“Crrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaagggggaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack.” And then again. And again. The third was so close we could see the color spectrum where it exploded the water just a boat-length away. The radar went black and the chartplotter flashed a question mark and then went blank. I shrieked with terror and clutched Jack, tears streaming down my face. I had never felt so absolutely at the mercy of nature. It was a power so raw and unbridled—so unpredictable and unavoidable. It was a harsh reminder of how small, insignificant, and puny I really am out on this big ocean. Gradually the bolts sliced the sky behind us. The radar flashed back to life. The GPS seemed to work intermittedly, but I’d lost all my waypoints and the track of my course down the Pacific coast. Still, I felt lucky that was all that had happened. I sustained the worst of the damage. Each time the thunder rumbled I’d shudder and cringe and my stomach would try to crawl out again. I had pushed myself and Swell into bad weather again in an attempt to make it a good time for my guest. I knew it was still dangerous to travel at night this time of year. All the smarter captains had tucked their boats away for rainy season, but I insisted upon traveling, weather or not. I told myself there would be absolutely no more compromises.
The next morning we wove through the island paradise of Islas Secas, still in a shaken haze. We found a perfect anchorage outside the fringe of the coral reef and rested most of the day. The islands appeared deserted, despite a few yurts spread out through the hills that belonged to a private resort. We spent the next days exploring this island paradise, with its clear coral reefs, footprintless beaches, hermit crab armies, coconut groves, and trickling streams. It was like heaven on earth. The catch was—despite the pristine beauty, it rained nearly the entire time we were there. At one point we tallied 36 straight hours of strong rain. The dinghy had more than a foot of rainwater in it that morning. We cooked and read and made the most of the rainy, waveless paradise. But as I swallowed the second to last antibiotic, I knew my health was going to be a problem. My ears weren’t getting better. I had to get back to a doctor and take care of the problem correctly. I blamed myself for the lack of swell and that we had to end our Panamanian adventure early, but I was sick and getting sicker. Jack got to surf a few sessions at a left and then we headed back up to Costa Rica where I knew there was a safe place to leave Swell and find a doctor.
On the trip north we caught a lovely female dorado just before we stopping at Isla Parida. Jack made Mahi sandwiches and we swam in and spent the day roaming this deserted beach. The day was glorious and the water in the bay shimmered like a field of green emeralds. When I heaved myself back up the side of Swell, I found that a tragedy had occurred. It was Bruce, my stowaway gecko that had been aboard since Mexico. His shriveled body lay directly where I’d climbed up. I just couldn’t understand what had happened. It surely couldn’t have been a lack of water or food—not with all the rain and my bustling colony of red ants. I had hoped he would continue on with me for many miles. I’d named him after the Bostonian spider that had accompanied Joshua Slocum nearly all the way around the world aboard Spray in the early 1900s. He could have easily disembarked in the Puntarenas boatyard, but when I had returned he was happily nestled under the spare inflatable. When we sailed for open water that night I thanked him for his company and freed his little body into the dark sea. I guess I’ll have to wait for another brave little creature to climb aboard somewhere. I just hope it isn’t a cockroach.
Golfito was almost a southern version of Puntarenas . Both towns were deep in a gulf, and both served as the main centers of commerce for their areas. Golfito was smaller, though, and the landscape more beautiful, as the jungle cascaded down steep hillsides to the water all around the bay. It had been a major banana exporting port from 1934 to 1985. The houses built by the United Fruit Company make up a majority of the community. It seems to be filling up with ‘For Sale’ and realty signs directed at gringos looking to retire as is the case in most of Costa Rica. We anchored off of Land and Sea Services, which is owned and run by Tim and Katy, an amazing couple from Santa Barbara. They had sailed down 13 years earlier, found their piece of paradise and never left. They now provide an amazing facility for other boaters to land their dinghies, hang out, shower, do laundry and get information on just about anything. Their place was oozing with love and care. Not a plant went unwatered, nor was there a single corner void of something fun to look at. And if that wasn’t enough to make you feel at home, the rowdy herd of dogs and cats would melt you with their incessant purrs and licks and paws. They graciously invited us to their Thanksgiving smorgasbord, which we instantly accepted.
I explained what had happened with my ears over the last two months to the pharmacist behind the counter. He opened the half-door and guided me into the back room. He peered into each ear with a grimace on his face. It was apparent that he didn’t like what he saw. He explained that the infections were very bad and that because the antibiotics had failed to kill it, the infection had likely developed a resistance to them. All of this I had suspected, but when he pulled out a syringe I winced and reluctantly pulled up my shirt sleeve. This was the only stronger antibiotic, he explained. But it could only be administered with an injection. He pointed down. I knew it. I rolled over on the padded bench and pulled down my pants to expose my left cheek. I gripped the cushion as the thick serum entered my muscle slowly. I thanked my new doctor, Elvis, as he called himself, and limped back out into the steamy Golfito heat.
Feeling terribly guilty that Jack had had to suffer along with me, I was determined to muster the energy to find a waterfall up in the hills, and try to ease the pain of not being able to swim or surf. As Jack and I wandered down the road towards where we’d heard there was a ‘catarata’, we approached a man with a severe limp on the sidewalk. As we attempted to pass on the right, he greeted us with a huge smile and said, “Bienvenidos a Golfito.” There are beautiful mountains and waterfalls here, he explained in Spanish. Waterfalls? Enrique happened to be on his way to the waterfall, and enthusiastically demanded that he lead us there. Buena manifestacion. I couldn’t complain about the pain in my ears or my leg from the shot when I saw his condition. It appeared as if he’d been crippled by polio. He drug his right leg along although it looked like it didn’t want to go. By the way he spoke and greeted people through the town, it was clear that he didn’t let his bad leg slow him down. His one-eyed dog, Poopy, led our parade up the hill and into the jungle. He showed us medicinal plants and we all bathed in the cool fresh water. As we walked back out the trail we ran across a group of three clean-cut men with collared shirts and leather belts. They, too, knew Enrique and Poopy. They spoke about acres, views, and property lines. I wondered how much longer Enrique would be able to bathe and find peace at this waterfall. “Oh, and if you happen to need an attorney while you’re here, give me a call.” Said one of the men as he handed a crisp business card to Jack. “Thanks a lot,” I muttered sarcastically. The juxtaposition of our two groups was odd, but it reminded me that each moment and place on my ‘path’ was precious, fleeting, and often transitory.
Over the week my health deteriorated. I went to Elvis everyday, showed him the cheek opposite the day before, and took the needle. Afterward I would have a fever and ache in my leg from the shot and the medicine. I had no energy and chores aboard Swell mounted. Jack patiently took care of me, but as his time dwindled I knew I would soon have to take action to improve my condition. After heaping stuffing, turkey, green beans, sweet potatoes and pie on our plates, we sat around Tim and Katy’s and shared stories and good times with the group. I couldn’t have dreamed up a better meal. I made jaws drop at the pile of whipped cream I slew atop my pie. But when would I see food like this again, I wondered?
Thanksgiving dinner was but a distraction from my problem, though. I still had a fever and could barely hear out of either ear. Tim and Katy would watch over Swell while I went to up to the capitol and found an ear specialist. I flew to San Jose with Jack and apologized as he left for Santa Barbara the following morning. I wished so much that I could have shown him a better time. But like always, he pointed out the positives and tried to make me feel a little better about the whole nightmare. That very morning I got an appointment to see an ENT specialist. The doctor put little cameras into my ears to show me what the infections looked like. I couldn’t understand everything she said, but the gist I got was stay out of the water and use the eardrops she prescribed three times a day. Not even in the shower could I get them wet. A few days passed. I stayed in hotels and rested in the air-conditioned dryness. Still, I wasn’t feeling much better. More time passed and finally I couldn’t take it anymore. My dad booked me a frequent flyer ticket and a day later I found myself in my parents bed in San Diego where I laid for another twelve days between doctors appointments. The holidays approached, I missed Swell, but my ears still pulsed as if the little infections were throwing a hip-hop concert in my head. It seemed I would never feel good again. Ebola of the ear? I’m still not sure, but just like everything else, it’s amazing how you learn to appreciate your health once it’s gone.