a few chuckles of defiance from the guys, and fifteen minutes later the squall had passed and stars began to fill the sky. I passed around a bottle of rum and the merriment continued. But with the damp ground came the noseeums with renewed vigor. Before long everybody was slapping their legs and waving a hand before their faces. While I remained unfazed due to a thick protective layer of hair, a damper had been put on the night, and by ten o’clock scoops of sand were dumped on the fire, our trash was gathered up, and we returned to our respective boats.

The return of daylight saw the departure of the cruising fleet from Isla Parida. Velella led the way, picking up anchor and sailing out of the cove without ever starting their engine. Celtic Dancer fell in behind them and Thulani joined the race. A half hour later it came time for our departure, and after a couple nights among a cruising flotilla we were all bound for different anchorages. Before an hour had passed Celtic Dancer had taken the lead, and radio silence was broken by the Irish call of “Dar she blows! Whales off to starboard.”
A quick scan of the horizon and the unmistakable spouts of a pair of whales. We glided on under sail alone, the sea a sheet of glass and the wind a faint whisper. The whales passed a football field to starboard as Isla Bolanos drifted past. As Avventura neared the Islas Secas a squall approached from off the land and the winds became fickle. As we approached Isla Cavada the rain began to fall and the wind picked up to fifteen knots. With the sails down I inched towards the anchorage on the north shore of the island. The cruising guide I was using proclaimed the best anchorage to be, “west of a point and the islets in the middle of the northeast shore. A narrow vee of deeper water penetrates somewhat into the bay, but the shores and the bay proper are very shallow.” Taking this advice I positioned Avventura midway between the islets and the point and slowly crept in, seeking to anchor in a direct line between the outermost islet and the point itself. Before I ever got there my depthsounder leapt up to fifteen feet, and I yelled at Ryan on the foredeck, asking if he saw the ground yet. “No, it still looks deep.” A pregnant pause. Avventura was barely moving now, engine in neutral, captain on high alert. Then, “It looks kind of shallow straight ahead. The depth sounder read ten and I slammed the engine into reverse. Eight feet deep. Six. “Stop! There’s sand right below us!” Four… three… two! A slight bump, but the engine was in hard reverse now and Avventura glided backwards. I wrestled with helm and pointed her bow towards open water once more.
I’m still not sure if we touched the sand off Isla Cavada or not, but the close call scared me away from the island. Under the thick gray skies and light drizzle we rounded the east point of the island, circled around to the southwest, and slowly entered an anchorage between two islets off the unnamed island to the southwest. When the depthsounder read twenty-five I yelled for Ryan to drop the anchor. By the time the hook was set I shut down the engine, took a deep breath, and leapt into the ocean to wash away the stress of a near grounding. The Islas Secas had quickly lost their luster in my eyes.
A quick swim ashore and nature had soothed my soul. The white sand of the beach was soft underfoot, and I retrieved a coconut from a low tree, opened it, and drank its sweet nectar. My heart ceased pounding in my chest and I laid on my back in the sand, watching the puffs of wind rustle the palm fronds overhead. Darkness was fast approaching, so despite spotting the beginning of an inland trail I returned to the boat for the night, leaving all exploration for a new day.
Sunny skies graced the Islas Secas the following day, and after passing the morning reading in the cockpit the time had come to explore the island. My cousins and I donned our masks and snorkels and jumped in the water, snorkeling our way over to the big islet guarding the north side of the anchorage. The water was as clear as I’d seen it since Mexico and beautiful coral formations fringed the tall islet. A wide variety of colorful fish darted about amongst the coral polyps and a lone sea turtle shot past, descending into the depths offshore.
After making a quick circle of the islet, we followed the reef ashore and landed on the beach. Leaving our snorkel gear on the sand, we struck off along the trail leading inland from the south part of the beach. A wooden sign proclaimed the trail to lead for Playa Blanca, but we must have missed a turn somewhere because, after winding through the thick inland forests and wiping tens of spider webs from my face, we emerged onto the rocky beach of Bahia Nespero on the east end of the island. Here the rocks were piled with trash that had washed ashore. Plastic bags and soda bottles, beer cans and food wrappers; the heap of debris wrecked the pristine natural scene and I cursed my fellow man for his insensitivity to the beauty of nature and the effect his littering had on nature’s canvas.
Leaving Bahia Nespero, we followed the slow trickle of a stream inland for a time before the forest closed in around us and forced us back to the main trail. I took the lead once more, again fending off spider webs which bisected the dirt path at random intervals. There wasn’t much wildlife to be seen, and I was constantly wiping the sweat from my brow as the intense midday sun beat down through the forest canopy. As soon as we returned to the anchorage I dashed for the water and leapt in, wiping the remnant spider webs from my body and relishing in the cool feel of the Pacific waters.
The devouring of a couple coconuts was the last thing accomplished ashore at the Islas Secas, after which we swam back to Avventura. Seeing the accumulation of life on her hull, I devoted the afternoon to scraping it clean. Meanwhile my cousins sat inside, and before I knew it music was blaring. Underwater, through the thick fiberglass of the hull I could hear the annoying pulse and persistent thumping of rap music. There’s no more unpleasant noise to me than this modern auditory pollution. I spent a hour cleaning the starboard side and emerged from the water fuming. The work alone was bad enough. My knuckles were scraped and bleeding, my allergies flared up from somehow ingesting the paint dust scraped off, and I was beginning to shiver from being underwater so often. Emerging on deck I exploded at my cousins, yelling for them to “Turn that shit off!” To my great relief they quickly obliged and silence fell over the anchorage.
Moments later, sitting in the cockpit beside my cousins, I apologized for blowing up, explained my frustration, and reiterated one of my very few rules aboard Avventura—don’t pollute the air with rap music. It’s enough to ruin most any tropical paradise.
The sun made her descent towards the horizon and I cracked open a chilled beer. One long draught and the cool liquid calmed me to the core. I scanned the horizon and stopped at the spout of a whale passing between the islands. Pointing it out to my cousins, we watched from the comfort of the anchorage as the whale made its way between the Islas Secas and continued on its way out of sight. A flock of birds circled around the islet to the north, diving for bait fish and squawking with glee. The hum of insects swept out from the forest, mingling with the scents of land. The sun set over the west end of the island and put me to work preparing dinner. Another good day of cruising was winding down, and come morning we’d be on our way to another remote anchorage.

Four hours of motoring was all it took to cross the gap between the Islas Secas and the small chunk of land known as Isla Silva de Afuera. This small island was the first place crazy Ray had shown me in Costa Rica where we could find surf, and I was determined to investigate his claims. We dropped anchor in thirty feet of water off the island’s west shore, leaving ample scope in the unprotected waters, and launched the dinghy to hunt for waves. Whitewater formed off the south end of the island, and I quickly zipped over to see if it appeared surfable. A left pointbreak formed off a pile of rocks and zipped across a very shallow reef, looking marginally rideable at best; but, around the outcropping of rocks there stood a short, heavy slab of a righthander with no danger from rocks to be found. I watched a couple waves fold over the shallow slab of reef in thick, heavy tubes, and knew I had to tempt the beast. Returning to Avventura for my board and my cousins, we were soon paddling out to tame the beast.
As it turns out, taming the beast was not in the cards for me. Though the waves were just six feet on the face, the amount of water being forced against the shallow reef created a force comparable to that of surf twice as big. What’s more, the drops were beyond vertical. On the first three waves I paddled for I got to my feet only to air-drop down the face, lose control when I hit the water once more, and get swept over the falls by the monster. By splaying my body out like a starfish I kept from hitting the reef too hard, but I couldn’t find a way to make the waves. For my fourth attempt I tried taking off from behind the peak and zipping across its face that way. The only change in the result was that I airdropped sideways and was swept over the falls alongside my board. It didn’t take long for me to realize I couldn’t handle the wave at its peak, so I spent a couple hours shoulder-hopping with my cousins where the drops were far more manageable, but the waves were short. We traded off waves and enjoyed the wild wave breaking off the beautiful rocky hulk of the uninhabited island. The sun was scorching and the water felt perfect. After a couple hours we returned to Avventura in search of an anchorage for the night.
A light seabreeze blew out of the southwest and I decided it was enough for us to sail by. Thus I never started the engine. With seventy-five feet of chain still in the water I set the mainsail, and once the anchor was up all the way I pulled out the jib, and we fell off the wind. A school of bonita broke the surface all about us, but none seemed interested in our fishing lines. Puffs of cumulus clouds floated past overhead against the sky blue backdrop of the heavens. We skirted past the south end of Isla Siva de Tierras searching for surf. A right pointbreak was trying to form along its east coast, but there wasn’t enough swell to make it rideable. Thus we carried on under sail till Punta Entrada passed abeam and we entered the Rio Santa Lucia. All hints of swells disappeared as we passed close by the sandy point and began motoring upstream. The shoreline fell away in a shallow cove bordered by a long beach giving way to dense forest. We followed the deepwater channel cut parallel to Morro Naranjo, and when the land fell away into a second cove I nosed Avventura out of the channel and we dropped the hook in 25 feet of water over a muddy river floor.
The engine ceased her drone and silence reigned supreme. All about us was dense, dark rainforest beyond the row of sand lining the river. A few palapa hut lined the Morro Naranjo shoreline, and a couple native children could be seen fishing with hand lines from the shore, waving our way. I waved back and could hear their giggling drifting across the calm river. A troop of howler monkeys somewhere in the forest depths drowned out the children’s laughter. Nature reigned supreme. As the sun sank behind the small hill of Morro Naranjo the howlers quit their commotion and the hum of insects rose from the jungle. Darkness set in and the black canvas of the night sky was filled with stars. A more peaceful, calm and quiet setting I know not of, and I was thrilled with my first true river anchorage.
Awake with the dawn of a new day, we quickly weighed anchor and rushed out the Rio Santa Lucia before a two-knot current. The current formed a near standing wave close to Punta Entrada, but once past the spit of sand all was calm and quiet in the ocean once more. We zipped past Isla Silva de Tierras first, but when the waves looked too small for the right once more I turned to port and headed for Morro Negrito, home to a secluded resort catering to surfers. Dolphins followed us across the bay where we anchored briefly off the big hulk of Morro Negrito. A left pointbreak there looked promising, but upon further review from the dinghy we decided it was breaking dangerously close to the rocky shore. Disappointed, but still with high hopes of finding a rideable wave, we picked up anchor and motored around Morro Negrito where a rivermouth helped form a nice beachbreak. After watching a couple sets pass through I anchored Avventura in twenty feet of water, grabbed my board, and was quickly paddling in, my cousins at my heels.
There wasn’t another soul in sight. In fact there wasn’t even a trace of life anywhere to be seen. Ashore a long brown-sand beach ran from Morro Negrito for what looked like miles. Inland lay the omnipresent rainforest, dark green and uninviting as ever. Meanwhile the waves rolled through in an endless succession, and thanks to the flow of sand out of the river they had nice form and stretched out in a series of long rights. It was one of the longest, best-shaped beachbreaks I’d ever seen, let-alone surfed, and for two hours we traded off waves amongst ourselves, hooting and hollering like mad and having a great time. Then, seemingly out-of-nowhere, a panga zipped around Morro Negrito and a handful of guys paddled out. Our solitude was shattered and the patrons of the surf resort were reaping the benefits of the waves they had paid so dearly for. One of the guys had been working at the resort all summer and he told me that today was the best the surf had been in weeks, and that overall it had been a terrible summer. I couldn’t help but laugh at our good fortune, and after three hours in the water my cousins and I returned to the boat, turning the waves over to the paying patrons to enjoy.
Having found the fun surf we were in search of, the decision was made to forego our move to a new anchorage, and Avventura again made her way by sail and slipped back behind the menacing figure of Morro Naranjo to pass another night in her freshwater abode. After a gorgeous sunny day, and as if to remind us not to let our guard down, the rainy season struck with a fury. The storm descended from the rolling hills inland and within minutes had us surrounded. Lightning approached rapidly to within four miles where it lingered for the better part of an hour striking the hillsides in fabulous blazes of fury. I looked around at the lack of boats, buildings, or towers near us and my fear grew. How could we not get hit? But as with all other storms this one couldn’t seem to spot Avventura (a fact I liked to attribute to the “static-dissipater” attached to her masthead—though I’ve heard stories of boats with these same devices being struck) and after two harrowing hours the bolts of lightning disappeared leaving a steady rain in their place. By the time I crawled into bed the rain had let up and by dawn there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Such was my experience with Panama’s rainy season.
Sunny skies chased us down the Rio Santa Lucia one last time, and after again finding no surf off Isla Sivla de Tierras or Morro Negrito, we returned to the rivermouth beachbreak, anchored offshore, and quickly paddled in. The quickly falling tide and river outflow created a fast moving current that made staying at the peak difficult and kept us paddling at all times. I was able to fight through it and catch a couple waves, but my cousins were hardly able to even reach the lineup. After less than an hour of fighting Mother Nature I gave up and Avventura moved onwards.
The motor south was calm and uneventful. We hovered close to the shore, inspecting every stretch of beach and every point for the possibility of surf, but in the end found none worth stopping for. In the early afternoon we passed through the narrow channel between Isla Medidor and the mainland. The island had a couple beautiful beaches and was filled with thick forest, much as the mainland was. The waters offshore were deep and of a dark blue, inviting color, and, as we later learned from the locals, full of game fish—especially wahoo. Bahia Honda’s inhabitants usually catch small bait fish inside the bay before either paddling their dugout canoes or motoring their small skiffs out to the island in search of the big stuff.
Around Punta de Miel the expanse of Bahia Honda opened before us. Green hillsides encroached on all sides uninterrupted. Despite being on the mainland the bay was completely isolated due to the lack of any roads in, and the only thing connecting the bay by land with the rest of Panama was that of an old mule trail which led for miles to the nearest road. The lack of a road in has kept the bay pristine and lightly inhabited. A small hotel sits off in the northwest corner of the bay, a couple homes are scattered about the edges, and the small island in the bay itself boasts a tiny town of 300 people or so. Avventura glided over the glassy murky surface of the bay, and I brought her to rest in thirty-four feet of water off the northwest coast of Isla Bahia Honda, in sight of the island’s cluster of ramshackle houses. The inhabitants of the island lived a simple life of subsistence, fishing and farming most of their food, and wanting little in the form of the “modern” conveniences of life.
Once anchored the locals slowly came our way. Leading the procession was an old man, paddling across the bay from the mainland somewhere near the hotel. His name was Domingo. His canoe was a rugged dugout and appeared handmade. Attached to the stern was a small, new outboard. His wrinkled black skin and old bones hid a once formidable build. A big smile stretched across his face revealing a mouth missing more teeth than it had. He held onto the side of Avventura and struck up a conversation. Before long I had invited him aboard and we sat in the cockpit.
Domingo, it turns out, sells (or rather barters) fruit and vegetables with the many cruisers that pass by. In the dry season this can be a lucrative practice, but in the rainy season he can goes weeks without seeing anybody, and after passing through just such a stretch he was out of gasoline for his motor. He explained that if we desired fruit and vegetables all he wished for was some gasoline. Now unfortunately Panamas western isles aren’t burgeoning with gas stations and my reserves were down to two gallons; but we were already out of fresh produce, and the trade was well worth it. I filled Domingo’s bone-dry tank a little bit and he took his leave, promising to return shortly with our produce.
With Domingo’s departure came the arrival of inhabitants of the island. First came a middle-aged man in a small dugout canoe. He pulled alongside and spoke in broken English, explaining that he was a schoolteacher on the island, and asking if we had any books or magazines to spare. When I produced a small paperback he was ecstatic, but lingered as a canoe of three young kids, two boys and a cute little girl approached. The kids looked shy, nervous, and perhaps even a bit frightened. I got the feeling they didn’t see white people very often, and treated us with apprehension. As they lingered ten feet from the side of the boat I waved at them and called them over. It turns out their parents had sent them out to try and sell some beautiful wood carvings. Though they were quite beautiful carvings, I declined them, but didn’t let the kids leave before giving them a piece of candy for their troubles. As they paddled away the school teacher had a big smile on his face, and proclaimed those to be a few of his students. He then explained how the lure he used to troll for wahoo was missing a hook, and I realized he would probably try and get all he could from us, so I produced a hook from my meager supply and told him it was the only one I could spare.
When the locals finally had all departed I zipped ashore in the dinghy, left it tied to a concrete piling at the north tip of the island, and headed ashore. The rocky streets were narrow and the concrete home falling apart. It was a rough existence here, but I admired the seclusion and steadfastness of the islanders. Beside a big covered patio overlooking the bay a building was painted with a beer sign. A cute little black-haired girl was dancing on the patio. I approached her, and she stopped dancing and shyly backed away. A man appeared from the beer building and asked if he could help us. I told him we were looking to buy some beers and sodas (our stash having been drained already), and he disappeared into the building once more. While he was gone I tried talking with the girl. She was extremely shy. At one point I crossed my arms across my chest and her face was writ with fear. She pointed at my arms and said, “No!” It took me a minute to decipher her meaning, but once I brought my arms down to my side she relaxed again. Just then the man returned, producing three crates—two of Cerveza Balboa and one of Pepsi. I handed over some money and left, unsure what to make of the girl—surprised by her sensitivity and recognizing her pure, sweet heart, but sad at the thought of why older men posed such a menacing figure to her. Perhaps it was simply the rarity of seeing a white foreigner on her island; but I clearly scared her by my mere presence.
I returned to the boat just as Domingo arrived with two bunches of bananas, two pineapples, and a small bucket of sweet chili peppers. I thanked him for his kindness, and he promised to return in the morning with papayas and hot peppers. As he left the sun slipped away and darkness quickly descended on the bay. But few lights flickered ashore and all was silent in the bay. Stars spread out across the heavens and the air grew still. All was peace and serenity. Another splendid day of cruising had drawn to a close.

Dawn. A light gray overcast engulfing the bay and dulling the greens of the land. The town beginning to stir, children beginning to play, fishermen heading for open waters reminiscent of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. And, a little after seven o’clock, the old man humming across the bay from the mainland in his rickety boat, permanent smile stretched from ear to ear, sun-beaten skin hanging loosely from his body. Domingo pulled alongside Avventura and passed off a few papayas and a handful of hot chili peppers in return for which I gave him some size D and AA batteries per his request.
With our business completed, Domingo turned about and headed for the mainland once more and I fired up the engine and cautiously crept towards open waters once more. Two hours of motoring was all it took to pass east of Isla Afuerita and drop anchor off the north shore of Isla de Canal de Afuera. On approach I could see the bottom when the depth-sounder still registered a hundred feet, and by the time it popped up to forty feet we dropped anchor, and I backed down in the direction of the island. The chain stretched out, and thankfully the anchor caught on the first try because our stern swung frightfully close to the shallows of the island’s vibrant coral reef.
The drone of the engine ceased, my cousins and I retrieved our snorkel gear, and we were over the side in mere seconds. The snorkeling was the best I’d seen all trip. The waters were as clear as any I’d ever seen in the Pacific Ocean, the rainbow reef sparkled in the morning light, and a variety of fish darted about the scene. We snorkeled our way around a rocky point of the island and landed on a beach covered in shells. The small island was filled with a dense covering of forest overhanging and shading the beach, and we walked in the shadows the length of the beach, re-entering the water and snorkeling back to Avventura as a gray powerboat approached the anchorage.
Emerging from the crystal waters, I was still dripping wet when the gray boat pulled up close to us. The words Mar Viva were painted on its side and a man asked us where our permit was to be in the park. Playing dumb, I asked what park he was referring to.
“This island is part of the Isla Coiba National Park, and you need a permit to be here.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea. We are heading for Isla Coiba very soon.”
“No. You must go there right now. Go directly to the Ranger Station and check in. We’ll be watching you.”
The ominous warning hung heavy in the air. Sure enough the gray boat hovered around us while we weighed anchor, and followed us out the narrow passage between the pair of islands. Once in open waters again I descended into Avventura’s cabin to look at a chart. I had planned to circle south of Isla Rancheria and anchor there for the night, but after being told to proceed to the Ranger Station at Punta Machete directly I changed our course to pass north of Isla Rancheria, the more direct route. This, as it turns out, was a fateful decision and should serve as a warning to all to never second guess yourself. I watched as the gray Mar Viva boat passed north of Rancheria and followed suit.
Around the north side of Isla Rancheria, a cluster of islands were scattered amidst the channel before Isla Coiba. The chart in the cruising guide I was using showed a patch of reef attached to the west side of Isla Coibita with clear, deepwater south and west of that. Thus we’d circle Isla Coibita, giving her a fairly wide berth, but favoring the small island to avoid a second patch of reef shown to be a short ways offshore of Isla Coiba. The chart showed nothing under seventy feet deep, and I figured the passage would be smooth, straightforward, and easy.
Powering at our cruising speed, I began turning us around Isla Coibita using the autopilot and changing course a few degrees at a time. Music was playing softly in the cockpit speakers and now and again I was flipping through a surfing magazine admiring the pictures of wave I’d never surf. Glancing up from the magazine, I saw the depth-sounder jump up from not being able to read to registering 100 feet. My eyes remained glued to the gauge as it jumped up to 80, 60, 40! Trouble was dead ahead. I leapt to my feet, ripped the autopilot belt off the wheel, and shoved the engine into neutral. An ominous brown patch of reef could now be seen lurking beneath the surface ahead. I cranked the wheel to starboard towards open waters and revved the engine in reverse to halt our momentum. Despite my efforts it happened. A pregnant pause, then the hard grinding sound a sailor hates more than any other, a sudden jolt backwards, and panic swept over me. We’d hit the reef!

Sorry About the Delay

Sorry about not posting in so long. Life got in the way. Spent a week fighting various illnesses/ailments, then things seemed to keep piling up; but below the chapters continue and I'll try to get back on track. I have not stopped writing, however, in this absence of "blogs," and the book continues to flow with me now writing about Tahiti. It's hard to believe that it has almost been a full year since I returned to San Diego (which, if anyone is counting, marks this as the longest time I've spent in one place since I was seventeen--not that I'm counting, or complaining). I hope somebody enjoys this first draft, and remember that it's just that. I haven't so much as read what I've written yet. This is just what was written in the heat of the moment, transferred by copying and pasting.

Pura Vida!

South through Paradise

Quepos. Manuel Antonio. Drake’s Bay. Puerto Jiminez. Golfito. The names rolled off my tongue as I contemplated our next stops. Only Puerto Jiminez would be new to me, yet I looked forward to every one in its own way. But, lurking above the rest, was the paradise of Drake’s Bay. Though I had only visited it for a short time previous I looked upon it as my favorite place in Costa Rica, if not the world. Before arriving there we had a couple stops to make—warm-ups to the beauty we would surely experience once more.
Quepos is a dirty little town that seems to be stuck in a transitional phase. The once bustling banana export port has yet to turn herself into a tourist Mecca, so for the moment poverty reigns and all appears decrepit and worn out. On my previous visit here the first person I’d met ashore was the local gun-toting drug dealer, and while watching a splendid sunset he’d told me all about the ins and outs of the local drug trade, and how abundant drug use was in the town. It wasn’t the greatest introduction to a new port, and I kept this in mind as Avventura came to anchor in the rolly roadstead north of the old wharf.
My previous experiences in Quepos kept me aboard Avventura through the first night and into the next morning. With the arrival of daylight I was up and loaded into the dinghy to explore the vast expanse of beaching leading northwest from town in search of surf. When I realized there were nothing but beachbreak peaks spread along the shore I returned to the boat, grabbed my board, and paddled in to the tiny waves forming off the rivermouth fronting Quepos. Here, with the patch of anchored boats just offshore, a little left reeled through with as perfect form as a wave can get. It was a longboarders heaven, and I spent a few hours surfing the miniature version of perfection with nobody else out.
Aside from this fun little wave there is little of attraction in Quepos for the cruiser. The anchorage is wide open to the elements and rolly in the best of conditions, and the main use of the town these days is as a jumping-off point to the Manuel Antonio National Park, but for the cruiser there is a vastly superior anchorage in Manuel Antonio itself. Quepos does have its share of modern conveniences such as grocery stores to provision, internet cafes, and ample restaurants and souvenir stands; but during my visit I spent but a couple hours ashore and that was more than enough to chase me on to Manuel Antonio.
On approach to Manuel Antonio I couldn’t help but think of the mythical Garden of Eden. The hillsides surrounding the bay are covered in dense green vegetation and a long swath of sand separates the deep green from the sapphire sea. Offshore a few islets dot the scene ranging from guano-covered rocks to miniature forested paradises. The islets force one to be cautious on approach, but once you have tucked in behind the southeast point of the bay you feel like you’re on another planet compared to Quepos. All is quiet but for the sounds of nature. Bird calls mingle together with the cries of monkeys and the rumble of surf ashore. The cacophony of sounds blends with the sweet perfume of the forest and sweeps you off into another world.
Manuel Antonio if one of the more popular of Costa Rica’s many national parks. Numerous trails wind through the dense forest of the area and wildlife is abundant. Just a couple hours ashore brings you face to face with two different species of monkeys, a handful of sloths hanging from tree limbs high above, and if you’re lucky you may spot a toucan or two in addition to the scarlet macaws gliding through the air. Tour guides lead their busloads of foreigners through the park each day, and only by tagging along with one of the group was I able to spot my first sloth. The animals looked nothing like I had imagined, hanging from their tail and appearing to be big balls of fur with mean black faces. Once I had been shown my first sloth I prided myself in being able to spot them easily, and after a couple hours ashore I’d spotted half a dozen, all dangling from high limbs and appearing at one with the tree. At one point a troop of monkeys descended low in the trees overhanging a path, and seemed to be mocking the tourists below. People would back away in fear as the monkeys cried out and threatened advance, but they never left their tree limbs, and hung above our heads in perfect photo range. All the while the scent of the forest was thick in the air. A sweet, musty perfume of indefinable scent found in rainforests throughout the world which immediately thrust you into the beauty of the scene.
The anchorage at Manuel Antonio, though far superior to Quepos, was squite uncomfortable. In the corner of the bay the swells seemed to bounce off the point and create a backwash that set Avventura to constantly rocking. But during daylight hours I was rarely on board, and after months of travel I was well used to a rough night’s sleep. With dawn came the time to surf, and the beach at the base of the bay provided the perfect place for the beginner to learn. The water was clear and inviting and the waves rolled through consistently and, after a steep drop, crumbled into your typical beachbreak.
My stay at Manuel Antonio was made all the more enjoyable by the presence of another boat, the gorgeous Hylas 49 Creola. Her owners, Bill and Linda, were a couple fantastic people and our first night at the anchorage they invited Ryan and I over for dinner. We accepted and I was thrilled at the prospect of a good home-cooked meal for a change. Linda is quite the chef and turned out a gourmet pesto pasta dish served alongside a nice salad and some tasty homemade bread. It was clear the couple cruised in a manner far above my means, and I was grateful they’d invited us over for a night of their way of life. Over wine at dinner we exchanged stories and afterwards they taught us how to play “Mexican Train” dominoes. Before we knew it the clock struck eleven and an enjoyable evening came to a close.
I could spend a month and more anchored in the pristine setting of Manuel Antonio, but Drake’s Bay loomed large on the horizon and I could hardly wait to return to that paradise. Thus, after two short nights at anchor, Ryan and I determined to carry on southward, motoring along the pristine pacific coastline full of rainforest and lacking in people or places to anchor. Just after noon I was standing in the cockpit, watching and cursing our fishless lures when I saw a fin break the surface and strike the lure. Dorado dinner! We had finally broken our Costa Rican curse and caught our first edible fish in her placid waters.
Ten hours of motoring was needed to cover the fifty miles between anchorages, but with the late afternoon sun pounding down and beads of sweat dripping from me, I guided us into Bahia Drake and dropped anchor far offshore in twenty-five feet of a sand bottom. After an absence of three and a half years I had returned to paradise. With the engine off the sounds of nature filled the air and the cries of the jungles beckoned me ashore.

How does one describe paradise? That certain place of pristine beauty; of nature unadulterated where the pura vida spirit flows and fills all that visit it. This has oft been the curse of the writer. Pure beauty doesn’t lend itself to mere words. Our language isn’t colorful enough or rich enough to capture the essence of nature. So when I say Drake’s Bay was indescribably beautiful you, my dear reader, will have to take my word for it and thing of that certain special place of yours and how hard it would be to describe to a soul far removed from it.
On my previous visit to Drake’s Bay I had a mere hours to explore my environs before Captain Blye ordered his crew back to the ship. Thus, in the back of my mind, I wondered whether the bay would live up to the place I remembered so fondly. Would the wildlife be as abundant? Would the beaches be as deserted? Would people be as scarce? I was skeptical, for a place never lives up to the hype the second time around, but still I was determined to find out. Ryan and I quickly launched the dinghy and landed it towards the west end of the long beach.
In minutes we were traversing the same path I had followed years earlier, past the quaint cottage I remembered, over a small bridge once covered by a roof of palm fronds but not open to the elements, and on down by the first “wilderness resort.” Vibrant flowers ignited the ground and the scent of the forest began to fill the air. We circled around the wilderness resort and soon came to the old drawbridge spanning the Rio Agujas. The river’s banks were swelling with the fruits of the rainy season, and the gentle trickle of before was transformed into a steady flow. The same dull green water led upstream, piercing the thick rainforest. Towering trees shot up from its banks and the call of birds pierced the still air.
Across the drawbridge the forest closed in around us and the path became narrow. The air grew heavy and you could feel the humidity start to climb. A familiar squeal broke through the monotonous hum of insects. Up in the trees above a troop of white-faced monos leaped about, hopping from tree to tree and crying out with glee. A short walk brought us to a paved path leading off in two directions. We turned left and passed La Paloma Lodge, a new wilderness resort with surveillance cameras trained on the path. Beyond the beautiful lodge a small wooden sign pointed down a cinderblock staircase to the “Beach,” so Ryan and I followed it. The cinderblock stairs gave way to the damp earth once more, and at the base of the hills we emerged through a familiar shading of trees onto the gorgeous Playa Cocolito.
If you were to be dropped from the sky in the middle of Playa Cocolito you likely wouldn’t appreciate its beauty. The tiny beach is guarded by dense forest and a small stream marks its western boundary. The sand is an unspectacular light brown color and is coarse like sandpaper underfoot. But when approached from the land via the forest path, the beach is like a little oasis, perfect in every way. Her sands lead out to the inviting blue of the Pacific where small waves crash ashore in bitchin shorebreak. A few sparse coco palms jet out from the sand in the west corner, behind which snakes the gentle stream. And up on a grassy area behind the beach a little shack has been built and a couple Ticos were in the process of welding together a steel panga. I threw a wave to the boatbuilders and bolted for the sea. The water was the perfect temperature, and peering shoreward, the land transformed into a mass of thick forest. Scarlet macaws soared in the blue skies above the trees, and the Ticos watched as I swam for and plunged down the face of my first wave. Paradise!

Later that afternoon, after having returned to Avventura, I grabbed my surfboard and paddled to the west point of the bay. Entering the Rio Agujas, I stroked upstream past the two wilderness resorts, plowed on past the drawbridge, and carried on against the quickening current. The forest closed in around me and the cacophony of sounds filled in—insects, monkeys and macaws and the flowing river all meshed together with the heavy-scented air and I was transported to another world. Nature was at her finest, and the cares of the world were faraway, like a bad dream from a couple days before. A pair of scarlet macaws followed the stream overhead and disappeared around a bend. I paused to watch a troop of monkeys n the trees bordering the north bank, but the current swept me downstream and forced me to carry on.
When I reached the next bend in the river a series of rapids began, forcing me to leave my board on the rivers bank and carry on by foot. The rapids continued, slowly ascending into the forest and the sound of the rushing water drowned out all else. When the bank became impassable I leaped into the rapids and slid downstream, feeling my way across the rocky stretches and eventually washing up beside my board. I retrieved it, laid on my back, and floated downstream watching the activity of the forest overhead. I couldn’t help but think of Disneyland’s Jungle River Cruise in the days of my youth. As a kid that felt like the real thing; but now I was learning what a far cry it truly was.
By the time I reached the drawbridge I was paddling once more. A Tico was standing on the dock of one wilderness resort and wave me over. He asked if I had seen the crocodile yet. Crocodile? Here? No! “Oh yes, he lives here and usually hangs out near the entrance. I thought for sure you must know of him.”
“A dios mio!” I exclaimed, and paddled like mad back to Avventura. The next day I returned to the wilderness resort on foot and, sure enough, a crowd of people was watching the crocodile stalk the banks at the river entrance.

Bahia Drake is a long daysail from the nearest safe anchorage in the rainy season. To the south extends the big hulk of the sparsely-populated Peninsula de Osa, over 100,000 acres of which form Costa Rica’s second largest national park, Corcovado National Park. The trip to the south and east around the peninsula takes you along miles of endless uninhabited and unexplored coastline. At times the forest terminates right at the waters edge, other times white sand beaches run for miles without a soul on them, and then again there are stretches of steep cliffs bordering the sea, off which plunge little waterfalls into the sea. Wind is a rarity in this area, and aside from the possibility of a seabreeze the route is often undertaken by powering—a grim prospect under the heat of the sub-tropic sun.
Nine hours after leaving Drake’s Bay in the predawn silence Avventura rounded Cabo Matapalo and entered the Golfo Dulce (Sweet Gulf). The entrance to the gulf is lined on either shoreline by famous surfbreaks (Cabo Matapalo has a series of right-hand pointbreaks while Pavones, on the east shore of the gulf has a world-famous left-hand pointbreak), and the gulf itself is teeming with life. Whales can oft be spotted spouting in its calm waters, dolphins cruise the surface searching for food, and fish are plentiful. The shorelines are lined with more thick vegetation held away from the gulf by long swaths of sandy beaches.
Ten miles up the west coast of the Sweet Gulf lies Puerto Jiminez. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more strange, out-of-place town than this. It all starts with the roadstead anchorage offshore where a shelf plunges down from twenty feet to over seventy-five feet deep. When you do make it ashore you feel as though you’ve been transported into an early twentieth century western. Dusty dirt roads separate drab rows of low houses. The main street is lined with shops and restaurants all with the same dull appearance. And on the soccer field at the beginning of town a handful of horses pass the day grazing. Meanwhile a continuous procession of scarlet macaws circle overhead squawking and bickering amongst themselves. But perhaps most out-of-place of all is the delicious Mexican food restaurant in town.
Puerto Jiminez mostly serves as a jumping-off point for travelers bound for the Cocovado, and thus sports a number of hostels and cheap hotels, and boasts a small airstrip. For me it was a jumping-off anchorage for the surf town of Pavones. Leaving at dawn the next day, Ryan and I motored across the Sweet Gulf, landing a twenty pound dorado in the process, and dropped anchor in the channel beside the lefts of Pavones. The seafloor was strewn with rocks and finding a spot where the anchor would hold was difficult, but once it was set I was quick to grab my board and paddle for the lineup. The surf was small, but my first wave cleared my mind of all dryrot and waves of ecstasy swept over me. A handful of fun waves followed before the southwest seabreeze started affecting the surf and Ryan and I returned to Avventura.
The anchorage beside Pavones was too exposed to the elements for me to trust, so we soon picked up anchor and set sail with the breeze, bound for Golfito, up the east side of the gulf. Moments after setting sail I spotted a whale spout off to starboard about a half mile away. I pointed it out to Ryan and watched as it moved progressively closer. We seemed to be on a collision course. When it was a hundred yards away I could see the shape of the baby whale cruising through the water, still heading right for us. My heart sank in my chest as I worried about what would happen if he rammed us. Thoughts of what to grab first in case we had to abandon ship crossed my mind when finally, just thirty feet off our starboard side, the baby whale dove and I watched him pass safely beneath our hull and continue down and out of sight. I breathed a sigh of relief, and was glad I didn’t see another spout the rest of the day.

Golfito, like Quepos, was once a bustling banana export port. Dole had set up a major operation in the bay and its environs and shipped the bananas off to places around the world from here. Then, in the 1980s, disease ravaged the banana crops and Dole moved their operations elsewhere. Since then Golfito has been forced to reshape her image and recast her lot as a tourist town. The local economy has yet to recover, but the inhabitants are upbeat and happy, and the forest-clad bay provides a beautiful, land-locked anchorage.
Three and a half years after my previous visit to the bay I anchored just a stone’s throw away from that very spot, off the big yellow home of the Banana Bay Marina. Though there are a couple different marinas where you can pull alongside a dock, the anchorage is so calm that I had no problem making the short dinghy ride in to Tim and Katy’s Land and Sea Services each day. Tim and Katy are former cruisers who stopped to anchor in Golfito and never left. They have been providing a place for cruisers to leave their dinghy (for a few dollars a day) and gather for years now and are a great source of information on the entire region of Central America.
The town of Golfito basically extends along the shore of the bay in a single main street. Downtown a side street parallels the main one lined with restaurants and clothing stores, and in places a series of roads extend into the hillsides denoting the residential areas. The hills all around are densely covered in tropical forest, concealing the numerous waterfalls which surround the town. At the north end of town lies the “Duty Free Zone,” a massive shopping complex filled with booze, electronics, furniture and appliances—all of which can be purchased duty-free; though beware, foreigners can only shop there one day a year.
Aside from the convenient location of all things from hardware stores and grocery stores to internet cafes and fuel docks Golfito doesn’t lend much to the cruiser. Safe anchorage and modern conveniences are his main attraction to the bay, which is quite polluted and discourages swimming in. Nonetheless I was destined to spend a god deal of time here spread out over the course of a month as Ryan flew home for a break, my father flew in and out, and my cousin John came down for a visit. While in the landlocked bay I made the most of my time, wandering around town and discovering a vast array of cascades on the forest-clad hillsides. I went for long walks in the forest, explored the bay and its mangrove-laden shores by dinghy, and made a couple excursions to nearby Playa Zancudo to catch a couple waves.
At sunset the cruisers gathered on the deck of Land and Sea Services for a beer and some chatter. Familiar faces arrived and left, stories brought laughter and joy to the scene, and the horrors of a day of boatwork were recalled and cursed. Engine and electrical problems were discussed and possible solutions bandied about, and by the time darkness set in all returned to their boats for a hearty meal and a good night’s rest. The community of sailors worldwide is unlike any group of people I’ve ever met. No matter were you are or what type of situation you find yourself in if there’s another sailor around you can be sure he’ll do all he can to help you, and come the end of the day there’ll be beers to cheers and stories to tell. Friendships are fast made and often long lasting. Truly one of the best parts of cruising under sail is the people you meet along the way.

Chapter 11: The Ugly Side of Costa Rica

Dawn revealed a soggy landscape all about. A quick scan of the bay and I could pick out the radio tower ashore and beacon in the bay that the lightning had struck. It was humbling to know I was so close to these things; so close to being electrified myself. For the first time I truly realized why it was that most cruisers avoid visiting a region during the rainy season. Most I had met were already south of the equator, in the dry comforts of Ecuador. But, on the other hand, if I were to visit Central America only in the dry season I would likely have found much less surf, and experienced fewer memorable adventures. For me it was a tradeoff I’d be willing to make again in an instant.
Seeking to put the harrowing night far behind me, Ryan and I boarded the bus for Jacó where we split ways. He struck off in town and I headed for the beach where I was introduced to the other scourge of Costa Rica—ladrones. Many cruisers I had met had warned me to be very careful about my things in Costa Rica for fear of thieves, but in my many travels throughout the country I had yet to be robbed of anything. Perhaps this caused me to let my guard down a bit too much, for I left a bag with little of value hidden in a bush atop the beach and headed north, going for a run. After little more than a minute I came to a rocky stretch so I turned around and started heading the other way. When I did so I saw a local teenager near the bush where I’d left my stuff jogging away with something black in his arms. I sprinted back to the bush, saw my stuff was gone, and followed the local. When I started following him I saw him toss the black object up onto the roof of a beachfront house. I stopped the kid and told him, in my broken Spanish, to give me back my stuff.
“No tengo. No tengo. (I don’t have.)” Was all he kept repeating. I said I had seen him throw it up on the roof, but the weasel refused to admit it. He reached for a couple cans on the beach and crushed them. Then he pointed at the can and told me it was only a bag of cans he had thrown on the roof. Now why anybody would be throwing a bag of cans onto another man’s roof is completely ludicrous to me; but apparently it made some sense to this Tico, and I played along, pretending to believe him. He said he had seen the guy who had taken my stuff and said he would go get him. With that he took off sprinting up a side street and turned out of sight.
I started walking in circles, trying to figure out how to get my bag back, when a couple locals who worked at a restaurant nearby approached me. They said they know the guy I had talked to had taken my stuff, and I motioned to the roof and said I knew it was up there. These friendly Ticos, as most I met were, hated to see a gringo harmed in their country and before I knew it they had procured a ladder and retrieved the black object from the roof. It turns out the thief had wrapped my bag in his black T-shirt. Thus, in the end, I was left with a free souvenir for my troubles, though I missed my daily run. I thanked the waiters for their help, and they warned me against leaving anything unattended on the beach. I had learned my lesson, and left the beach for the day, spending the rest of my time on the internet before returning to Avventura fed up with the dirty, touristy town of Jacó and eager to depart Bahia Herradura.

Chapter 10: Rainy Season Initiation—Part II

All sailors who decide to cruise an area during its rainy season go through an ini-tiation of sorts at the hands of Mother Nature. Lightning. The word conjures up images of Zeus Almighty up on Olympus wielding his mighty thunderbolt of jus-tice. The Greeks thought lightning such a powerful phenomenon they ascribed it to their supreme God, Lord of the Sky. Such is the respect sailors allot the phe-nomenon as well. For any planning on cruising during the rainy season lightning is a foremost consideration I how they prepare their vessel and is usually the gravest concern throughout the season. I learned of its power firsthand one day towards the end of July, 2006.
Lightning is like big surf, beautiful to behold from afar, from a beast of fury when it gets too close. Such was my experience while anchored in Bahia Her-radura, Costa Rica. After a fun day of surfing at Playa Hermosa, Ryan and I boarded a bus to return to Avventura. The bus was overflowing with people, and I stood in the aisle, surfboard beside me, striking up a conversation with an expatri-ate American girl. As the bus dropped off its first passengers rain began to fall and the Ticos seated by the windows quickly slammed them shut. The bus was transformed into a sauna on wheels as the rain turned into a torrential downpour and the bus slowly made its way to Bahia Herradura.
Among the last to disembark, we emerged covered in sweat and grateful to be breathing fresh air once more as the first flash of lightning pierced the sky inland. A dull rumble of thunder followed moments later as we scampered down the beach, launched the dinghy, and returned to Avventura. Climbing aboard, my shirt was soaked through so I stripped it off, retrieved some shampoo and soap, and took a shower in the deluge of rain. As the rain rinsed the last of the soap from my body a burst of lightning struck a radio tower five miles away. The roar of thunder quick on its heels made me jump, and I ran back to the cockpit trembling from a mix of fear and cold.
Darkness descended on the bay and the storm persisted. Moments after the storm would abate I recalled: “I stood in the rain enjoying the downpour, hooting like mad as streaks pelted the land and Ryan sat in the companionway looking at me like I was crazy, but as the streaks came closer and I could watch where they connected with the ground the fear began to set in. Flashes of lightning were com-ing at ten-second intervals with just a few seconds between flash and thunder by the time I decided it was time to seek refuge inside. I dried off, stuffed both com-puters, my handheld VHF and my handheld GPS in the oven, and told Ryan to start praying and stay away from anything metal (all tricks I’ve heard other sailors use). We both sat in the middle of the ship looking at each other and then out the windows in wide-eyed disbelief as lightning bolts connected with the land and sea no more than a football field away. They were so close we could not only hear the thunder, but we could actually feel it, or at least so it seemed. The flashes were so bright it hurt my eyes to look at them, and so frequent I thought for sure we were going to be hit. I told Ryan it was time for a drink, but by the time he retrieved the liquor I couldn’t even count to one between flash and crack so I figured I better abstain, since if we were hit quick action would be needed and I’d need to keep my wits about me. So instead I retrieved a book and started reading about light-ning protection for boats, and thinking of what needs to be done to get Avventura properly protected.…
“Finally, after the longest ten minutes I’ve known in a long while, the storm carried on out to sea where it is now wreaking havoc on the Tico fishing fleet. It was a rough introduction to cruising Costa Rica in the rainy season, and just when I was starting to think that the rain and lightning storms were over-hyped! No; they’re not. If anything it is worse when you are here. Sitting helpless in the cen-ter of the boat avoiding all things metal and waiting for the strike when you will be called to action is perhaps the worst feeling possible for a sailor. But alas, I made it through that storm unharmed. One down, god knows how many to go.”
It would be impossible to count how many such storms did indeed follow, but the number is in double-digits to be sure, and the lightning seemed to like to in-troduce itself to any and all visitors aboard Avventura. My father flew down to visit for a week in southern Costa Rica, and while we were in Bahia Drake a squall hit bringing close strikes, loud thunder, and preventing us both from sleep-ing for hours. The radar screen was a vivid glob of green, and my father had a look of terror in his eyes. Thankfully the double-rainbow which had preceded the storm at sunset proved a good omen and we again emerged from the storm un-scathed. Later my cousin John came down for a six-week stay, and was intro-duced to the fury of lightning numerous times. The closest call came just after sunset (when most close calls seemed to occur, or at least begin to brew) on the evening of September 7 while anchored inside Panama’s Rio Santa Lucia. The storm descended from the rolling hills inland and within minutes had us sur-rounded. Lightning approached rapidly to within four miles where it seemed to linger for the better part of an hour. My fear was heightened by the fact that there were no other boats, buildings, or towers near us; but as with all other storms it couldn’t seem to find Avventura, a fact I liked to attribute to the “static-dissipater” attached to her masthead (though I’ve heard stories of boats with these same de-vices being struck).
When it came time to flee Panama for Ecuador across the ITCZ I was a sea-soned veteran of a full rainy season in Central America, but the prospect of en-countering lightning at sea still had me worried. Sure enough we encountered our share of squalls which brought along plenty of lightning, but luckily never had a close strike. Upon arriving in Ecuador I knew the bulk of my lightning days were passed and praised Neptune for keeping me on good terms with his brother, Lord of the Sky.

Postscript:
To illustrate the devastating effects of lightning I need only relate the stories of two boats I met during my travels: Swell and Piña Colada. Liz Clark aboard Swell was sailing in Panamanian waters when a lightning squall descended on her. She watched as a bolt hit the water near her boat, and though it was not a direct hit and she didn’t feel the effects it was enough to wreak havoc on her electronics and break her GPS unit.
Piña Colada fared much worse. While anchored in Bahia Benao, Panama a lightning storm swept off the land and delivered a direct hit to her masthead. Luckily nobody aboard was hurt, but Patti was sitting in the cockpit and watched as the engine instruments were blown clean out of their holes. The damage was extensive, knocking out all of their electronics, disabling the engine, and eventu-ally costing their insurance company some $30,000. When I met them months later in the Galapagos Islands they were still dealing with the effects of the strike.

Cruising while Writing—An Introduction to the Gulf of Nicoya

The Coco Palms Hotel is the cruiser’s hotbed at Playa del Coco, Costa Rica. Hours after parting ways with Swell Ryan and I were seated at its poolside restaurant, ordering a small lunch and using their wireless internet. Many of the friends we’d met in El Salvador were still around, and chatter was constant between the tables. My future plans were uncertain; but one e-mail changed all that.
Before leaving San Diego I had completed the writing of my first book, The Voyage of the Atair, and had submitted it to many different publishers. After receiving a hearty fill of rejection letters and a couple more rejections by phone, somebody decided they’d publish me. I knew little to nothing about the company, Publish America, and with my departure imminent I neglected to do any real research. I just wanted to see my first book in print, and this company was willing to do so. Thus, before departing I submitted my manuscript in its entirety, and now after a couple months of lying fallow in the publishers hands I was e-mailed a copy of the page proofs. I had two weeks to peruse the proofs, note any and all changes, and submit the book once and for all for publication. By July 5, the day of my twenty-first birthday, my first book would be ready for publication. In the meantime I’d have to work hard everyday on one final rewrite. With this in mind I decided the best course of action would be to head for the Gulf of Nicoya and work while making the short daysails between anchorages. This would keep the scenery fresh and Ryan could explore new places while I worked my long hours. By my twenty-first birthday we’d be in the tourist hotbed of Jacó where I could submit the manuscript and celebrate with a few beers.
My plan set, I started the motor in the early afternoon of June 23 and Avventura motored out of Playa del Coco. It was a Friday, so to appease Neptune we turned 360˚ to port, and just in case I recorded the day in the logbook as “Thursday +1.” In most aspects of life I’m far from superstitious, but when it comes to sailing where so many things can go wrong and so much depends upon Mother Nature, superstitions fall into the category of “what can it hurt?”
Following my superstitions kept us from harm on the short motor west towards Bahia Potrero where I planned on stopping for the night. As the anchorage in Potrero came into view (off the remnants of the now defunct Marina Flamingo) I could see hordes of boats clustered together. Seeking some solitude, I asked Ryan if he’d be willing to motor another hour to find an anchorage to ourselves, and when he said he was we rounded Punta Salinas and entered Bahia Brasilito, giving the reefs in the middle of the bay a wide berth and anchoring off beautiful Playa Conchal in the south end of the bay. We were indeed the only boat around, and with no swell in the water the anchorage was flat calm.
Once settled on the hook I cooked up the slabs of fish Liz and Shannon had procured for us at Ollie’s Point on the grill in Avventura’s cockpit and enjoyed a beer as the sunk slipped into the sea. Silence descended on the anchorage as night fell, and only the gentle surge of the small surf ashore could be heard. It was the perfect spot to get some work done. After pouring my heart out into my journal about our recent stay in Bahia Potrero Grande, I settled in to a night of deep sleep.
When daylight illuminated the beautiful anchorage we couldn’t bring ourselves to leave it. Instead I passed the day working intensely on my book, taking breaks every couple hours to go for long swims or paddle around on a surfboard or do a bit of snorkeling. Rain showers passed throughout the day, the worst of which arrived at sunset and was preceded by a strong twenty-five knot wind. The squall caused us to drag anchor a bit, so I let out an extra fifty feet of chain, reset the anchor, and all was well again. Just as I was prepared for the wind to continue the squall passed and all returned to a dead calm. The night was sticky and thick, and the damp air hung heavy aboard Avventura making sleep difficult at best. When blue skies peeked through in the morning the time had come to carrying on down the Costa Rican coast.
Between the Gulf of Papagayo and the Gulf of Nicoya there are only a few scattered anchorages, none of which are very protected and all of which are uncomfortable with any swells (and often untenable in the rainy season). But if you travel when there isn’t any swell running you can sail all the way through Costa Rica without ever having to remain at sea overnight. This we accomplished by motoring south all day and arriving just before nightfall at Bahia Carillo, halfway down the Nicoya Peninsula. Bahia Carillo opens to the south, and while the east end of the bay provides some protection from the swells there are a group of moorings there for the locals’ pangas. Thus Ryan and I tried anchoring in various spots throughout the bay looking for any protection or comfort. In the end we anchored amidst the moorings and tied one to our stern to act as a stern anchor. Even thus protected and with a very small swell running the anchorage was rolly and uncomfortable despite its natural beauty.
One lousy night of sleep was enough to convince me to press on southward, and but for a short swim I never even left the boat in Bahia Carillo. A beach lies at the base of the bay, however, and the rainforest covers the hillsides, enticing one to wander off and explore. In the dry season I’m sure it would be a great destination, but one of the drawbacks of cruising Central America in the wrong season is that many a beautiful anchorage must be skipped or visited briefly. Thus it was another daysail south along the Costa Rican coastline as massive cumulus clouds drifted past and an array of rainbows studded the horizon. We rounded Cabo Blanco as the clock struck noon and, under the penetrating heat of the late afternoon sun Avventura chugged into Bahia Ballena.
We dropped anchor in the south corner of the bay beside a cluster of cruising boats off the decrepit pier of the “Bahia Ballena Yacht Club” and I rejoiced at the flat calm of the anchorage. For the first time in days we launched the dinghy and ventured ashore. The small town of Tambor is nestled at the base of the bay, and we walked around it a bit and used the lone internet café before returning to the yacht club. The Yacht club is now only a restaurant with a book exchange, but Ryan and I played a couple games of pool on the old table and had a nice dinner before retiring for the night.

Over the course of the next week Avventura bounced from anchorage to anchorage throughout the Gulf of Nicoya. We visited a number of different islands, explored numerous beaches, did some snorkeling, met countless Ticos down on holiday from San José, and surfed a small beachbreak at Playa Blanca. Through it all I worked voraciously on the page proofs of my book and unwound at night with the help of Caldwell’s Desperate Voyage. After a pleasant stop at the Islas Tortugas and a few great days off beautiful Punta Leona the calendar turned to July and on the second day of the month I leapt with excitement as I finished up work on the page proofs of my book. A couple guttural hoots escaped my mouth and Ryan asked what was up.
“I’m finished! The damned work’s done.” A moment of silence ensued and I moved up to the cockpit. Surveying the scene, I thought of heading over to Playa Blanca for the day, but, realizing I had been strictly dictating our movements the past week and more I asked Ryan, “What would you rather do: stay here one more night with the anchorage to ourselves or move down to the less-protected, but more popular Bahia Herradura?”
When he said he’d rather go to Herradura I obliged. I needed to e-mail off my changes soon anyways, so the time had come to make a return to civilization. Avventura made the short motor south to Bahia Herradura and anchored in the center of the bay, south of a cluster of local boats and one lone sailboat. All was well with the world.

As soon as the anchor was set the radio sprang top life. The sailboat was calling. I answered and met Ray, the single-handed skipper of Drivers Wanted. (Boat names are notoriously strange, quirky, and often downright weird. Ray worked for Volkswagon in some capacity for much of his life, so one of the company’s slogans began his boat’s name.) Ray had been anchored in Herradura for the last five months, he boasted, and said we should stop by so he could give us the lay of the land. Minutes later Ryan and I had gathered our things together and loaded into the dinghy.
Before I even climbed aboard Drivers Wanted the stench was unmistakable. Marijuana. Mota. Pot. Weed. Call it whatever you want—Ray was clearly a heavy user of the drug, and, I soon suspected, much worse ones as well. The tall, gangly man looked old beyond his years. His nappy long hair was graying prematurely and his sun-beaten face was wrinkled like an old grandpa’s. But the man was outgoing as can be, and tried to help out in any way possible. He told us about the hourly bus to Jacó and where to catch it, and before long we were giving him a ride in in our dinghy (his was motorless after he dumped it in the surf trying to get ashore one day). On the way in Ray tried to explain to me how to land a dinghy through the surf, but I refused to listen to a man who had already lost his doing that very thing. I rode a wave in, let it wash past beneath the dinghy, and pulled up the motor as the bow hit dry sand. Success.

My time in Bahia Herradura was divided between Jacó, Playa Hermosa (a couple miles further south down the Costa Rican coast), Playa Escondida (a dinghy ride north of Herradura), and the little beach town of Herradura lining the bay.
Jacó. A bizarre surf town set on a beach with terrible surf. Bars, restaurants, surf shops and hostels line the main road with supermarkets and internet cafes between. I always tried to keep my time in the actual town to a minimum because it imbued me with a strange, awkward feeling. I never felt very comfortable in it, and spent most of my time in town on the beach.
Playa Hermosa is a well-known beachbreak in Costa Rica that is among the most consistent waves I’ve ever seen. Every time I surfed there it was head high or bigger, but as with most beachbreaks it was hard to pick off waves that didn’t close out on top of your head. Aside from this there were the jellyfish to consider. Each time I paddled out I was stung by at least one. Most people wore T-shirts while they surfed to cover a bit more of their skin. The beach was lined with hotels, one of which (Cabinas Las Olas) had a restaurant beside the beach which served up some delicious breakfast.
As for Playa Escondida, the beautiful little beach sits beneath an exclusive gated community. Sylvester Stalone is supposed to have a house with a helipad on the point overlooking the beach among other wealthy Americans. Off the north end of the beach a perfectly shaped A-frame wave curls over a shallow reef. There is no shoreline public access to the beach (to my knowledge) so the only way out is via boat from Herradura. Despite this whenever the surf is up there is a big crowd; but the waves are well worth it. On small days I had the place to myself and the fun was never-ending.
Herradura serves as a laid-back coastal getaway for Ticos from all over the country. There is a campground situated just above the sand and each time I have visited the bay it has been overflowing with tents and people. Open-air seafood restaurants line the road fronting the beach and small homes extend inland in the town. A couple small markets are scattered about, but there’s nothing of interest to speak of for the foreign tourist. The tourist end of the bay is the north corner where Los Sueños Resort looms large. A 4-star Marriot hotel stands ashore bordered by hordes of condominiums and fronted by a “world-class marina” complete with teak decks. The gaudy upscale resort seemes completely out-of-place beside the humble town of Herradura and the cheap tourist trap of Jacó, but the motoryachts need somewhere to stay and this is it. The marina is so pricey they wanted $40 a day just to leave our dinghy at their dock. Needless to say we opted to beach it through the surf instead.

Fourth of July came and went almost unnoticed. I surfed Playa Escondida by myself in the morning, caught the bus to Jacó in the afternoon to send use the internet, and returned to Bahia Herradura early in the evening. At eight o’clock the marina shot off some fireworks and I mixed myself a couple drinks, sitting alone in the cockpit and absorbing the beauty of the night.
The next morning I awoke a year older. My twenty-first birthday. I was finally of legal drinking age back home, but since that didn’t matter at the moment I would have rather the day slipped by unnoticed. As it was I awoke in a deeply reflective mood. I thought back over the course of my life and what I had done with it. Tears welled in my eyes as I asked myself what it was I had done to deserve to outlive both my brother, Lance, and his namesake Lance Martin. I couldn’t help but think of how much better my voyage would be with my brother along for the ride, how much more fun I would have with a lively companion and good friend to share each new place and adventure with.
I was grateful to have a couple presents to open to shake these thoughts temporarily from my head. My mother, Carey, had left me with a card when my family flew back home and instructed me to wait till my birthday to open it. (xxx??? Find card to put in anything worthy???xxx) It contained a beautiful short note and sixty dollars for me to “have a fun day with.”
The second gift came from the girls on Swell. On the way back to Avventura after surfing Witches Rock they had handed me a big Ziploc bag with a neatly wrapped present inside and told me to wait till my birthday to open it. I had tucked it into a cabinet out of sight, and when I pulled it out I started with the card. The short note lifted my spirits and brought a smile to my face, and when I turned the single sheet over there was the great Mark Twain quote written out in big block letters. It alone was the perfect gift. The present was a stick of good sunscreen and a small bottle of rum. I appreciated them both, but immediately hoped the girls didn’t have the wrong impression; I’m far from being an alcoholic, though I do enjoy a couple drinks at to help unwind after a long day.
As soon as Ryan woke up I had him give me a ride in and took the bus to town. From there I took a taxi down to Playa Hermosa and surfed the day away. When the wind picked up and the surf became blown out I retreated to the beach (after being stung twice by jellyfish), laid in the hot sand and read. In the late afternoon I returned to Jacó for some lunch before calling home. I watched the sunset from the comfort of Avventua’s cockpit, enjoyed a few beers and the bottle of rum the girls had given me, and was only too happy for the day to end.

Anyone who’s ever traveled outside the United States knows that it goes without saying, football is the world’s favorite sport. By no means is this the hard-hitting American version I speak of, but rather what we yanks call Soccer. It’s pretty telling that a sport the world loves so much we hate enough to call by a completely different name; but alas, even most American kids grow up playing soccer at some point. It is perhaps the only sport where all you need is an open space and a ball, and this convenience helps it attain its popularity in places like Central America. Every place I stopped I found a soccer field, to the point where in French Polynesia each towns soccer field oft occupied the prime oceanfront real estate.
Anyways, on the morning of July 9 Ryan and I took the bus into Jacó to buy some provisions. We planned to leave for a tour of the Gulf of Nicoya the following day and I wanted to stock up on groceries while it was still convenient to do so. As we went about our shopping I started to notice people stopped near the checkstands motionless. Before long the checkers had stopped working and nobody was shopping anymore. I came down the center aisle and saw before me what held everybody transfixed. The World Cup finals was on and time was winding down. Soccer’s Super Bowl had brought a country half a world away to a standstill, and there wasn’t a Costa Rican player on the field as France and Italy squared off.
With the regulation time over and the game knotted at one Ryan and I joined the Ticos in watching the “extra time” unfold. The Italian goalie made a nice save of the Frenchman Zinedine Zidane’s header and more excitement ensued when Zindane, seemingly out of nowhere, head-butted the Frenchman Materazzi in the chest for which the Italian was given a red card and kicked out of the game. As extra time came to an end the score was still tied and the world’s biggest soccer game went into penalty kicks. The first couple kicks were and, and it seemed as if the goalies didn’t even have a chance to stop one. Then, taking France’s second shot, David Trezeguet’s shot hit the crossbar and bounced back. A groan went up throughout the store. Each and every kick that followed went in, and when Italy made the final shot a wild celebration ensued, a cheer went up in the store, and everybody returned to their shopping and work. Only football could bring a supermarket to a standstill in Costa Rica, and I’m glad it did, for it allowed me to witness one of the most thrilling endings in all of sports—a shootout to end the World Cup.

After more than a week in Bahia Herradura I got the itch to move on. The rolly anchorage kept me from getting a good night’s sleep, and though the surf was convenient it was high time for a change of scenery. After a two-day pit stop at the beautiful anchorage of Punta Leona, we weighed anchor early on July 12 and motored north to the famous surfbreak of Boca Barranca. Just outside the town of Puntarenas (the armpit of Costa Rica, as Liz Clark so aptly dubbed it), the long left pointbreak is often crowded, but it doesn’t take more than a couple good waves to make your day.
Dropping anchor outside the break was a bit unnerving because there is no sudden drop-off. Thus, though I anchored a good distance from the break the water was just seventeen feet deep and the swells approaching the boat looked menacing. Once I was sure Avventura would be safe I paddled in. The waves were in the chest-high range and rolling through consistently, and despite the slight onshore wind I had a great time on the long lefts for a full three hours. Towards the end of the session the Ticos began leaving the break and I was left with a handful of beginners, able to catch any and every wave I pleased. The nonstop paddling wore me out fast, and by the time I returned to Avventura I could hardly lift my arms and was cursing myself for not anchoring closer to the break.
Once the anchor was raised we immediately set sail and followed the coastline past Puntarenas and across the gulf. The wind picked up to fifteen knots and before long we were scooting across the flat seas in excess of seven knots. Once past Puntarenas, though, the wind began to die. I took advantage of the opportunity to climb into the dinghy as she was being towed, and snapped a few pictures of Avventura under sail. Almost as soon as I returned on board the wind disappeared, and we were forced to motor the final couple miles to the secluded anchorage at Isla San Lucas.
Isla San Lucas was a long-time Costa Rican penal colony, but in 1991 the inmates were moved to the mainland and the island now lies under the watchful eyes of a Tico family who live in a house near the main building of the prison. The anchorage is very well-protected in a bay surrounded by wild green vegetation with mangroves guarding the east side of the bay. As with many anchorages in the Gulf of Nicoya, thanks to its large tidal range, this one is quite shallow at low tide (9 feet where Avventura sat). Though I spent just one night on the island that was enough to explore all she had to offer. We met the caretaker of the penal colony (who warned us against entering the decaying building), hiked along a series of paths crossing the island, watched a troop of monkeys playing in the trees, circumnavigated the island by dinghy stopping at the various beaches, and opened a few coconuts on the wide sand swath of Playa el Coco. The island is a beautiful place to get away from the filth and grime of Puntarenas, and though just a few miles away feels a world apart.
Just a couple miles away on the west bank of the Gulf of Nicoya sits Playa Naranjo from where a ferry runs daily to Puntarenas. Having been told for weeks to avoid Puntarenas due to the many thieves in the town, and unwilling to attempt the awkward approach described in the cruising guides, I decided against anchoring in town and opted to take the ferry in for a day. Thus we came to anchor in the open bay off Playa Naranjo, once again the only boat in sight.
Behind the thin stretch of sand comprising Playa Naranjo sits the Oasis Paradiso resort. Friendly to cruisers, the resort had no problem with us leaving out dinghy tied to their pier, and let us use an outdoor shower. They also directed us to the ferry pier as hort hike north of the resort, and told us the boat’s schedule. On the 14th of July Ryan and I woke around six and headed ashore. We boarded the 7:30 ferry a half hour early and took seats in the air conditioned bottom deck near a big window overlooking the Gulf. Within an hour we were tying alongside the wharf in the armpit of Costa Rica.
With a few errands to run, my day in Puntarenas was spent wandering about the dirty streets of the town, talking to machine shop workers, dropping off my laundry to be washed, shopping, and finally using the internet. Once I’d finished all I needed to do I walked down the road to the Costa Rica Yacht Club to check out the facilities and anchorage offshore. Unfortunately the club is so secure that a couple gringos couldn’t even gain access. The guard at the gate kept insisting it was a private club, and finally we turned away and headed back towards town along the waterfront facing the Gulf.
A boardwalk runs along the Gulf coast of town at its west end, bordering a popular beach among the locals. Here I passed the afternoon reading as we waited for the ferry back home. Though Puntarenas was home to some tasty Chinese food, I saw no reason to return and think any cruiser is better served taking the ferry from Playa Naranjo than anchoring in the dirty, uber-hot, mosquito-infested bay. I was thrilled to climb back aboard the afternoon ferry and start the trip back to the peace and quiet of Playa Naranjo.
Aside from the ferry and the comforts of the Oasis Paradiso resort, Playa Naranjo provides little of interest for the cruising sailor. Thus the arrival of dawn on the 15th of July saw our departure. The idea was to spend the day surfing Boca Barranca before retreating to a safe anchorage for the night, but after watching the surf (or lack thereof) for fifteen minutes Ryan and I abandoned the idea and cut back across the Gulf bound for Isla Muertos. The trip across the Gulf was made interesting by the various currents which did their best to knock us off course. The big tidal range in the Gulf causes there to be lots of water constantly moving around, and with the tide ebbing the water was flowing out at an alarming rate in strange streaks visible on the otherwise calm surface. Electronic navigation was a huge help in keeping us on course, and preventing us from having to motor back into the teeth of the current. Aside from the currents themselves one must always be on the lookout in the Gulf of Nicoya for various floating objects. Everything from trash to entire trees float past, flushed out the rivers by heavy rains inland. I saw a number of logs and parts of trees bigger than Avventura’s hull float past, and knew it would be downright stupid to be on the Gulf at night.
Despite its grim name, Isla Muertos is a pretty little island separated from the mainland by a narrow channel. The approach to the anchorage between Isla Patricia and the mainland can be quite shallow (my depth-sounder read just 8 feet at one point) at low tide, but the anchorage itself lies in fourteen feet of water over good-holding sand and mud. Watching the shoreline transformed by the tides can be quite spectacular. As we came to anchor at low tide there was a pretty little beach lined by coco palms ashore, but by the time the tide filled in the water went clear up to the tree line and the island looked much less inviting.
One of the guidebooks I had on board raved about the Bahia Luminosa Resort on the mainland here, so after getting settled Ryan and I zipped across the shallow channel and beached the dinghy. To say the resort was a disappointment would be a massive understatement. The swimming pool was half-full of luminescent green water and by the look of things nothing had been tended to in years. It didn’t take long for us to flee the mosquito haven and return by dinghy to the island offshore. We started off circumnavigating the island, and while cruising up its backside I spotted a sailboat heading north. Apparently I was so focused on the sailboat and wondering where it had come from that I missed the end of the island. It wasn’t until the south end of Playa Naranjo came into view that I realized my mistake and turned around, frightfully low on gas. On the way back to Avventura I stopped by to say hello to the new sailboat which, it turned out, was a local family out for the weekend from Puntarenas. They were anchored off a beautiful white sand beach, and before leaving I jumped in to cool off. By the time we reached Avventura we were motoring on fumes.
Another day, another anchorage. By midmorning we had seen enough of Isla Muertos and were bound a few miles down the Gulf for Isla Cedros. We approached the anchorage from the north, passing between Isla Cedros and Isla Jesuita and dropping the hook in an extremely well-protected cove along the west coast of Cedros. Cedros is separated from the mainland by just a few hundred yards and a tall powerline spans the gap, across which monkeys can be seen walking from time to time. Despite the short distance the anchorage is as quiet and peaceful as any I’ve ever visited—the perfect place to come down with a violent illness. But alas, I’m getting a bit ahead of myself.
A more serene anchorage one would be hard to come by. From where we sat there was not another soul in sight. Mankind was lost to our world. The islands were covered in dense forest and Mother Nature was everywhere putting on a display for us. The calls of birds and monkeys rang out from ashore while pelicans dove for baitfish offshore. Schools of fish could be seen in the murky waters, and every now and then a manta ray would glide past bound for the shallows. Come nightfall the true beauty came. As the sun set over the south end of Isla Jesuita the sky was transformed into an array of vibrant colors the likes of which I’ve never seen. The streaks of clouds were on fire with oranges and pinks and reds, fading to purples and, it even appeared blues. The sunset lingered till the skies above were black, as if unwilling to depart the beautiful setting.
Before my sickness was able to set in I was given a day to explore my surroundings. I leapt into the polluted waters of the Gulf and swam to the base of the cove we were anchored off. Here I crawled ashore beneath a couple hidden and abandoned huts. From the huts an abandoned path cut up into the hillside and wound through the forest. I traveled the trail barefoot, at times stepping over barbed wire, ducking under fallen tree limbs, and at one point climbing over the branches of a fallen thorn-covered tree. Before long I came upon a clearing where a group of huts were built. Through the huts I wandered till I came to a white sand beach. There wasn’t anybody in sight, though a few pangas were anchored offshore in a beautiful cove guarded by rocky islets at its entrance. After a brief swim in the cove I decided to follow the shoreline back around the island. The rocky coastline forced me to swim at times and after making it about a mile I still had no idea where I was or how far I had to go.
When I came across a pair of abandoned shacks and a path leading inland, I followed it back into the forest. Before long I heard voices and saw a family of Ticos seated in front of a shack drinking beers and chatting. A little girls saw me coming and pointed me out to her father, and the entire group looked at me as if I were an alien walking in their midst. Approaching the group, I waved and offered, “Buenos tardes.”
“Buenos tardes,” the paterfamilias returned.
In my sad attempt at Spanish I asked if the path I was on would lead back to the cove I had departed with the abandoned huts, an when I was told it would I thanked the family for their help and continued on my way. I was elated when I made out the form of Avventura through the trees, and upon reaching the boat I collapsed on deck for a quick nap.
Ever-seeking to take full advantage of every day, I awoke from my nap, loaded into the dinghy with Ryan, and we zipped through the narrow channel between islands and crossed to the mainland. We beached the dinghy beside the ferry dock at the town of Paquera and struck off inland along the road towards town. Before long the familiar chatter of monkeys could be heard, and within minutes a massive troop of howler monkeys was leaping from branch to branch atop the trees bordering the road. A power line stretched across the street, and the monkeys used this to pass from one side to the other, all the while calling out to each other and having a gay old time. I admired their free spirits and endless fun, but when a truck stopped beside us offering a ride I forgot all about the monkeys, loaded in its bed, and we were headed to town.
Only when I arrived in town did I realize it was Sunday. As a result the world was closed. No internet; no supermarkets; just a solitary pizza joint. While Ryan sat down to lunch I walked about town. The Ticos were all welcoming and courteous, though the town appeared to have fallen on hard times. The dirt streets coated the houses in a layer of dust and all felt old and decrepit. Nevertheless the football field was bursting with life as the adults gathered for an intense game and the wives and kids gathered to watch and played on the sidelines. After watching the action for a bit and kicking the ball around with a couple kids I met up with Ryan and we returned to the boat.
There isn’t much worse than being sick in the tropics. I awoke in the early morning hours with the chills and a sore throat and knew something was amiss. By daylight I was vomiting, coughing and blowing my nose. A miserable couple days were set to begin. The tropic heat only added to the severity of the alternating chills and heat I felt, and being confined to the boat in such a beautiful locale was hard to bear. As it was I wanted to get well soon, so for two days I laid around Avventura reading, writing and watching DVDs. The only source of illness I could think of was swimming in the polluted waters of the Gulf of Nicoya. The Gulf is fed by numerous rivers which dump their trash and debris into it and carry downstream all sorts of toxic waste from most of northwest Costa Rica. The water is always a greenish-brown at best, but for me staying out of it was out of the question. The heat of the day screamed out for relief.
Other than another short visit to Paquera to use the internet, I spent the remainder of my time at Isla Cedros admiring the beauty of the scene from the decks of my boat. After three miserable nights of sleep I decided the time had come to move on. My sickness was fast abating and my energy was slowly returning. A quick trip back across the gulf, one final day at my favorite Gulf of Nicoya anchorage of Punta Leona, and Avventura found herself back at on the hook in Bahia Herradura.