Fun with critters

12/11- Bahia Culebra & beyond

The crushed coral sand along water’s edge is cooler than the powdery stuff at the foot of the jungle, and surely more welcome than the unbearable coal-black volcanic sand of Playas Coco. But it’s crunchy underfoot, like Rice Krispies; it sizzles when the surf laps at it; and suitably so ‘snap-crackle-pops’ when you lay your head down to nap. (I’m tired – having slept on deck beneath the stars; restlessly, with the all-night chirping of critters and buzzing of bugs, until 2AM when finally, too cold, I retreated to my bunk below.) There are so many sensations to take in ... the merry juxtaposition of rasping monkey howls with the laughter of day campers tossing water balloons ... riotous bird calls ... jet skis zooming by ... Today (Saturday) is clear and dry; the sun hot – but the fresh midday breeze promises to fill in ... bringing with it a waft of sugar cane smoke from across the bay. I want to take it all in before I leave this place, so I can be ready for the next.

But when will these uninvited memories fade? I have a fantastic, rich life: full of happiness, adventure, amazing experiences and recollections: so why do these loiter and float to the surface? I try to acknowledge them, give them their weight, and let time blow them away like autumn leaves: pretty ... but useless. I finished a book yesterday (“Indigo Rose” by Susan Beth Miller); the protagonist has suffered a loss I cannot fathom - it is a stirring story of her despair, and resurrected hope - and at one point she says: “I am pushing time past me like I’m rowing in a boat, hauling back the water.” Row baby, row. Another book I just read (we read a lot on board) related that an emotional wound will hurt in direct proportion to the amount you let that person under your skin. The pain is as deep as you let them in. Which explains the wonderful dichotomy of how I’m still carrying on like an utter fool; and he shut me off as quick and complete as a light switch.

The gentle lapping of the surf has erupted into splashes, and I rise up to see another fish boil. Black spheres of fish - tiny fingerlings, in such dense concentration they appear as one dark eddy - whirl up and down the beach, fleeing from what-I-do-not-know ... I wade out, step in the middle, giggling (the Ticos think I’ve gone mad) ... like shadowy rings of Saturn these fish swirl and twirl around me until - at the command of some unseen choreographer – they split off, and the whole blob snakes away.

I take so many pictures I haven’t any left when Chewey comes back with the dinghy to get me. First though we return to look for monkeys (they were M.I.A. this morning) and come upon a veritable San Diego Zoo of wildlife: koatamundi foraging amongst the Saturday picnickers; white squirrels; crested blue jays (they have a local name with a lot of rrrrrrrrs I cannot pronounce); and at last – several small white-faced monkeys. Cute, more playful than howlers, they also ‘cheep’ in a dialect you’d more expect of a monkey (than the hoarse bark of the howlers). That expedition over, I toss my gear in the dink and swim back, while Chewey zooms around me allegedly to scare away any big fish or snakes: but I think he is just being a guy and wanting-to-go-fast. The water is fantastic – no stings – but I can’t linger too long; I need to catch up on some sleep before our all-night passage to Jaco. XOXO

SUNDAY’S DAWN IS YUMMY, splashed with Easter candy colors. Before daybreak the line’s out, and we have our first victim: a torpedo-shaped bonita, lively but small (and a first hit for Linda Las Vegas, my tart-y silver and purple lure). Back he goes and I switch to a bigger lure (= bigger fish?) but another bonita strikes, so I release him, bring in the line, and go make a quiche.

When I come back on deck I’m hopeful for a bonita-free-zone ... but we are followed by two boobie birds – who attract several more of their kind. Like the shampoo commercial ‘You tell two friends, and they tell two friends, and so on, and so on ...’ boobies seem to send out a telegraph that has their cousins winging in from far and wide; wheeling and swooping around FRC like we’re awarding the mackerel lottery or something. Soon every boobie south of 10° LAT surrounds the boat and starts dive-bombing Big Red, a crimson and white cigar-shaped chunk of wood with a sexy waggle apparently irresistible to birds (alas not fish) ... Luckily they are not only stupid, but have poor aim (it is a wonder their species survives!); still I repeatedly pull in the meat line, and dole it back out when the boobies disappear.

Eventually though I catch a bird: throttle back, drag him in – his wings splayed like he’s JC Superstar. He’s got it hooked square through the bottom of his beak, and Bruce grabs the lure with the pliers while ‘Fred’ (having bumbled so fantastically we give him a male moniker) looks stunned (although I think he perpetually looks stunned) and drops with a thunk to the swim step. So now we have a disheveled boobie bird splayed on the back of the boat – gakkin’ up saltwater, dragging his right wing in the sea, shaking his head with disbelief as if he’s saying “WTF!?” Meanwhile his friends continue to circle ‘round, marveling at how Fred got the free ride; and we cannot fish.

In due course Fred composes himself: ‘tucks his wings in and straightens out his fanny feathers; waddles away from the exhaust (I’m loathe to think he’s going to die of CO2 poisoning after we go and rescue him from the lure ... I mean: what next? Mouth-to-beak resuscitation? ) and in time, flies away. Leaving us to wonder about renaming the boat: Free Range Boobies?

Approaching Jaco (Marina Suenos) where we’re picking up two of Bruce & Sharon’s friends (Moffett and Patrick); will grab some groceries and wifi; then about face to Islas Tortugas for snorkeling ;-) Sending love and blessings XOXO Mom / Betsy