Our breakfast done, we realized that we had missed the object of our journey. The sea turtles had come and gone, and we would witness nothing of their miraculous sojourn. All that was left for us was to find the airstrip where we would make our rendezvous with the plane that was scheduled to return us to San José. The locals assured us that it was just up the beach a little way....
So off we went in search of this mythical construction.
Now the beach was hot. The day was hot. The sun was HOT. And before long we were all roasting. And progress forward in shifting sand is really hard to calculate.... it always seems like you've traveled farther than you have (or, at least, worked a Hell of a lot harder to get there!). As to an airstrip, we really didn't even know what it would look like. So after a time we discovered a path that led into the jungle away from the beach. Perhaps this was the way to the airstrip? Mr. G. and I were assigned to investigate. All we found was an abandoned thatch hut and lots of mosquitoes. Upon returning to the beach we also found Mr. M. splashing about naked in the surf, while our womenfolk huddled like (reverse) musk oxen in a circle of embarrassment. Ms. Y. (the unofficial leader in all things) explained how Mr. M. just took off his clothes and jumped into the surf! As if this was some abomination before the Lord. And I ached to have the freedom of spirit to join him, as the sweat poured down my back, and I itched insect bites on my neck and wrists....
Once Mr. M. had dressed and rejoined us, we all continued our trek up the beach. After what seemed like forever we suddenly noticed a thong clad, burly man swimming in the surf. We engaged his help and he explained that we were, in fact, standing in the middle of the airstrip. Who knew? It was just more shifting sand. And, MORE importantly, where was our plane?
He offered to take us to a phone. A phone?! And with this we followed him down another trail off of the beach. No sooner had we left the pristine seacoast than we entered the world of “Fantasy Island”. The rustic trail became bamboo paved with tethered tropical birds lining the pathway near the entrance to the resort. It even included a quaint little bridge into this tropical lodge. At its entrance, an American researcher from some university who was assigned to study the habits of the sea turtles greeted us. When not on duty, he apparently spent his free time resting in a hammock, enjoying some sweet cocktail and the company of local women -- to quote Billie Holliday, “good work, if you can get it!” He graciously directed us to the pay phone in the resort's bar/dance hall.
As it turned out, this was a luxury get away resort for sports fisherman. None of whom were currently in residence.
A phone call to the airport in Alejuela revealed that the central valley was experiencing a tremendous storm, and the pilot assigned to meet us refused to take off in such conditions. What to do? And then the airport contact announced that there was a pilot willing to come, if we really wanted him to. And so we ignorantly said, “Yes.” Having no idea how bad things were. It was only hot at “Fantasy Island.”
The plane arrived and we boarded, bidding Mr. M. “good-bye.” It was a six-passenger thing, at best, with me sitting in the co-pilot's seat. The take off was like driving over a washboard, but we ended up in the air. At first, the vista was awesome: the inter-coastal waterway that we had so recently traveled along, the Caribbean Sea coastline, the broad inland rain forest.... but there loomed before us the central mountains. OR, there should have been such mountains, and instead there was only dark, billowing, foreboding clouds. At this point, I made a strategic decision. I was sun baked, dehydrated, exhausted, and so, “What the Hell?” I snuggled down in the plane's co-pilot's seat just as it began to be buffeted by the storm front's shifting wind forces, and I actually fell asleep. Sleeping seems like a great way to experience death, no?
My friends long chastised me for this, unable to understand how I could behave so calmly in the face of the present danger. When recounting the adventure to my supervisor at school on the following Monday, she was equally exasperated by my (and by extension our) irresponsibility. The storms were really bad. There were small planes like ours that did not make it through (Her husband was a pilot for the national airline "Lacsa," and he refused to fly into this front.)
But we did (Well, our crazy pilot did!). And we made it back to San José in one piece, albeit roasted, with new perspectives on our world and ourselves.
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