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Saturday Morning Chestnuts

My Dad used to have one of the artist's studios on Markham street across from Honest Ed's. It was one room stuffed with boxes of collected junk, a small bed, a tiny black and white TV perched on a broken stool that only got two channels and the smell of stale coffee mixed with moldy books. The door was fireproof steel and it would make a buckling sound as you pushed your way in against the piled up boxes.

It was a secret place and I loved it. The second floor entrance was unmarked and every step of the rusty steel fire escape between the buildings made its own sound. On the landing, wired to the railing, a motley crew of unruly mailboxes, each in their own state of misery, indicated the current status of the building’s mysterious tenants.

The washroom was down the hall and I was always afraid to walk the dark, creaky passage alone. The only respite was the single bare bulb in the toilet. Once inside I’d lock the steel door and listen to the sounds of disquieted tenants above and below whom, like Dad, had no where else to go.

Safely back on the bed we’d stay up late to watch Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and sip powdered hot chocolate from well-used Styrofoam cups, the promise of roasted chestnuts and a bright Saturday morning only hours away.

Perry

Eleanor's Eyes

The bird had no idea. Perched on the end of a thin branch all it knew, and cared, was that She was watching from the ledge above, ready to strike in an instant. The tension was palpable though not for the passer by whom would only see a little sparrow sitting perfectly still on a cold, crisp February dawn, and whom at most would perhaps wonder how the little bird kept from freezing solid.

The passer by was a woman named Eleanor. Late for work, Eleanor did not see Her, poised above, with the intent of death. In fact Eleanor would have missed the entire sequence of events that took place upon the little sparrow’s panicked flight if it were not for the fact that Mrs. Mellonby’s washing had frozen stiff over night.

She leapt. The bird sprang. The branch sprung. An icicle fell as Eleanor looked up at Mrs. Mellonby’s oddly distorted frozen sheets.

Dr. Philpot at the hospital said Eleanor was lucky the icicle was so small. If it had been bigger she could have suffered far worse. Dr. Philpot was proud of his collection of glass eyes and had chosen an almost perfect match for Eleanor. Except for the fact that it didn’t move like her other eye, you couldn’t tell it was not her own.

Eleanor left the hospital a few days later. At the crosswalk her new glass eye remained still even though her head turned both ways. Mrs. Mellonby’s sheets were still frozen on the line but Eleanor did not look at them. Instead Eleanor looked up past the sheets to the ledge.

That afternoon Eleanor returned to the building where Mrs. Mellonby lived. She had a large cardboard box with a hole cut in it and a can of tuna. It was for Her.

After the box was set up Eleanor went to the toy store. She asked the clerk for a bag of marbles. There were many colours and Eleanor picked one that matched her new glass eye. “Don’t you want them all?”, the clerk asked Eleanor. “No thank you”, Eleanor said. “This one is perfect”.

Then Eleanor went back to Mrs. Mellonby’s building to collect her box. Just as Eleanor had planned She was inside.

Dr. Philpot came to Eleanor’s Christmas party. On the door there was a welcome sign and a reminder to please not let the cat out. Dr. Philpot was quite proud of his work and at the punch bowl he remarked to several people how well the new eye looked. One of the guests congratulated Dr. Philpot and asked if he too could have his pet’s eyes fixed to match his own.

Choroni

The dragon lives here. Sleeping quietly under the mango trees he stirs not until dawn when the children come dancing and singing in pairs. Then puffs of black diesel stain the air as he rouses followed by an ear-splitting blast- the dragon is awake and ready to reclaim his territory.

Our bittersweet Caribbean treasure lies at the end of the dragon’s path, a series of unending switchbacks and hairpin turns that scale the cloud forests of Venezuela’s fortified north central coast before twisting their way back down through dense tropical growth. The river follows, crossing the centuries old pavement wherever it is convenient. Perhaps this trip is safer at night as Karina says. When one can at least see glimpses of approaching headlights. Instead we honk the horn continuously.

Founded by colonizing Spanish Captains in the early 17th century, Choroni was once the world’s most fortified producer of Cacao. Though no longer the case one can still breathe the thick, sweet air of cacao beans curing in the blistering heat in nearby Chuao. The road there however has long since atrophied and it is said that the one bus they have was brought, in pieces, by small fishing boats.

Tourism is Choroni's industry now. They come in the belly of the dragon. In spite of the threatening Spanish canons embeded in the breakwall, it’s the children’s fireworks that scare intruders like me.

Fresh Air

The patch of loose gravel in the driveway announces her arrival. Sheiza thinks David, its Carolina. Twenty-four years old and already loose around the eyes. By seven-thirty am she has consumed eight cigarettes and three cups of coffee. “Allo darling, three times that’s right”. Carolina insists on the three-kiss exchange. David was sure this was just her way of getting attention and had gotten used to it. The urge to gag however was harder to suppress. He hated smokers.

Carolina makes a beeline for his desk in the corner. “Are you writing?” she asks. Her short skirt rides high as she bends over David’s laptop. He feels a stir in his shorts. Damn he hates this girl.

David mumbles something about the Saturday Night article but his response is irrelevant, by now he has learned that this is her show. “Come here David”, she says solemnly. His mouth begins to form an objection but he has already crossed the room. After all he had been the one to ask for help.

They had been introduced at a cocktail party. David was loaded when he told her about his ‘problem’ and she, being a women of the world, had offered, actually insisted would be more accurate, to get him past it. At the time David was just trying to get into her pants, but drunken logic argued that this girl, a passing acquaintance at best, might well be the answer.

Carolina’s ‘lessons’ usually last about twenty minutes. Thankfully after that she gets bored and leaves though admittedly the first few times were exciting. Carolina would undress David, tease him until he was ready to burst, and then sit down and smoke until the urge subsided. At first this could only go on a few minutes before David lost it but now he was able to withstand a fair bit of ‘torture’, smoke notwithstanding.

“It's like that dog Pavlov”, Carolina said from the sofa, “repetition learns behaviour”. Sickly-sweet cigarette smoke fills the one-bedroom flat and, along with David, is looking for a way to escape. “I think I am past it now” he says feebly. “Well that stain on your pants seem to be saying otherwise”, says Carolina between draws.

Her answer is meant to sting but David no longer cares what Carolina thinks. Repulsion has replaced sexual urge. He wants her gone, out of his life, and fresh air.

The Main Event

A shanty town of scrap wood cages and breeding pens fill the entire backyard. In the larger cages the breeders, cocks of Spanish and Asian descent, stand proud while the cages around them house their progeny, every last one of them born to fight.

Desus shows me his favorites, each one raised with the hope, love and insufferable intent of a career minor leaguer. Using a hack saw blade and a firm grip he cuts the sharp points off the rear talons of a young well-fed brown and yellow feathered rooster. A pinch of dirt stops the tiny trickle of blood. In two months this cock will prove his worth he tells me. Until then however he will be exercised and sunned daily, fed a special diet and receive regular vitamin injections.

I am intrigued by the 'Guantes', tiny round boxing gloves that fit over the roosters talons to protect them from each other during sparring matches. Even more intriguing is his collection of tiny, razor sharp blades fashioned into miniature horseshoes. The blades come in different sizes which are carefully matched with a competitors' weapon and weight.

As the sun begins its downward trajectory I am one of twenty-one two legged passengers- twelve men and nine roosters- packed into a Toyota pick up en-route to the big fight. For ninety minutes we drive past tiny pueblos, schools, churches and pickers looking down from heavily loaded plantain trucks posing as mobile green mountains. Those of us not in sacks endure the long and bumpy ride with hopeful anticipation though in my case it is to simply arrive intact. The roosters see none of it.

The arena is comprised of a large tin roof, a boarded ring approximately twenty feet in diameter and several tiers of rough-hewn planks as stands. Over centre ring hangs a watch and bell, two of the three tools used by the official. The third is small pecked-though sheet of plywood used to separate the cocks at face off. Opposite the stands is a wailing wall of competitors cages which open and close with the arrival of Nicaragua's finest competitors. By four o'clock the crowd is four deep and Desus takes me aside to explain the rules.

Each fight lasts fifteen minutes. If a rooster falls or refuses to fight then time is called and the handlers have a count of twenty to revive their animals before they are faced off again. The proximity of the face off is determined by the deteriorating condition of the animals therefore usually they get closer and closer as the match progresses. This process continues until one of the cocks is unable to continue due to death, injury or dismemberment.

Passion runs high in this sport and by the second fight of the afternoon there have been no less than five serious shouting matches between handlers and various members of the audience. Desus is up next. After weighing in (a tin cone with protruding chicken feet hangs from a produce scale in the corner) he and his opponent expertly wrap the blades to their cocks with twine. A final wrap of electrical tape completes the process.

A flurry of betting takes over the arena and the cock's waste no time getting into it drawing blood almost immediately. Leaping and pecking they attack each other with reckless abandon seemingly oblivious to their own carnage until finally, Desus' cock falls under the wing the other and time is called.

Essentially there are two types of fighting, jumping and kicking (with bladed talons) and pecking the head and face of your opponent. Since the cocks need little encouragement to attack each other the effectiveness of the handler is most evident during time outs when they try their best to revive their roosters.

To clear the wounds quickly Desus puts the head of his rooster in his mouth alternately sucking and spitting out the blood in quick succession. As the official begins his count to twenty Desus deftly applies pressure to other wounds and strokes the animal reassuringly. At twenty the official draws two lines in the dirt, places the starting board in between and the fight resumes.

This scene repeats several times with both handlers keeping a keen eye on the watch. With three minutes to go the roosters and handlers are covered in blood and both competitors have fallen several times though Desus' charge seems the worse for wear. Determinedly Desus keeps up the coaching, sucking and spitting and the match ends in a draw.

The fights go past ten pm and, with all but two of the nine roosters dead, there is room to fit another three people in the back of the pick up.

Travelling without moving

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.

Jelly Salad

Gran Pete (a.k.a. Grampete) was a woman of great strength and character. Firmly engaging, her presence both compelled and intimidated us kids during summer visits to High Meadow, her country home in upstate New York. It was there, amongst the deciduous and coniferous that we saw our first jellied salad.

I recall the day with perfect clarity, as it was one of great activity and import. With Grampete's oversized magnifying glass I had discovered fire. Focusing the powerful rays of a mid-summer sun I quickly burned a hole into the soft pine deck. An unsuspecting ant became the next casualty and, with the lust for power growing within, I then set fire to a roll of paper towels. The resulting blaze scared the pants off me and the menacing death ray was promptly returned to its place on the coffee table.

Later that afternoon my younger sister and I found some poison ivy amongst the shrubbery that divided High Meadow from the neighboring farmers field. It didn't take long for the itching to start. With our clothes in a hot wash we were scrubbed raw with lye soap and relegated to the cool basement until dinner.

Screened in but still outside, the back porch was everyone's favorite place to eat. The table was big enough to accommodate uncles, aunts and cousins as it did that year, as well as the many morsels it would take to feed us all. To our collective delight Uncle Leo did the cooking and one by one the dishes made their way to the table. Fresh corn and salads, incredible pastas, specialty antipastos from the city and finally, roast lamb with mint sauce for Grampete. It was always delicious and this day would be no exception.

'Elbows!' Grampete was always strong on this point yet somehow it was all but impossible to remember to keep them off the table, especially when crazed, and semi-delirious with hunger. How and why the ruckus we all made did not scare off the deer that came to watch I don't know but there it was, curiously sniffing the air from the crest of the meadow. And then Grampete brought the last dish to the table.

Now I knew what Jello was and this was not it. Surely it couldn't be. It was wiggly yes, and gelatinous looking for sure. It even had the shape of the frilly copper shelter it had been hiding under like Jello sometimes did but this was anything but Jello.

Creamy-green and opaque it contained portions of something I could not identify. Grampete called it aspic. 'Jelly Salad' someone said under their breath and, like the formed mound on the plate, I shuddered. Just then my cousin Yvonne screamed and, clutching her stomach, began to roll about making barfing sounds. Thinking the same thing we all turned to Grampete expecting the worst but it never came. 'This is what my mother used to make', she said meaning we would all be trying some. The deer was gone.

His glasses landed at my feet

August 22, 11:35 pm. I stand in line for the ATM behind two guys in their early twenties whose striped shirts and slip-on loafers announce which clique they belong to. Twelve-hour shooting schedules and dinner meetings leave little time to deal with other important things like getting to the bank while its open.

With school just around the corner the kids, mostly drunk, are everywhere. Back to school in Halifax. The preppies leave as the machine doles out my maximum withdrawal in twenties which I quickly place in each of my shoes. Making a beeline for the hotel a recurring image of a fight tugs at the back of my mind.

Fortunately this not quite diamonds/not a poor boy routine ends tomorrow. It's the last day of shooting the second Blackout 77 music video and the cast and crew get cashed out at days end. After that I can relax into a slightly saner post-production, send me the bill schedule.

Bank run done I head off to see the band play at the Seahorse Tavern. It's a good chance for me to block out some of tomorrow's shots and also provides the means to keep this sleep deprivation thing I have going.

The kids are still about on my way back, various groups and gaggles occupying street corners and parkettes along Spring Garden road. Halfway to the hotel across from the ATM I approach a confrontation in the making. A muscular sporto getting in the face of a well-dressed geek and his girlfriend. I hear the sound of his nose break before he even knows he's been hit.

Accusational Thievery

Sunday February 1, 10:30AM
I was still in my underwear when Yves approached the house and, seeing as we had only met yesterday for the first time, I was surprised to see him. "Where were you yesterday at 1 pm?", he asked. Having gotten used to strangely phrased discussions here (Yves' first language is French and my Spanish is that of a small child's), I interpreted this as simply an opening line. "Uh, here cleaning the guesthouse", I replied, "How are Alan and Jan?"

Alan and Jan were a lovely couple from Toronto I had met two days earlier at a local restaurant. Having enjoyed our first conversation, and perhaps feeling a little homesick, I went looking for them yesterday at Yves' hotel on the Costanerra (Coast Highway). It was their last day of vacation and, after a long, pleasant talk that spanned building a home here in Costa Rica to delivering Hungarian food, I left their room with a bag of leftover groceries and a plan to meet up at my place after lunch. "They were robbed', Yves replied, "and so was the Posada".

"Robbed! Where are they now?" I asked. "I don't know", Yves replied then, irritably, "Why did you come to see me yesterday? You say you came for friends but you never came before and you also tell me you want to see my place in case you have guests for me some day." "Yes. Right", I say, "Would you like to sit down for a minute?" Yves hurries toward his motorcycle, "No, I have no time". Then he is gone.

Disturbed by the news and worried for Alan and Jan, I decided to try and find them. I had yet to connect the dots when I left the house, something Alan did without hesitation as I walked in to the police station. Their rental car was parked out front.

"Did the police bring you here?" asked Alan. He and Jan occupied the only two chairs so I sat on the tile floor between them. "No, I came to find you, why?" A precariously thin veil of restraint kept the two hundred and sixty pound H-vac installer in his small chair. "We know you did it." he said.

It has been a long time since I've felt my ears burn. Alan went on to tell me that their credit cards, driver's licences and cash were taken just after I left as they departed their room for the beach. He theorized that no Tico (a local term for Costa Rican) would think to take the ID and the cards and leave everything else. Also, short of the goatee, I could pass for his picture.

Jan picked it up from there. There were witnesses, now on their way here, who had seen someone in a blue shirt and short hair climbing the balcony. Plus they already knew where the cards had been used; gas stations and major purchases to the north. She felt really sorry for the person who did this because they were going to have a real bad vacation. "If I am wrong I will be the first to apologize to you but I think you did it", Alan finally said firmly.

I remained on the floor between them. For the life of me I couldn't remember what shirt I had on yesterday. Apparently it was blue.

Saturday January 31, 11:30PM
After leaving Alex and Jan's room I came home to tidy-up the guesthouse and wait for their arrival. I was looking forward to hiking them into my secret waterfall, which would be a nice way to spend the afternoon before picking up friends who were coming for dinner.

Of course Alex and Jan never arrived and sometime after four pm I gave up waiting and set out for the fishmonger in Pinuelas. I bought four good-sized white snapper from the fishmonger's wife and continued on north to my friends in Hermosa. Unfortunately they too were unable to make it and as I headed back towards home I contemplated bringing the fish up to my pal Stijn in Playa Matapalo. Stijn had sent an invitation for a big party that night but it was two-thirds the way to Quepos, required an overnight stay and I had plans to spear fish the next day.

I arrived home about 5:30 and, as fresh fish is simply too good for the freezer, invited my neighbours to a dinner of coconut steamed snapper. It was still early when they left but already I could hear the thumping bass drift over from a big fiesta in nearby Ventanas. It sounded like a good opportunity for some fun people watching so I headed over to another friend's and together we set out for the fiesta.

Sunday February 1, 11:00AM
The Ojochal police station is a small, square building divided equally into kitchen, bedroom, waiting room and office with the latter two each having their own front door. On one side marked 'Publico' were the newly arrived witnesses and a local officer. On the other 'Oficial' side sat Alan, Jan, an officer I didn't recognize and myself. The entire facility including its tiny out-house sized holding cell was brand new and operated by two local policia who patrolled the area tandem on their single-issue dirt bike.

I sat with Alan and Jan as the new officer slowly copied out information from their passports. Yves and one of the local policia, a stout man with silver and gold fillings who could have been a pirate in another life, appeared from the kitchen. They both seemed surprised to see me. I gathered the earlier visit from Yves was to see if I was still around.

"When were you in Quepos?" the pirate policia asked en Espanol. I responded in kind, "Yo no Quepos ayer. "Is that where the card was used?", I asked Alan. My god, I thought to myself, what if I had gone to see Stijn? Alan nods. Just then an American woman I saw at Yves' hotel yesterday, obviously one of the witnesses, walks up to the doorway to look at me. Suddenly everyone is staring. The stout officer asks me to join him in the back room.

The other local policia, lean and soft-spoken, joins us and asks me to remove my shirt. Apparently in both robberies the thief had come up through the forest and climbed the balcony. Figuring this will go a lot quicker if I just go along with them I take off my camisa and reveal the scratch down my back that I received last Thursday when a large wave decided to give me its autograph with the tip of my spear gun. "Con mi arbeleta", I explain. He then asks to see my hands and proceeds to prod the pads of my palms. There are no marks or bruises. "Where were you at five pm yesterday?" The short cop has rings on each of his fingers something I gather serves purpose other than fashion. With great earnest and sincerity I launch into a pathetic, grammatically corrupt explanation of my day and the officers call in Yves to translate.

Once again I recount my day. About mid-way through Yves seems to loosen up a little, perhaps having decided I am no longer such a likely suspect as the card had been used in Quepos at five pm and the drive back would have me home no sooner than six-thirty, well after I had invited my neighbours to dinner. Nevertheless I offer to introduce them to each of the people I was with to verify my whereabouts and times but they decline. The soft-spoken cop looks at me. "I saw you at Ventanas last night", he says. "Si, yo vine la fiesta." This seems to satisfy him and they thank me for coming.

On my way out I offer Alan and Jan my sympathies and encourage them to let me know if there is anything I can do to help. "Again I am the first to apologize right now if I am wrong but everything just points to you", says Alan. I accept his apology and take my leave.

Sunday February 1, 12:30PM
I resent the wrongful accusation. It's no longer my problem of course but the chances of the police ever catching the thief are practically nil and I dislike the idea of these people returning home, (my home!) fixed on the idea that I was the one who ripped them off.

With that in mind I write down my name and email address and return to Yves' hotel where Alan and Jan are preparing to leave. With them are Yves and the American woman whose mouth hangs open at the sight of me. Jan immediately excuses herself as I get out of the car so, handing my address to Alan, I ask him to please let me know what happens. After that there is nothing else to say but Yves thanks me for coming and we agree that there is time for us to get properly acquainted in the future.

Monday February 2, 12:30PM
Twenty-four hours later and no one has come to haul me away. The good news is should that still happen I already have several promises from friends to toss granola bars through the window and one offer to bust me out with a machete should the need arise.

Meantime I can't help but wonder if those nice folks will ever let go of the idea that I did it. Maybe letting them know how to get a hold of me wasn't such a good idea...

I Love the Smell of Javex in the Morning

A rich, vibrant sunset plays in the picture window. Silhouetted in front sits a table and chairs, my computer and its case. "Nice bag!" she says pointing to the black laptop bag. A friend of a girl-friend, both with an undefined itinerary.

I have other guests. Dear friends from France, Ontario and Quebec join us for farm-raised chicken sauted in curry-peanut sauce, vegetarian cumin-pepper ground soy, orange-lemon rice and fresh guacamole. Conversation drifts from French to English to Spanish. The wine flows.

Later that evening I try to put her to bed. "I want to have a moment with you", she says. Although I crave intimacy the highly intoxicated, cigarette-infused offer is offensive. She is beyond reasoning. We retreat to the bedroom; my attempt to contain the breach and protect the other guests.

From the far side of the bed I hope that a horizontal position will induce slumber. Then, suddenly, her full weight is on me. Naked, soft, sloppy. I push her away from my face. Her head lands on my belly. Fumbling with my waist button. Eyelashes tickle my stomach. Can I do this? No. I wrestle her off me and into a lock-spoon Hulk Hogan would be proud of. Hold and wait. Her legs entangle mine. I wait longer. Finally her breathing settles, body relaxes. I free myself, cover her with a blanket and retreat to the sofa bed where her friend sleeps. At last peace. I fall asleep.

Errrrpe! The sound of chair scraping floor wakes me. Errp! Again the chair, I look up. Silhouetted in the picture window she sits, on the table, completely nude. The girlfriend beside me wakes as well, she is the first to say anything. "Honey? Wake up Honey!". Blurred thoughts race through my head, is she watching over us? Upset? Wake up? My mind races back in time, my sister, three years old sleep walking through the house, through the kitchen to the basement stairs, sitting down on the top step and... something spills over. HOLY SHIT!!

"HEY! WAKE UP! YOU'RE PEEING ON THE TABLE!" She is indignant. "So What?!" she says, I'm naked too!! Urine rolls off two sides of the table, her bottom a momentary break wall for my precious laptop. I have only seconds.

I mop, twice. It takes some time to get her back to bed. She wants a drink, a smoke. To talk. I promise the other guests explanations in the morning; it's only a few hours away.

Evaporating pools of fragrant bleach catch the first rays of a rising sun. Sleep deprived I quietly inspect the scene of the crime. The table, floor and chairs are disinfected. My computer needs a sponge bath. Only the laptop case has permanent damage.
--

Somebody's Angel

Playa Matapalo is a scenic, palm and almond tree-lined beach that stretches the several miles from Manuel Antonio National Reserve to the smaller mangroves of the south. Facing west-southwest it receives a fair amount of swell but the irregular contours of the beach create less than desirable waves and exceptionally strong currents making it unattractive to surfers and extremely dangerous for swimmers.

The playa is however very accessible and, in spite of warnings and local knowledge, it has become the site of a disproportionate number of accidents and drownings of both locals and un-savvy tourists.

Accessibility was inevitably the reason the family from Utah, with four boys and Mom in a wheelchair, chose to stay there and it was the reason I decided to go there for a quick pre-Christmas dinner surf while visiting Stijn DeWitt and Co. at Fundacion Matapalo.

Actually the surf had been flat all week and so I was less than choosy about how good it was. Determined to get wet on my birthday the day before I had to settle for a long swim rather than go home dry.

Waxing up my board I watched the waves repeatedly wash the four boys and their father off their feet. One of the locals I met here last week came over to watch as well pointing out the red warning flag put up by lifeguards earlier that day. The flag and a large dangerous swimming sign were no more than twenty feet from the mother in her wheelchair and their family's car.

By the time I began to paddle out the father was already caught in the outgoing current along with one of the boys on a foam boogie board. Changing my course to take advantage of the rip I quickly came within reach. "Are you in control?" I asked. The Father, now having something to hold on to, seemed confidant and so I paddled out of the current and towards the waves.

By the time I looked back they had not made any progress escaping the moving water and appeared to be well on their way out to sea. It took longer to reach them the second time and, while not yet desperate, it was clear that they were tired and in trouble.

I asked the Father if he was a strong swimmer. His answer, "I don't know", I took as a negative. Unfastening the leash from my ankle I gave him my surfboard and began to direct the two of them towards the breaking waves and out of the channel.

It took a good ten minutes of swimming beside and behind them, pushing and shouting encouragement before we escaped the powerful rip for the incoming waves. Although many rolled over our heads the waves' momentum helped greatly in the push to shore. Also by now a lifeguard had arrived on the beach, his red shirt providing a focal point and probably some confidence to the two weary tourists who, finally, found sand under their feet.

Leaving them to recover I paddled back out into the waves in hopes of a few good rides but it was apparent that I had already achieved my purpose for being in the water today. Back at my car the Father, still in shock, approached me and asked if he might buy me a drink or something. Although I declined I could feel his need for a debriefing of some sort.

I was glad therefore to see him and his wife later that evening when I came down the hill for last-minute dinner supplies. We had a short talk and he thanked me kindly for saving them. It was a nice exchange and this time I felt there was at least some closure for him.

Peaceful Resistance

As we began our descent into San Jose, Costa Rica the pursor announced that they would be coming through the cabin to spray a non-toxic insecticide approved by the World Health Organization. The announcment was quick, carefully timed and totally unexpected.

Determined to prevent this from happening I coralled two of the three cabin crew members in the forward galley, doing my best to engage them in conversation as long as possible. Although the dialogue was terse at first it did not take long for one of the crew members to admit that she personally was not comfortable with the proceedure. It was however a requirement. Assuring her that I understood her position I made it clear that I would not consent to being subjected to the spray nor would many other passengers accept their rights and health being compromised.

Well into our descent now the pursor arrived which put all three potential sprayers in one place. Being sure to block their access to the cabin I began the conversation again with the woman in charge. She quickly aknowledged my concern and carefully suggested her agreement with my position but insisted that without the spraying we would be impounded on arrival.

Like a skidding car or impending orgasm confrontational situations have a defining moment at which point one must make a total commitment to regaining control or give oneself over to the outcome. Until this point I had intended to just argue my point however it now was clear that a more physical approach may be required to prevent this from happening.

Slowly and carefully I restated my concern this time making it clear that I would not allow the spraying to take place. The pursor and I were fully engaged, both of us firm and both of us totally compassionate for the other. She spoke first.

The bottles would be checked on arrival and if not emptied we would be quarantined. She would not spray near my seat. I told her that was unacceptable. A heady moment passed.

Perhaps I would not be arrested I thought. Although these days any physical resistance is sure to be considered a serious threat regardless of the circumstances. I asked the crew if they remembered the Stewartesses that contracted cancer from spraying cabins in the sixties and seventies. So what if the W.H.O approved it, did they know what was in the spray?

Pyrethrum is the most widely used botanical insecticide in the United States. The active ingredient, pyrethrin, is extracted from a chrysanthemum plant, grown primarily in Kenya, Rwanda, Tanzania and Ecuador.

Pyrethrins and synthetic derivatives called pyrethroids have low-to-moderate toxicity for humans and other mammals and are now a widely used alternative to organophosphates. However, they are known to provoke serious asthma and allergy attacks in susceptible people. Also, pyrethrin products usually contain piperonyl butoxide, an additive whose safety has been brought into question by recent studies that showed liver cancer in both mice and rats exposed to the substance.

The bathroom was an option. The spray would be sucked up by the suction of the toilet and contained within the closet. An agreement perhaps. The choice was now mine. Return to my seat and vacation and trust that we have come to an understanding or, stand firm until we land and take up residence in a Costa Rican holding tank.

Compassionate eyes all around. I returned to my seat and numerous queries by the passangers. What happend? Are they spraying? What did you say?

Hand on the release of my seat belt, I watched the crew carefully for the remainder of the flight. One came by to record my seat number although she pretended not to. I did not smell anything.

Perry

The Cathedral

Huge heads of limestone reach out just inches above the waters surface from their tiny island body. The waters rise and and fall and with each surge a sharp rush rips through the narrow gap like an indy car with a bad muffler.

Bobbing in front of this monstrosity I contemplate the promise of a passage eight meters below, one that supposedly leads to a fantastic cavern inside. They call it the Cathedral.

Stig and Carlos have already gone ahead and by the time they return, faces alight with the wonder of this marvel, I have made two descents into the gloom and seen nothing of an inviting entrance.

I feel comfortable, my dives were gentle and not too deep but the apprehension of not knowing where I might end up scares the poop out of me. They tell me it is easy but what does easy mean to two of the most accomlished freedivers in the world?

I promised my mom that I wouldn't dive.

Marcello returns glowing. "Follow me" he says. We breathe up and I follow Marcello down into the gloom. At eight meters we head directly towards the wall of rock and then suddenly there it is, a gaping hole leading into darkness. Closely I follow the fins ahead of me around and in and then up. A faint light becons and I look up in time to see the ceiling stretching overhead at an upward angle. Marcello is gone but I can follow the roof's contour and then the wall in front of me as it turns vertical. Looking up I see the surface mirrored but it is almost impossible to tell how far it is. Then I catch a glimpse of neon orange, the sleeve of Marcello's wetsuit and I know I am there.

It is truly an incredible sight. Pure light pierces a hole fifty feet above and reflects off the water's surface to reval a huge, damp cavern. The air is mysteriously rich and, overhead, tucked into a tiny alcove is a statue of the Virgin Mary.

A glorious moment overtakes me.

A new friend Jorge joins us and for the next several minutes all three of us simply marvel at this wonderous sanctuary.

The way out is well marked by the powerful midday sun. A short dive down and I follow Jorge towards the light. We duck into another opening on the right, and I enter a magnificent tunnel lined with puzzles of green algea and golden urchins. The tunnel asks me to dance and promises to lead. We weave and turn and then suddenly I am back outside with a smile so big and feeling so great I forget about any fears or apprehension I may have had before.

I feel delivered.

Costa Rica-II

I woke to the macaw's screeches as the sun peeked out from over the gulf. Danny and I had a quick breakfast and full of anticipation, set out down the beach for Van's. Once there I began to prep my gear as Van came out of the house to get his longboard so he could paddle over to where his boat was anchored. "People don't shoot the Parrot fish here", Van said. He turned to Danny, "Are you fishing?" Danny replied brightly, "I'm here for support, whatever needs to be done". That's when Van dropped the bomb. "Yeah well the boats pretty full so we don't really need any help." I was floored. Right then and there Van sent Danny home.

A few minutes later as I was rigging my speargun he came over to tell me I would have to shoot for smaller fish from the surface. Apparently the big ones were too deep and he had lost a spear shooting at them the other day. Again I was stunned, here he is watching me wrap 400 lb. test mono that attaches the spear to my gun, how am I going to loose a spear? Not wanting to sound patronizing I tried to explain my set up as if I were proud of it. The mono is about 15 feet long, I have a 75 ft. float line attached to the end of my gun with an inflatable float at the end of that so I can dive down shoot, and if necessary, let go of the works and pull it in from the surface. Then I see that Van's speargun has no mono or line of any kind. Van, now realizing how not to loose his equipment turns to Nick, one of his guests that will be accompanying us, and instructs him to tie a boat bumper to the spear in his gun.

A few minutes later Van, Nick, Nick's girlfriend Paula and myself set out for the rocky reef about two miles west of the point. Once there Nick took over the helm and Van and I slipped into the water. On my first dive I was immediately schooled by about one hundred 2-5lb. Rainbow runners. I waited at about 25 feet and was just lining one up as a half dozen or so Jack Crevalle appeared just beyond the wall of Rainbows. Aiming between the fish in front of me I pulled the trigger and nailed a 12- pounder. The fish was easy to pull in and I waved the boat over to pick it up. Noting the commotion and type of fish I had caught Van yelled over that this was not the kind of fish we wanted and I should be shooting at the Rainbows.

The current was steady and by the time I got rigged up again I had drifted about 100 yards from the sweet spot over the reef. Looking back I saw the boat busy towing Van back into position so it was up to me to swim against the current until I saw the Rainbows again and once there took one on my second dive of the day. Again the boat came over to collect the fish however after passing it over the boat was quickly gone and I was again left to swim back into position. My blisters burned all the way. My third dive brought up another nice 5-6 pound Rainbow. perfect for grilling whole, and this time when the boat arrived to collect I hopped in and got a ride back into position.

I slipped into the water near Van and dove to 40 ft. expecting more of the pretty little rainbow runners and was shocked when a school of 50 or so barracuda cruised by to check me out. Uneasy I slowly rose to the surface and called over to Van to ask if he had seen them. He called back enthusiastically "Yeah! Shoot em! They're good eating!

Until now I had been hunting with only one band as the fish were small and close range. Anticipating the need for more power I loaded up the second band breathed up and went back down. The barracuda were still in position and I lined up a 20 pounder. The spear went in behind the gill plate just enough for the slip tip to string the fish who gave surprisingly little fight on the way back up. I called the boat over and let them take it in with the gaff. Both Nick and Paula were pretty freaked out so I hopped in and passing my knife to Paula, coached her to brain it before it got jumpy and somebody lost a finger. If Danny was going to sit at home I wanted to make sure she did something useful.

The boat had drifted a fair bit and I slipped back in the water, way out of position as once again Nick and Paula took off to tow Van. Cursing at my stupidity and their lack of attention I plodded back towards the goods. My blistered ankles ached, the neoprene booties no longer making any difference.

By the time I got back to the spot Nick and Van had switched places. Van was rigging the gun and handing it to Nick who would take a shot from the surface, miss, and hand it back for reloading. I watched them do this a couple of times and decided to keep my distance.

The barracuda were still very present and had seemed to scare off everything else. Remembering a BBQ invitation for that evening I decided to take one more and at 30 feet or so got a line on one that appeared to be the same size as the first. Calling the boat over I handed the gun with fish on to Nick who had given up and was now back in the boat. Climbing aboard the other side I discovered the second barracuda was about 10 lbs. bigger than the first. Everyone was clearly done and haven taken as much as the four of us could eat it was time to leave. Van seemed a little pissed not to have caught anything so I kept quiet except to thank him for the ride. I was peeved about being left alone so often but didn't want to loose my chance at another boat ride.

Back at Van's I cleaned all the fish and layed out some barracuda steaks in return for the ride. He graciously offered me a cooler to take the booty home in and then asked for two of the rainbows rather than the barracuda. I couldn't believe it.

Perry Gladstone

Family Currency

My great Grandfather, Zaidy Herman, had a button and lace store in Kensington market where my Mother, and her Mother were raised. Buttons were the currency of their childhood.

I can barely remember the old shelves stacked high with hundreds of identical generic boxes, differentiated only by a single button sewn by my great Grandfather's hand to the front of each box.

More vivid a memory however is the orange drawer box of buttons my mother kept which my Sister and I loved to play with. The drawer on the left contained the smaller ones which were the perfect size for scooping off the living room rug with my Tonka toy truck.

Larger buttons, still in their original boxes, were also dumped onto the floor and then carefully separated by texture, colour and size. We would then trade them like playing cards, each of us coveting our favorite kinds.

While the button store is long gone, I still frequent Kensington market, connected by an invisible thread to the place where my family, built their dreams.

A few years ago I was walking along Augusta Ave. and passed an old trinket shop. I ignored the bins of cheap hats and t-shirts lining the entrance until something stopped me in my tracks. In the windows were sun-blanched buttons, sewn four to a card. The very same ones that once adorned the shelves of my Zaidy's store.

In that moment four generations manifest simultaneously. Overcome, I stood motionless my mind spinning with a million thoughts. I recalled my Mothers story of how, after Zaidy Herman passed away, a giant bin was brought to the front of the store and thousands of buttons were thrown away. Tears began to well. I remembered the garage full of buttons and lace, treasures rescued by my Mother and Grandmother. Those too were eventually lost or given away. Weak and confused I eventually turned away.

--
Two weeks ago I came downstairs to find my two year old niece playing in my parents living room. Spread across the very same rug I once played on were dozens of buttons of various shapes and sizes. I watched as she carefully examined one after the other, absorbing the rich history and significance of each.

Our family's currency is buttons.

Perry Gladstone