Costa Jill

Reading Spartina by John Casey. Not my favorite topic - boat life in New England - but I’ve dog-eared so many pages of good stuff. Like a memory of a father that brought tears to my eyes and looming memories of mine. I fight the slide into my father’s later life.

He sits alone in his recliner in his big empty house waiting for the phone not to ring. Year after year. And it doesn’t. Financial papers are strewn in piles at his feet, waiting for the attention he will never again give them. He hates what’s happening to him;  watching the bedrock of his life - his superior mind - crumble into dust.

“How’re you doing Dad?” I ask.”

“I’m gonna jump off the bridge.” or “I’m gonna shoot myself.” or some other form of suicide.

“We want to take you out for dinner.”

“Got stuff in the fridge I gotta use up.”

Right. Like the moldy bacon?  Or the bottle of orange juice, so sour that Terry spewed it out like a surging fire hydrant after the first swig. He’s stubborn just to be stubborn. So closed up inside he can’t break out of his hard Cancer shell. He’d rather suffer loneliness than crack open and let his guts spill out. 

But time passes. The teeth-gnashing and hair-pulling stage subsides until he forgets how to be stubborn and closed in; forgets how to hate losing his mind.

And at long last. He smiles and hugs and kisses me hello and good-bye. He (the absolute atheist) goes to church because he likes the music and sings along. He says ‘I love you’ for the first time in my life.

RIO MORETE

The morning rains are over and the afternoon cloud cover hasn’t smothered us yet. “Let’s go to the river!” I suggest. 

“Oh, yes!” Sebastian jumps for joy. He’s still young enough at “almost eight” to do that. We pack a bag, call the pups Koda and Cookie, and set off down the steep jungle trail to the Rio Morete at the bottom of the property. I love having this time one-on-one with my grandson free from outside influence. I can be a kid again with him - laughing, singing, acting silly.

The dogs splash first into the crystal pool, legs outstretched, ears a-flapping. Sebas dives in upstream and rides the chute to greet them. I balance on the edge of the a small waterfall downstream and dive into the pool below. “Oh Fufi, let’s run the rocks to the big waterfall at the grotto. I’ll bet we can still get underneath it.” The rainy season has just started so the water levels are still manageable and the current is not yet at the “swept away” level.

“Let’s go. I’ll race you.” Of course he always beats me. He moves like a monkey perfectly balanced a bit forward and light on his feet. He’s been doing this since two years old. We pass through the impenetrable looking sheet of waterfall and pretend we live in its cave, then break through and take another slide to the grotto. The whole area below the falls is circled by sky reaching smooth grey rock carved into small circular pools. 

Sebas and I swim into one of them - like a miniature Jacuzzi. I see something undulating between us. “Oh, shit!” just comes out. In an adrenal rush, I grab Sebas and propel us out of there like bullets shot from a gun. “It’s a snake!” 

He’s excited. The scientist in him gets the best of his fear. “I wanna see it.” From a safe distance we stand on rocks and there it is. Still there. It obviously feels at home. We remember the details for identification later - 4 ft. long, black, skinny, narrow head. Doesn’t look poisonous but I’m not taking chances. What a story we have to tell when we get home. Swimming with a snake. We’ll add this one to our life list of animals of Costa Rica.

Sebastian and Koda on the rocks

Everyone’s eventual question concerning my life in Cost Rica is “What do you do all day?”  They assume that life in an exotic tropical paradise must be different than theirs. A fairy tale? One without stress? Well it’s not. But it is different. Here’s a little slice of it.

• At dawn the howler monkeys do their alpha male “Don’t try to join my band and eat our breakfast. Go find your own.” aggressive give and take hooting. No more sleeping for me. 
• I get up and feed our two new mostly Lab puppies, grind some  fresh organic Costa Rican coffee beans, their rich aroma blending with the heavy loveliness of the ylang ylang drifting over the balcony.
• Drinking my coffee on my balcony aerie overlooking the Pacific Ocean’s Whale’s Tail (see my blog photo) is the perfect and only start to my every day. 
• Within minutes the sunrise-washed blue sky turns gray with rushing clouds. Rumbling thunder shakes a huge rain down in front of me. The rainy season is upon us.
• Will I make it down the mountain road to yoga class before  it turns into a gooey clay mess that turns the tires into slick glazed doughnuts? Nope. My heart pounds as I take my foot off the brake, go with the slide, and miss falling in the ditch by inches. Can’t go back up until things dry out.
• One must always keep a backpack in the car filled with necessities in case you can’t get home (whether bad roads or broken down car) - towel, toothbrush, sunscreen, hat, bathing suit, book . Add a hammock and surf board and you’re covered for awhile.
• It’s still wet after yoga. With time to kill I stop at the bomba (gas station) to fill up, but the gas tanker has been delayed too. Maybe manana. This Central American country is a drastic mix of Third World and modern. In the tropical heat everyone is at least two hours late. Ah, except the buses. They’re always on time. Don’t ask why. 

Well, that’s the morning. Can you tell that patience is truly a virtue to cultivate if you’re not a native. Ticos have it naturally.

Having returned to the back jungles of Costa Rica, I’ve had to deal with no and slow technology, and other losses in my life slowing me down. I’m clawing my way out. Just got hooked to internet at my house - a feat of unusual difficulty. Yippy. I’m ready to roll on, though not speed. 

I open my computer to  a writer friend’s announcement of a blog posting.  She’s been out of commission for awhile too.  she explained her reasons for having the blog and all it entailed, from why she started writing to how she got published. We’re members of the same excellent writing group. I loved the story, especially since she’s a good writer and friend. Check it out at reginaperry.com

So I’m reading along and nodding my head, oh yes, oh yes. I’ve gone through the same evolution or mutation. Started writing memoirs. They are so cathartic and freeing, but not for publication. The truth can be insulting, incriminating, hurtful, embarrassing. First I tried just changing the names to protect the innocent. Hah, that doesn’t work. Then I changed the places. Not enough. Now the characters. I now call my writing historical fiction. I can add, pad and subtract from the truth, but it’s still based on it. I’ve got a good group of Costa Rican stories finished or almost. But patience. I’ll soon be ready to try for that publication, too. 

And thanks Regina Perry for getting my ball rolling again.