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Christmas in Caracas

My time here is over and the city bustles on. Chaotic traffic, unhampered noise and the employed middle class, still hopped up on mandatory December bonuses, wreaking havoc in the shops and malls. Closing my itchy eyes I bring back the taste of a shining, salty carribean sea, sun and sand in the sheets.
Ciao Karina. Te Amo.

Mirage

A long deserted mile of perfect beach, hot sun and crystal clear caribbean water. Now if only I had an ice cream sandwich...

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.

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.

Stepping out in Nicaragua

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...

Ghost in the machine?

The name of the bar was 'Goldlips', recently changed from Goldfinger which should have been our first clue. We had already seen most of what was to offer in the entertainment department here in Puerto La Cruz, namely casinos passed off as bingo halls, so it should have come as no surprise that the term 'American bar' would also refer to something other than the obvious. But I am jumping ahead...

At 11:25 am this morning Carlos Coste made a second attempt for the world freediving record in Variable Weight descending once again to the incredible depth of 135 meters by sled and returning to the surface under his own power. The total dive time was an extremely tense 4:36 as Carlos took his time during the ascent leaving no question of his incredible abilities.

Unlike the previous attempt video documentation on the sled, bottom plate and surface were all in order however a malfunction with the back up surface camera left no room for error. That makes three times we have experienced problems with the video documention. It makes you wonder.

With Carlos' record dive successful (pending final ratification and doping test results) we could all finally relax a little. Stig Severinsen's third and final attempt at Constant No Fins will be this Friday so, with day and half to recover, the gang headed out to the Bingo for a few drinks and a little roulette action.

The beer was free in the VIP section where Carlos promptly lost his minimum start of 20,000 Bolivares. Meanwhile Luiz Delgado, our primary safety diver and class clown raked in the chips for over an hour before giving it all back. As the boys played with marbles Danish cinematographer Jesper and I critiqued the shameless lounge music while tossing the complimentary ice cubes thoughtfully included in our beers.

With that done it was time to change venues. The American bar beckoned. Flanked by Luiz and scuba safety Guacharo, Jesper and I made our way to Goldlips, a seedy looking joint in the tenderlion of Puerta La Cruz. Though it was in Spanish the MC's voice through the hazy neon interior was unmistakeable, American bar means strip club.

Now if the girls were really exciting that might have changed things a little but the reality is that in Venezuela the women walking down the street are so beautiful that there really is no need for place like this. Mind you the pole work was impressive.

Quick trip to Ecuador

After a sleepless night packing and repacking my shiny new Sportube with spearguns and accessories, I made the long journey from Toronto to Miami to Caracas with little fanfare. The organizers of Reto en el Abismo 2004 (Challenge the depths), a week of freediving world record attempts in Venezuela seven days from now, had paid for this first part of the trip as I am to be the primary judge.

Having long been interested in exploring the Ecuadorian coast I tacked on an extra week ahead of time to scout for inexpensive winter-home opportunities. Unfortunately the only flights to Ecuador that matched my schedule included a five-hour stop-over in Bogota enroute from Caracas to Guayaquil. Needless to say I was a wreck when I checked into a small pension late that night.

I woke up anxious to see the ocean but there was at least another four hours to go. The packed bus from Guayaquil to the coastal town of Montanita was reminiscent of the many trips I had taken through Central America.

Traveling at incredible velocities the old Mercedes bus seemed to smooth out somewhere around 140 km/hr giving the illusion that the driver was in control. Counteracting this illusion was the random half-stops at populated crossroads where either more passengers or vendors of various types of food would board. Squeezing their way up and down the aisles the vendors would peddle their wares until the next crossroads where they would jump from the moving vehicle and wait for a bus going in the opposite direction.

Some offerings were more interesting than others, dripping grilled chicken skin on a stick for example, however my favorite was the guy who meticulously selected single miniature crackers for each passenger (served with a pair of tongs) before returning with bottles of soda pop and plantain chips. It is surely an impressive feat to board and disembark from a moving bus with a cooler full of soft drinks and sticks of dripping chicken skin.

My destination was Casa del Sol, a small surf hotel run by Californian Randy Hood. Randy is a pioneer of Montanita with beachfront property one kilometer from town where a nice little point break generates the best wave in south Ecuador. We had met via email and he had offered to show me around a little, an offer he made good on over the next few days.

In the meantime I sucked up as much of the atmosphere as I could. Making regular forays into town and setting out on little adventures I got a feel for the state of things, the strongest impression being one of hopeful, expectant opportunity to come by locals and gringos respectively.

In many ways this is exactly what I had hoped to find. A great location with basic infrastructure ten to twenty years behind places like Costa Rica where speculation by North Americans and Europeans had already changed the costs and rules of engagement. Of course signs that some had tried to do so were also here, semi-abandoned resorts and hotels, monuments to over anxious investors ahead of their time.

The geography was also very interesting. From here south the land was arid and dry while just to the north things became lush and even forest like. It reminded me of the drive from Flagstaff to Phoenix which goes from alpine to desert in much the same manner. The diversity seemed indicative of the opportunity.

Coastal Ecuador is farther and more expensive to get to than my familiar Central American stomping grounds. Hassle factor is higher and as for marketability, the place just doesn't have a sought-after travel reputation. As a result many of the tourists are back-packers looking for dirt-cheap fare and accommodation. Not ideal if one is going to rely on walk-in tourist trade for sustenance. On top of all that is the fact that the water is a little cooler (now I will admit to being a warm water wimp but you have to agree there is something special about surfing in trunks). I ponder all this as I consider my plans for the winter.

Randy too has been thinking this over, wondering how best to build the business without spinning his wheels. It doesn't take long before I am immersed in identifying key strategies and walking him through the process of creating a solid business plan. When the two of us finally come up for air I realize I have hardly done any fishing.

A warm breeze slips under the overcast skyline and along the beach. Flat light. Without the wind on your skin it would be hard to distinguish oneself from the panorama. I wade into the familiar Pacific Ocean greeting it with my thoughts and swim out to the end of the rocky point.

A few short dives reveal a series of tiny fjords, which while close together on the surface, open up below where the usual suspects congregate. Visibility in the ten-foot range offers little encouragement and so I hunker down into some rocky formations and wait for something edible. There is relatively little activity and after twenty or so dives I come to the conclusion that parrotfish is going to have to do.

With two bands loaded on my Riffe speargun I dive down and lock into a large iridescent blue parrot. The spear flies from the teak stock and catches the fish mid flank, knocking it sideways. It's a poor shot but secure. Then, reaching for my knife to dispatch the fish I suddenly realize its not there. I must have left the sheath open.

Angry with myself I come up for air and pull in the float line attached to my bright orange float and stringer. In the process of trying to brain the fish with the stringer I lose my grip on both it and the fish who, clearly as upset with the situation as I am, decides to make a prompt departure. The next few dives turn up nothing, surely my due. Continuing to dive and preoccupied with my funk I am oblivious to the arrival of a small fishing boat in the process of laying miles of netting along the reef. By the time I sense their presence one of the four fishermen aboard is curiously pulling my float from the water with a long steering pole.

Oi! I shout giving them a start in return. Shocked by my sudden my appearance from nowhere it takes them several beats to react. Slowly my float is lowered back and they resume their task. Sure enough on my next dive I see the long black netting snaking its way along the ocean floor. It's relatively easy to avoid but I have no knife to cut myself free should anything happen. I shudder at the thought of getting caught below.

Not too long ago I heard a story in which someone said they were not ready for the sea. Apparently this was one of those times.

The next several days reaped similar results, poor visibility and a lack of desire on my part as important factors as any. At one point a large spotted devil ray flew by just to remind me that in fact there was much more going on than I was able to manufacture.

I was not disappointed really, the purpose of my trip being fulfilled I could leave with a good understanding of the place and its opportunities. Something to ponder as I consider my plans for the coming winter.

Meanwhile I was amazed to learn that the bus back to Guayaquil was capable of greater speeds than the one out to the coast. It was the chicken skin man who helped check my fear, if he could go about the business of selling his skins then surely I could sit quietly and read my book.

Adios Costa Rica

Two weeks after returning from Costa Rica and my spearguns are still unpacked, who's in denial? Ahh well glad to be back home.

There were lots of exciting adventures over the last five months not all of which took place underwater though most did involve other liquids. Nevertheless its the little things I miss the most; squawky parrots, the scenic drive to my favorite beach, passing time with friends and the rhythm of the ocean. Sitting here now as I tape up my stick for the summer hockey league opener I am caught between two worlds, half in and half out of each as I try to reconcile the gap between yesterday's fresh snapper and tomorrow's frozen pond.

I guess I'll share a few moments before they fade away.

To help get me through the last month or so I took a job as a snorkel guide to Cano Island, a marine reserve off the Osa peninsula. While the visibility on the coast was almost always poor to average, the shallow reefs of Cano were clear, clean and absolutely packed with fishy folk. On my last trip out (about an hours ride from my village) I was hanging out on the 10m bottom near a small cluster of rocks when I saw what looked like a 100 pound grouper only it seemed a little to light in color. The fish was anything but intimidated and just hung there surveying me and the scenery for several moments. As I left the sandy bottom the fish slowly turned sideways revealing the distinctive snout and line of a mammoth snapper! This fish was absolutely huge (it had to be over 75 pounds) and its nonchalant behavior was indicative of much of the underwater life in these protected waters.

Other Cano highlights included warm and fuzzy close up encounters with the many white tip reef sharks who doze off at all hours, schools of uncommonly tame pargo (red snapper) and swarms of long-snoutted bait fish. I took one at another location, they were so thick you didn't even have to aim.

Earlier in the season Ottawa Freediver David Nesbitt and I made a trip out to try and dive El Diablo, a famous pinnacle just off Cano. Unfortunately the current was so strong it was impossible to stay on the rock, a descent to 10m swept you over 100m away from the spot. Nevertheless David got a few pics of the rainbow runners and big-eye jacks that patrol the shallows there. On later scuba trips I managed to see devil rays, turtles and various other wildlife but never really got the chance to freedive it properly.

One day we were making our way back when our host spotted a turtle caught up in a makeshift float of containers. Locals leave these small plastic jugs of fuel in random locations for those that run out of gas. The turtle was wound around the line several times at both the flipper and neck and its struggle had already caused deep cuts in both places. After several minutes we managed to unwind the poor soul and set it free. Hopefully to heal quickly.

On the hunting front things were a little less dramatic but productive nevertheless. Without a boat I began to just focus one or two places where I knew there was dinner to be found. In both cases an hour or two swim was required plus diving time. By the second month or so I had gotten used to this routine and actually now quite miss it. Fish of choice were plate sized pargo and the odd golden jack when available. Most trips resulted in at least dinner and better days allowed me to stock the freezer a bit though of course I preferred to catch and eat same day.

Parrot fish abound along the southern coast and although the locals have no interest in them whatsoever, my limited budget demanded that I appreciate dinner in whatever form it arrives. In an effort to respect local customs I would hunt for pargo first and, if unsuccessful and empty in freezer, would take a parrot on the way back in. On one of those days I was fishing for a dinner with my Guatemalan friend (who refused to eat parrot) and there was absolutely nothing else around. Finally I took a large bumphead (very stupid parrot fish) and disguised it by frying it up with curry and garlic powder. He thought it was terrific.

All in all it was a fantastic winter and I have surely fallen in love with Costa Rica. The plan for next season is to pick up a kayak so I can get a little better quality game and make friends with someone who owns a boat. Meantime I will trade in my teak stock and shaft for a hockey stick and try to keep my aim sharp.

Keep your stick on the ice,

Perry

Character Witness

George the mechanic is just the guy you would want if your car was broken down in the middle of the jungle. Friendly, sincere and totally trustworthy George is also adept at hunting down car parts in obscure places. What he can't find he makes, of which my car/truck/horse is a limping testament.

Under the circumstances limping is not all that bad. In fact it kind of fits well with the pace of life here in the village of Ojochal, Costa Rica. Going anywhere in a hurry just confuses everyone anyway. Besides it allows me to fit in well with the locals whose cars too (those that have them) are no longer a specific type or brand but an amalgamation of various parts that together make up a vehicle of sorts.

Of course there are a few Ticos in the village with nice recent model trucks. Zeno from the pulperia (corner store) has a shiny green Land Rover Discovery bought with the proceeds from selling off the family farm, and my friend Juan and his brother, whose family owns the new supermarket, both have recent model pick ups. But they are the exception. How nice for me then to fit in so well.

Perhaps I owe more of my acceptance here to the car than I think. My green, well worn, once Isuzu trooper is a regular fixture outside George's garage. Anyone on his or her way through town has no choice but to pass it en route and, as with most fixtures, its presence has become part of the landscape. In this way both the car and I have become established as residents.

When the couple from Toronto lost their cash and credit cards they went straight to the policia to report their loss. They also gave a description of whom they believed to be the thief, a young-looking white male with short dark hair, brown eyes and blue shirt driving an old green trooper. Ah yes, said the officer with the gold tooth, the green trooper. We know it.

Although it was necessary to establish my whereabouts and alibis with them it seems that the car, a recognized member of the community, was the primary character witness.

I no longer begrudge my cars insistence on visiting George as often as possible. Indeed it has cost me dearly and yes, I often have to walk but surely I am still in its debt.

Rainforest Concert

The Event
A full house of over thirty residents and guests attended A Concert in the Rainforest, the first annual fundraiser for Costa Rica's Fundacion Matapalo. Recorded live for the Canadian Broadcast Corporation (CBC) the concert, featuring Canadian performance artist Daniel Hebert and local Marimba duo Hermanos Perez, was also covered by The Tico Times, Latin America's leading English Weekly. The Matapalo Foundation, headed by Belgian social entrepreneur Stijn de Witte, is dedicated to the exchange of culture and ideas while in direct contact with nature.

The Venue
The event took place at Java, Stijn's hand-built home/culture club high above Playa Matapalo in the primary forests of San Andreas. Surrounded by treetops and wildlife this shelter-cum nightclub is alive with the awesome diversity of the jungle. Toucan's, parrots, and white-faced monkeys are all regulars at Java and its candlelit jungle ambiance is like nowhere else in the world.

The Concert
The crowd grew steadily as small groups of guests arrived by 4X4 and dirt bike along the three kilometres of winding mountain road. Upon arrival each guest received a quantity of Java dollars, which could be redeemed for food and drinks, and was invited to settle in to tuna tartar appetizers and cold cerveza Imperial.

The evening started off with Marimba Marivel Hermanos Perez, a father and son team from nearby Quepos and their five-foot green and red marimba that, two months earlier, could have easily passed as a homemade Christmas tree. With mallets in both hands the two musicians created jaunty, tropical sounds by striking the marimba's narrow steel strips laid out from small to large over the length of the instrument.

Playing only the lower registers the larger, younger Perez kept rhythm by repeating a similar riff throughout the entire performance. To his right the elder Perez, sporting a large cowboy hat and handlebar moustache, led the duo through a series of five, strangely familiar merry-go-round melodies the way an old cowhand might take a group of toddlers on a pony ride.

Following the Hermanos Perez a brief overview of Fundacion Matapalo was given and guests were encouraged to think about how, in the spirit of the foundation, they could participate in the exchange by sharing ideas and discussion following the evening's performances.

Daniel Hebert kicked off the first of his two sets with Elvis Presley's That's Alright Mama, immediately capturing the attention of the crowd who happily hummed along to the chorus. For the next half hour Daniel performed a number of moving original songs including several new compositions. A short break followed during which healthy portions of delicious bouillabaisse and Imperial beer were doled out. Daniel then concluded the evening with three up-tempo songs Yellow Dog, Swoon Pleasure and Heart Thirsty.

As the concert ended conversations launched from every corner of the room, many of them lasting well into the night. Meanwhile Club Java locals took to the dance floor to shake and shimmy doing their best to entertain the wildlife.

Located in the primary forest jungles of San Andreas, Costa Rica, Fundacion Matapalo is dedicated to the exchange of culture and ideas while in direct contact with nature. Here one is encouraged to share and celebrate with others while the incredibly diverse rainforest setting provides a sense of responsibility towards each other and the environment. For more information please visit http://www.matapalo.com

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.

Whack'n'Store

Carefully suppressing the urgency in her voice, Robin a.k.a. 'Lovegirl' called from her strategic perch atop one of the dining room chairs next door. "Per, there's a really big bug in here and I think it might be a scorpion!". Contemplating the risk of crushing it in my sandals I pour a sniff of single malt for Michelle and decide I'll have to pick up a pair of rubber boots, the locals footwear of choice, the next time I'm in town.

Sure enough the little critter was hanging out on the closet wall beside the girls' shoes. Although four-plus inches it looked rather malnourished. Not getting enough sole food I guess.

Rather than risk my tootsies I give it a whack and scoop it up with a Tupperware container from under the sink. Kill'n'Karry Perry. Hey now there's a idea... different sized Tupperware containers (for different sized critters) with long flyswatter-like handles. We'll call the line whack'n'store.

Then again you can't go wrong with a good pair of rubber boots.

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

How to spend the winter

Gentle streams whisper.

Eagles soar.

The ocean calls and I answer.

http://www.perrygladstone.com/paradise

48 Hours

Sunday night, May 19, 2003

Open fires burn from hilltops and parking lots and the air, thick with smoke, leaves a sharp film on my tongue and palate. Leaving Jerusalem we skirt the perimeter of the West Bank for a kilometre or two and then head west for Tel-Aviv, stopping for numerous roadblocks and security checks along the way. At each checkpoint young, well-armed Israeli men peer into our white Mercedes. Some are expressionless, some smile but like us all of them are thinking about the five terrorist attacks in the last 48 hours.

The smoke follows us through the quiet countryside maintaining its hold on my tongue until we are once again amongst the countless bonfires lit in celebration of Lag B'Omer, a semi-holiday on which people break from the seven-week semi-mourning period following Passover to celebrate and marry. (The mourning commemorates the many tragedies, massacres and pogroms experienced during this time over the centuries).

Bombings and holidays. I am simply unaccustomed to the daily contradictions of life in this incredible land.

We were not witness to any of the recent terror and destruction. Two days ago, the morning before a young couple was killed in Hebron, John, Brad and I spent our day visiting wonderful vistas of the city and many of Jerusalem's holy sites including Gethsemane, the garden where Judas betrayed Jesus, Mary's tomb, The Church of the Holy Sepulchre (Via Dolorosa -the 14 stations) and the Wailing Wall.

I had two very powerful moments during all of this. One when I entered the monument over what is believed to have been Jesus tomb, which consisted of an incredible sense of enormity and the other in anticipation of approaching the Western Wall. In this case it wasn't the landmark itself as much as it was about not knowing what it really meant to me and therefore what reaction I might have. Once touching the wall however I found myself very present, reminded that only I can make such a decision and, that when ready to, I would know.

Yesterday morning a suicide bomber boarded a bus in north Jerusalem during the morning rush and killed at least seven innocent people. Elsewhere another bomber blew himself up while riding a bicycle towards an army roadblock. Three hours later, as reporters broadcast live from the now cleaned-up scene, people are already lining up for their bus in to town.

By then we were into our first serious day of meetings in Jerusalem; Jerusalem Capitol Studios, home of foreign bureaus for CNN, ABC, FOX, SKY, BBC, CBC and just about every other major network, Channel 2 franchisee TelAd, Mr. Rubi Rivlin, Knesset (Parliament) Chairman and Speaker, and Mr. Gideon Meir, Deputy Director General for Public Affairs.

Dinner, sleep, and breakfast. Day three in Jerusalem (today). A suicide bomber blows himself up beside an army jeep in Gaza. The soldiers inside are lightly wounded. By the time three are killed and 48 wounded in Afula (north west of Jerusalem near Haifa), we had already met with the U.J.C, Mr. Yosef Barel, Director General of the Israel Broadcast Authority, The Steven Spielberg Jewish Film Archive, and Channel 10 Owner and Billionaire Mr. Yossi Miman. From there it was off to meet with Director General of Channel 2 News Company and dinner with Mr. Ehud Olmert, The Minister of Industry and Trade, Deputy Prime Minister and former Mayor of Jerusalem. (How many titles can a guy get?).

I am exhausted yet somehow still exhilarated. This whirlwind of excitement, progress, determination and acceptance is mixed with emotions I have yet to process. At this point I can't even say what they are and I wonder if and when they will unravel into consciousness.

Its now 1:28 am, in Tel-Aviv. In seven hours I will be having breakfast with former Israeli Prime Minister and Noble Peace Prize winner Shimon Perez. The rest of the day will be filled with more meetings with Ministers, heads of television networks and dinner with our Israeli advisor's family before what will surely be very thorough security inspections before boarding our flights home.

I never seem to get much rest on planes. Maybe this time.

Perry Gladstone

Passion

Friday morning, May 16th

I'm beginning to understand the passion this country instils in its people. It's more of a feeling really, an underlying current of energy that somehow permeates everyday reality. This is not romanticism on my part, it's an awareness, a growing realization of an energy that manifests itself in two completely opposite realities.

At home I feel this energy above me. High overhead its runs across the sky, like a protective shield just out of reach. When I'm 'on' I am immersed in it, travelling at light speed, able to achieve anything. Other times overcast skies hides it from me and I wallow in a slow, soupy fog, all too aware of my incapacitation.

Here however it's much closer. The streets hum with it and from the 24th floor of my hotel I can feel the pulse of the Mediterranean Sea. I can just imagine how being so close to the source would make one crazy.

Perry Gladstone

IGTN

Thursday night, May 15th

As Prime Minister Ariel Sharon's advisor said at dinner tonight, "You have burst through an open door!"

I am in Israel with John Textor and Brad Yonover, two other founding principals of the Israel Global Television Network (IGTN). The dinner, put together by Moshe Cohen, Treasurer of Israel's Labour party and our advisor, concluded the first day of a week-long series of meetings with Israeli Ministers and television industry leaders to garner support for the launch of our new network.

Already it has been nothing short of amazing. The level of acceptance and enthusiasm for IGTN from some of the most significant players and politicians in the country is beyond our expectations. The heads of networks are eager to share their resources and the politicians their support. With this kind of reception its hard not appreciate this place where people live so passionately, embracing life to the fullest.

From my hotel room I watch the sun set over the Mediterranean sea. A panoramic view that also overlooks the bombed-out nightclub where 21 kids were killed two summers ago. Just up the street renovations are already underway at Mike's place, a small bar where three people died in a homicide bombing less than three weeks ago.

Special Operations

Special Operations

Wednesday evening, May 14th, 2003

39,000 ft. over the Mediterranean Sea I wonder if my reception in Tel-Aviv will be anything like the routine I experienced just ten hours ago at Toronto's Pearson Airport.

After receiving my boarding pass I was instructed to walk my bags over to 'Special Operations'. A narrow corridor demarked by poorly photocopied signs soon led to a long room populated by a gaggle of industrial music stands and what looked like the world's largest MRI scanner. There I was greeted by a young Israeli woman with a government-issue clipboard and impermeable eyes. "Passport and ticket", she stated. I handed her the documents and she began a series of questions designed to reveal inconsistencies in my answers.

Menah menah menah?
Huh?
Have you been to Israel before?
No.
Do you speak Hebrew?
No.
You are Jewish. Where did you learn?
I didn't.
Do you know any Israeli's?
No.
Where do you live?
Here.
Where exactly?
St. Clair and Christie, downtown.
Where are your friends in Israel?
I don't know anyone there except for the business contacts I am going to meet.
Do you speak any Hebrew?
No but I'd like too....
Are you parents in Israel?
No they are here.
Where do they live?...

I was then handed off to a more senior agent who began the same line of questioning. Interrupting I told him we'd just been through all this and after a lengthy consultation with the first agent, he led me to a well-worn bench where I waited for each and every item of my belongings to be carefully searched.

Eventually I was free to leave for the gate but not until my shoes had been scanned, computer checked (I believe they read some of my email), and a sealed container of greens supplements opened, tested for explosives and re-packed into a cardboard box designated for its own cargo area.
--

Aloha from Kailua-Kona, HI

Aloha!

After an eventful summer I have finally arrived in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii to attend the Pacific Cup of Freediving. Its been an exciting journey and the unexpected twists and turns along the way have kept me on my toes.

The most recent of these took place three weeks ago in Ottawa, just two days after my successful National record attempt. I was a competing in the first ever CAFA http://www.freedivecanada.com Eastern Regional Contest when, at a relatively modest depth of 80 ft., I experienced a severe lung squeeze resulting in the rupturing of capillaries in my lungs and consequent pulmonary edema.

Although at depth the feeling is mainly discomfort, the vacuum effect generated within the lungs by expansion on ascent almost filled them with blood and plasma making it nearly impossible to breathe upon surfacing. This lasted well over an hour making the threat of secondary drowning very real. Needless to say I was extremely relieved when enough re-absorption had occurred to enable somewhat easier breathing. After a sleepless night I struggled through the final day of competition and made my way home for extensive tests and evaluation.

Unfortunately no clear cause has been established (the squeeze came far above my theoretical depth threshold) and the resulting discomfort continued to this day has become cause for great concern. My doctors which include the world's foremost researcher in this area, Dr. Claes Lundgren, citing accumulated tissue damage and an unknown sensitivity to thoracic compression have insisted I cease depth diving immediately.

So here I am in Hawaii, official training sessions start Oct 28th and the contest runs from the 31rst to Nov.4th. Since competing is obviously out of the question I have decided to assist in coaching Team Canada and cover the event for Deeper Blue http://www.deeperblue.net, the premier online Freediving magazine, community and resource.

In some regards this situation is quite unfortunate however if today is any indication of my future ocean activities I will be nothing but grateful.

After finding myself a surfboard to use for the week I had lunch with legendary Freediver, Underwater Photographer and Author Carlos Eyles, (The Blue Edge, Secret Seas, Dolphin Borne) and his wife Margaret, a gifted Rolfer (structural bodywork) and accomplished freediver herself. Deeply inspired by Carlos' history with the ocean I had planned an early arrival in Hawaii in the hopes of spending some time together.

Towards the end of our discussion we were joined by an extremely attractive member of the US Women's team. (I am seriously thinking of volunteering myself as the Women's team masseuse). The conversation turned to the day's events and Carlos and Margaret invited me to join them in looking for Manta Rays along the deep blue waters edge just north of town.

We made a couple of quick stops to pick up gear and dropped by their place where Margaret did some work on my upper chest and lung region. Although only a short session, there was a marked difference in my ability to take in and hold a full breath.

The area we were to explore was actually known for dolphin sightings but food thrown out by nighttime charter boats had attracted plankton as well. As a result the incredibly graceful and intuitive Manta's were now coming there regularly too. From the shores of an ancient burial ground the three of us donned masks, fins and snorkels and began our lengthy swim.

Pockets of colorful fish danced beneath us as we made our way along the rocky coral shallows that separated the Islands lava cliffs from the great abyss. Carlos led setting a modest pace so not to aggravate my condition, which thanks to Margaret I had almost forgotten. We were about half way towards our intended distance when I noticed something below to my right and stopped. Within fifty feet of me was a beautiful Manta Ray slowly grazing. Calling to Carlos and Margaret I turned around and gently eased over to the slow moving Manta until I was swimming directly over it.

I imagined thoughts of goodwill radiating downward and, in what I can only deem to be in response, the Ray began to rise until it was at arms length. We stayed in this formation for several minutes me never once leaving the surface until a deck-hand onboard a nearby charter boat shattered the moment by calling to us to keep clear of their mooring maneuvers.

Excited and enriched by the experience I gladly continued on and witnessed two more encounters between Margaret, the Manta's and Carlos as he positioned himself to take photographs.

Sitting here now, breathing the humid Hawaiian night air and recalling this wonderful day I am grateful for the many people, opportunities and circumstances that have shaped my life, enabling me to be in this place at this time.

Mahalo to all of you.

Perry Gladstone

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

Costa Rica

Hello friends,

Back last night from three weeks in Costa Rica and Panama. It was a great trip with lots of adventures which I am looking forward to sharing as I nurse the wounds that are now free to dry and heal for the first time in three weeks.

I am still pretty beat from traveling but want to get started on writing down some of the memories so here is the first installment:

My girlfriend Stephanie, another couple and I flew into San Jose picked up our 4X4 and drove it down to the Osa peninsula. We spent a tired night in the tiny town of Puerto Jimanez and next morning made camp in Matapalo, a picture perfect point at the end of a gnarly dirt road that should be a testing ground for land rovers.

Two days later we upgraded to a two story shack (now affectionately known as the 'Stick House'), complete with water tower which we shared with about one hundred iguana's of all sizes. Aside from the occasional pee shower (they lived in the roof) we were happy to know they were there, feasting on bugs and scorpions that fortunately made no appearances.

The waves were small and we made friends with the neighbors who were very hospitable but full of guests so it was several days before I was able to get a boat ride. In the meantime I tried to made do with a couple of beach dives however a red tide and other circumstances made the visibility almost nil.

On our second or third day we drove a few miles into the gulf where my friend Danny and I swam 1/4 mile out along a rocky reef to a small outcropping. Visibility ranged from 2-10 feet as we made our way out and the tide was just starting to rise. At the rock outcropping we saw the first few reef fish and after a few dives to 30 feet or so I found a pair of Parrot fish which I took for dinner with my trusty spear. The rock was soon covered by the incoming tide and we decided to head for shore. Simple enough however an hour later, swimming against the current, we were less than half way there. By the time we got to shore my feet were blistered like a drop out from a tap dancing marathon.

Back at the stick house I washed my wounds, cleaned the fish and, with four lemons off the neighbors tree, one onion and a red chili pepper made delicious ceviche for lunch.

Van is the name of the guy who owns a house right at the point where the rocks are. Its a beautiful spot sheltered by rocks on either side with a new beach (thanks to recent storms), a fresh water spring and lots of vegetation to shade the back of the house. Paradise. And Van has a boat.

After our ceviche lunch (hey it was good enough to mention again) the girls went to visit Van and Danny and I lazed in our hammocks overlooking the water. Brilliantly colored macaw's screeched as they flew from tree to tree over head. It was like being in a national geographic magazine.

A few hours later the girls returned with great news. Van would take us out in the boat tomorrow morning. Oh, and by the way, shooting parrot fish was a no-no.

By now the blisters on my feet were so bad I could hardly walk. Then I remembered the boots. Tucked away in a storage room there was an old fridge that hadn't seen electricity in years. A colony of mold spore's had made a pretty comfortable home there as did two pairs of long forgotten neoprene booties. I had come across them in my initial look-around upon our arrival at the stick house but decided it best not to risk actually touching them for fear of contracting some rare incurable disease. That was days ago. Now, with seeping blisters on both feet, and the prospect of fishing where there might actually be some fish I didn't hesitate. I gave the booties a thorough washing and promptly chopped them off at the toes and just above the ankle. Almost perfect. My feet felt better already.

Perry Gladstone

Put a finger on it

Hey all,

I just returned home from a quick winter-blues escape to a friends place in Costa Rica. I had a great trip and spent lots of time in the water, but very little under. Here's why:

I made the decision to go rather quickly and so didn't have a lot of the anticipation that usually precedes a vacation. Even so I had a number of dark thoughts cross my mind about hunting on this trip. Writing them off as nervousness etc., I tried to put as little energy as possible towards them but I still couldn't shake them off completely.

Since I was equally as stoked to surf I spent the first few of days enjoying the 80 degree water and plentiful beach breaks from Domical, south to Playa Tortuga. In the meantime I asked around the tiny village of Ojochal where I was based but there was no one into spearfishing and the local dive-tour operators wouldn't have anything to do with it as they only went to protected reserves.

Heeding recent (strong) advise from a new acquaintance not to dive alone [thanks Patricia] I limited myself to exploring the sandy beach bottoms close to shore where my friends could keep an eye on me but the tides were moving too much sand to see much of anything.

We had made friends with four young lifeguard-surfers from NJ and NC that had rented the house next to us for the month. Out drinking beers with them on Sat. night I met a local Tico (Costa Rican) named Johan who offered to take me out in his panga for $15. He was quite excited about the prospect of watching me fish and his anxiousness put me off a little. I told him I'd let him know tomorrow for the following day.

Sunday came and went. Feeling uneasy about the panga I blew off Johan and spent the day at the beach. Later that evening I found the boys gathered around a pot of beans talking with a woman named MaryJoe who had arranged a snorkling/fishing expedition for the next day at $35 a head. I immediately got a sense of foreboding as MaryJoe went over the following days itinerary and declined the opportunity to join them in what she described as a 17 foot boat that could take all of us and more if we wanted.

At 6:00AM I heard the boys leaving their cabina for their days excursion. At 9:00 AM they were back, with this story and without most of the gear they left with...

The eight foot panga launched from just inside the river mouth. On board were the four surfers; Steve, Sean, Carson and Jess, as well as MaryJoe and Johan the boats captain. Scattered about the boat were various loose fishing lures, line, the snorkeling gear they had brought with as well as a cooler and surfboards. There were no lifejackets or PFD's of any kind.

Instead of following the channel created by the rivermouth, the captain swung the boat directly towards the swells rolling in from the open ocean. The first one to hit the boat sent the cooler flying into the air as the boat overturned dumping all of its contents into the water.

After removing two hooks from body parts, Jess and Carson scrambled to save whatever gear they could salvage, swam 200 yards to shore, dumped their cargo and returned to the boat. Meanwhile MaryJoe and the captain, both whom could not swim, were making things difficult. MaryJoe refused to give up her heavy hiking boots and the captain insisted on trying to save the gas tank. In his attempt to do so he was pulling on fishing line which had wrapped itself around one of Steve's fingers. His finger black from loss of circulation Steve screamed at the captain to let go of the line. Finally Jess and Carson coaxed the captain and MaryJoe onto surfboards and began to push them to shore. Steve untangled himself and took turns paddling the remaining surfboard with Sean who throughout the whole ordeal somehow managed to keep his camera bag out of the water the entire time.

After some minor finger repair (I always keep a tube of crazy glue in my first aid kit) and a long debriefing everyone settled down enough to surf that afternoon and enjoy a hearty dinner at a local Tico restaurant.

The boys are absolutely convinced that at least one of MaryJoe or the captain if not both would have drowned if not for the surfboards.

In retrospect I think the messages not to go diving on this trip were pretty clear however until the time of that disaster they were more impulses than feelings. Needless to say that feeling solidified immediately after the boys returned from their adventure.

As a result I decided to not dive for the remainder of the trip and enjoyed fun playful waves and beautiful deserted beaches until my departure yesterday.

--

Some thoughts I'd like to share.

There are those that believe negative situations are created by dwelling on negative thoughts and impulses, and for the most part I would agree. In this case however I see the awe-some potential of learning to listen to and feel the energy around oneself or a particular situation.

Not trying to get preachy with you all- I think we all exercise this to a degree, especially those of us who love to participate in high risk activities like driving cars and spearfishing.

I'm sure many of you have stories to prove this the case.

Perry Gladstone
Surfed out and back home in Toronto, Canada