Dominico untied the black plastic and scraps of fabric from the aqua coloured, paint chipped, salt-pitted machine and began to disassemble it's exhaust pipe. Measuring three and half by five feet the entire apparatus; a small motor, compressor and gas reservoir atop to two ancient air tanks, took up a full third of the tiny rustic panga he, I and the sun-weathered captain had launched from the beach a few minutes ago. More than anything it looks like a prop from a 1950's science fiction movie and I, in spite of the rustic simplicity of my surroundings, can't help but wonder if Bill Murray as Captain Zissou will make an appearance.
I stand in the bow amongst the masks, fins, gaffs and two hundred feet of hose that, once attached to the compressor (together known as a 'Hooka'), will allow Dominico and El Capitan to roam relatively freely, though at great risk of death, in the cold water below.
With a strong tail wind we make our way out of the bay and follow the coast south past imposing rock faced cliffs, arid points of cacti covered land and the magnificent beaches they harbour. An hour later we anchor alongside a small island dominated by one single piece of rock the size of a ten-story building. Here El Capitan and I don our gear as Dominico fires up the old machine.
By now I have declined politely at least a dozen times to have a turn on the Hooka. Aside from being fully aware of the great risk of serious decompression sickness from rapid ascent, it is a well-known fact that many have died from lack of air below due to a kink in the hose or any other number of possible scenarios that might take place unbeknownst to the surface operator preoccupied with piloting the boat. Fortunately the offers have been gracious but not insistent as time used up by me subtracts from reaping the harvest needed to feed their families. In addition they are humoured by the fact that I prefer to practice 'Pulmon' or breath-hold diving and are curious as to what results I can achieve.
Over the next six hours we cover every piece of rocky bottom surrounding the island and its vicinity. Dominico and El Capitan trading off on the Hooka and myself making over a hundred freedives. Though my diving reflexes are at full force poor visibility limits my catch to two pargo (snapper) and a half dozen reef fish only good for making soup. The two Pescadores however have done reasonably well and manage to sell several lobster and a lucky octopus to group of touristas on a passing sport fishing boat.
Cleaning the fish on the bow during our return to port attracts a trail of seagulls, pelicans and other flying scavengers at times hovering so close and steady that the illusion of flight takes over and I forget whether it is us or the world around us which is doing the travelling.
The wind blows like a man possessed lashing out at the slightest provocation, wreaking havoc with dust and eyes, running head first into all oncomers.
A barrage of manic force, unsteady in reason yet sure of its task.
Intention is quick to seek shelter, reason not far behind. I wonder what will be the first to go.
Relief finally came in the form of two-dollar pain killers in green foil wrapping and an extra strength tylenol from my emeregency kit. Before that it was almost unbearable. After this many years of fishing, surfing and walking the beaches of the world you would think I know better that to stomp across a rivermouth with little regard for what may be underfoot. Perhaps it was just due...
I arrived in San Jose, Costa Rica with little fanfare. My meeting with the hospitality group that runs the luxury eco-resorts Morgan's Rock and Lapas Rios went well and I spent the second day with girl-friends I met my final day here last April. We agreed to meet later on this winter for a Guanacaste beaches road trip. Should be a lot of fun... I also had a chance to visit the Guzman guitar factory where I bought a half-sized classical guitar for my travels. Its a lovely little guy refinished with about fifty coats of lacquer (which still smells). Together with an extra set of strings I paid $45, more than fair, and had the pleasure of watching one of the original artists carve a headstock by hand.
That done it was time to head north to San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua. Passengers aboard international coaches Ticabus or Nicabus are given priority at the Costa Rica/Nicaragua crossing. Knowing this I was a little perplexed to find out all seats on both coaches were reserved the next day (of course I should have reserved a place days before but you know how it is). Fortunately I managed to find a tourist bus that would get to Liberia, just an hour south of the border, ahead of the others. We missed the first one by a few minutes but the other had yet to arrive so the the driver of the tourist bus and I lay in wait, our Hyundai van hidden amongst the trucks on display at Liberia's new Toyota dealership. Within fifteen minutes the Ticabus arrived and, following a quick discussion amongst the two drivers, (during which fifteen dollars swtiched pockets) I was aboard and home-free!
In all the buses and border crossing took about eight hours. My first stop in SJDS was the Nica Spanish School by the beach where I signed up for two weeks of classes. On their recommendation I checked into a small hostel for four dollars a night until I find something more private.
The school also offers a homestay as part of the program. For about two dollars a day you get room and board with a local family in town. Finding a homestay was part of my plan but after making friends with the local surf shop owners I was offered a private room above the store. The cost is double, four bucks a night with a shared kitchen and no meals included. Though the price severely cuts into my meagre funds it is a great hook-up and includes a surfboard which I would have had to buy then try to sell on my departure. What I don't know however is how loud the place will be as the owners of the shop are seven brothers.
Undecided I spent a second night at the hostel and set up my spearfishing gear for a swim out to the the far end of the bay. The town stretches from one end of the cresent shaped inlet to the other, a marina at the south end, small river mouth in the middle and rocky point to the north. Looking out the calm waters are littered with small fishing boats swaying in the stiff breeze and, farther out, an enourmous cruise ship that looks like something out of Gullivers Travels.
It takes about fifteen minutes to walk to the far end where I don my gear and start my swim. The sunset is beautiful from the water but with only two foot visibility below I can't see anything let alone catch my dinner. Its a refreshing swim though and I am glad to back home in the water. A posse of local hand-line fishermen meet me on the beach, all of them excited to hold the speargun and ask how much it costs. I know better than to mention a figure but we make friends and I get the low down on the best time to go out. Gear packed up I start my hike back.
Its dusk and the incoming tide has swelled the little rivermouth though its still only a few feet deep where it cuts through the beach. I am just one step from crossing when I step on the Ray. At first I think its a sharp rock cutting into my right foot but the intense pain screams otherwise. Foamy blood covers my sandel as I limp back to the hostel. By the time I get back the pain is shooting up my leg and a quick dousing of iodine does nothing to help it. My hosts are quick to come to my aid, driving me to the local clinic where I get a thorough washing and bandage and perscription for two-dollar pain killers.
The pain remains intense for hours, during which time I crawl the walls of my room, and finding that unsatisfactory, hop across the street for food. I return with a quarter chicken, fried plantain and scoop of coleslaw stuffed into a green plastic bag. Its a short distraction but fortunately the Ray was a small one and the pain would only last half the night.
I am thinking to stay here about a month, or until I am happy with my Spanish. As I type this the guys are waiting for me to decide if I will take the place, perhaps I will try to get them to agree to a two week trial to match my initial commitment to the school. If it sucks I will switch to the homestay...