Onward North

Santa Semana (Holy Week) has ended and the city tourists from San Jose and Liberia have left back to their homes after their last day of summer vacation.  The dry season has come to its end and almost in perfect timing the dark storm clouds began their loom Monday after Easter, new fish making their way into the marina bay and grumbling echoing from the new skies.  We are making our final touch ups on the yacht and provisions for our second trip to Cocos Islands. Today is Thursday and my last day off to enjoy the city and its attractions before we slowly make our way up to Mexico. It is always sad saying goodbye to a place you have been a few months and have come to get used to.   The season has begun to get into something I am truly excited about…RAIN!!!!  QUIET!!!…and thus we have to leave.  Yachts don't chase rain…we chase sunshine.  So a sad goodbye to the next journey I could have taken here and onto a new sunny journey in another sunny land with more tourists, pina coladas, and sweaty walks up dusty hills to the fruit market.  YAY!

I decided to take it easy today and take the bus up the hill to Manuel Antonio to have lunch overlooking the jungle and the ocean.  Manuel Antonio is the local national park that is separated by the city of Quepos by a hill.  Two cities…one hill.  Tourists are scarce and restaurants are already running specials, a skeleton to the fat consumerism of last week.  I take my table for 1 and sit on the patio drinking a sangria and reading my George Carlin biography, erupting in belly laughs every few minutes. Breezes are refreshing in the overcast brightness and the swells down in the ocean below rolling into perfect sets.  I decide against telling my crew mates later how perfect the surf was.  No one wants salt rubbed in their wound and truly it is one of the few outdoor things we addictivly look forward to every day, as it is too screaming hot to do much else and bars get old.  I was explaining to my friend Amy today how selfish I feel in my laziness to embrace the things most tourists are jumping to do in Quepos.  After a while you find yourself trying to escape the heat in some local cafe drinking frozen blended juices and reading just like the locals.  Sweating and struggling through the heat to try to find a "tranquil" spot on the crowded beach that has sand fleas or to wait behind 50 people trying to glance a monkey in a tree at the park just isn't my idea of a day of peace.  I have spent many a day struggling for that experience that would grant me some amazing photo to prove that "I'VE DONE IT!!!" and ended up back on the boat exhausted and finding my weekend over quicker than I had anticipated with no peace.  I prefer today.  I prefer this.  Sometimes a sweaty walk up a quiet hill ending with a deliciously blended pineapple juice is a paradise worth more. 

Our departure looms a week away and we are closing in on our distance to the United States.  At this point, after 6 months of provisioning in Central America, my spoiled ass has to say she is glad to be headed to the land of easy.  No more huffing sweatily between butcher, fruit market, fish market, and dry goods market.  No more haggling with taxi drivers over a couple bucks and sweating on vinyl seats with Celine Dion blasting "My Heart Will Go On."  (Seriously, what is up with Central America and this song?!!  I cant' count the times.  I can't.  Too many.)  No more being undressed by every male eye I pass.  I can't wait to be invisible to men again and to be able to wear my hair down without looking like a Chia Pet, to be able to buy a bra without 2 pounds of padding in it, a pair of jeans without a leopard print strip up the side, or to be able to wear an outfit outside without pit stains in 5 minutes.  I have realized more and more how much I am so ungrateful and dependent on in the land I call home.  To be able to afford a car is a luxury.  To be able to have decent wi-fi, to be able to eat a variety of cuisines from a variety of countries, to have a change of seasons that we continue to have business and commerce through, to know that the price you are given is unilateral and not because you are white…I am excited.  I know I sound like a spoiled brat and I truly don't mean to.  But what can I say?  In Central America coming from the United States…I am.  And that is the truth.  Homeward bound and I hope to take home with me all this and remain as I always strive to be…grateful. 

Quiet in Quepos

My alarm rings and I reach under my pillow to squash the yell of the rooster cry I have chosen as a ring tone. It's 7am and time for me to get up and dress for my run before it becomes unbearably hot.  If I don't jump out of bed right when my alarm crows I will never jump out. It is a thing I know about myself.  Choosing the wiser, I jump off my top bunk and grab my running clothes off the end of the bed to change in the bathroom quietly while my roommate sleeps. I brush teeth, splash cold water on my face, pull my hair up, and change my clothes.  Stepping out of the bathroom, I am quiet and do my best to keep the morning light out of our bat cave of a room so as not to wake Stacey who is still breathing sleepy breaths.  Close bedroom door and walk through the crew mess to the main deck where the exit stairway bobs gently in the early morning tide.  Half asleep set mechanical instincts move my limbs this morning as I pull my Smiths down over my eyes and set my iPod to my jogging playlist.  I tie my shoes, do a few stretches, and start to jog down the dock.  My eyes start to enliven a bit and legs groan in defiance to their early use.  Ignoring I run past Mario who waves hello with a pervy smile.  Run past the new sailboat that looks like it belongs to Swiss Family Robinson, chocked full of early rising hippies and Captain Ron look-alikes.  The marina is swimming with mullet fish, box fish, and beautiful jellyfish batting themselves against the walls like blind patients in a mental ward.  I run past the security guard with a nod onto the long dirt road that leads to the marina exit.  Tails exit the road in a flurry as iguana after iguana leave their early morning sunshine perch to a location on the edge of the road. Raising mohawked heads to the sunshine, they appear a not very friendly lot, snobily looking aside  with tails twitching.  I snap a couple photos and run slowly, creating dust and sweat.  Every morning this is how it goes down.  I run the dusty reptiled road across the city of Quepos avoiding drug offers and too early morning male looks of lecherousness, lower lips sucked and oily eyes marinating in dark desire.  Old men sit on rocks looking out at the waves gathering on the shore in the early morning wind.  My favorite stray dog sits perched on a  rock chewing on a stick with no care for my attentions without treats. I jog past over a small bridge and into a small neighborhood of brightly colored stucco homes.  Bags of garbage sag in front of iron gates as I realize ignorantly that it is trash day.  This means it is also stray dog day.  I dodge fur and plastic to the sounds of "Outkast", bring a bottle of water to my mouth for a gulp and continue on.  The morning is hot already and salty sweat streams into my eyes.  I am loosened up, my heart rate pumping to the music, my lungs open and asking for air.  It is another beautiful day.  

We have been here in Quepos now for a couple months and relaxed into our Costa Rican life on Dardanella.  The quietness of this small town, the developed relationships with the local businesses, and the ease with which one can enjoy the simple beauties of nature routinely have made it feel like a home and less like a resort or city to try to maneuver a normal life through.  The fishing boat next door has travelled near us from Panama City, the crew a couple nice fellas who share the occasional barbecue or surf break.  The World Championship Billfish Tournament just ran its course and ended yesterday bringing a festival-like atmosphere with men from all over the world parading out in the early morning for their catches and back at sunset with flags raised as trophies.  I was able to finagle Mahi Mahi and Snook catches from some of the boats for which I exchanged cooked dinners for their return.  It was a fun way to make friends, get some free fish, and have a hot meal ready for grateful hungry men.  I look at this life here, this simple and pure life and I see I can be good at multiple ways of making a living as long as I am happy where I am.  I know I will be sad when we leave here.  

Today I will pack my beach bag and cooler with snacks and drinks.  An ex-pat friend Jonny is picking me up and we are picking up our friend Sheree to head down to the beach.  Our spot is a windy, bumpy, seemingly endless rock filled path down the hill to a private, untouched beach near Manuel Antonio Park.  We will unpack the Jeep, lay under palm trees, listen to music, surf all day in the turquoise wash of waves.  At dusk we will pack up the jeep and head back up the hill to watch sunset from Emilio's while a local jazz artist sings in the background. It is a $10 day and a priceless one at that.  I know I say it all the time…but truth is truth…I am one lucky girl.

Title-less

The stern lines groan in agony, stretching and releasing in the evening tide, the boat being corralled back to the dock by their faithful guidance.  It is a hot and muggy night but I have spent all day inside cooking and have become unappreciative of the air conditioning and the hotel-like comfort of the yachts' interior.  I need a little discomfort, a little reality.  My crew mates are in the crew mess watching "Sin City" which is oddly gorier than I remember.  It is not my preferred cup of wine for tonight and we have been so close this last trip that I need my space.  I grab my laptop and walk my tired legs slowly to the aft deck table to enjoy the sounds of the marina and write alone beneath the privacy of the yacht security cameras.  I debate going for an evening walk but decide better.  We are at the very end of a horseshoe shaped marina, our walk to the end of the dock a trek of about 15 minutes in scorching heat that makes you question the importance of what you needed at the end of it.  I didn't need anything worth leaving for.

These last couple weeks have been hard.  I know it is the beginning of a long chain of a lot of hard.  I liken it to the beginning of the Spartan Race when I thought after the first 10 minutes,  How will I make it?  I am already exhausted!.  But I made it to the end and I was better for it.  I hope I can say the same of this.  I must decide that I will and let it be so. 120 hours on your feet in one week can be a bit much bringing with it a small varicose vein each time and hardening the balls of ones' feet to shallaq.  My emotions are high and my body fragile after these last two weeks still unable to sleep through the night without my legs twitching and knowing that in another two weeks I dive back into another month of it. I know that this is one of those times I will look back on and be proud of myself for having achieved.  My job is one people dream to have.  One I have dreamed to have.  There is so much to be grateful for from the amazing itinerary, crew that I genuinely get along with and laugh with, and a great leader who pulls us through it.  To be able to live this close to people, closer than any family member spends time together, through grueling hours and impossible demands….and to still love each other and care for each other.  It truly helps and has grown me towards love in a new way. I feel like a jerk to complain.  This is the beauty of the therapy of writing.  Even as I am writing this my ungrateful and defeatist attitude is starting to lose the war.  I know I will be alright I just got to muster through. I think in these moments when my soul needs to say something…What is it?  What will be solved in saying or writing this?  What are you looking for Sarah?  Understanding?  To be heard and know you are not alone? All of the above and also peace in these writings.  I long for answers.  I long to vent and to whine. I want to know I am doing this for some reason and that there is some sort of carrot in front of this horse edging her to the ends of this world for something greater.  I think about what I do and why I should be grateful and it helps a lot but something is missing. Our journey on this boat takes us from Latin America upward north to the U.S. and then to the far east of the South Pacific.  At this time next year, we will be in Antarctica and I will truly be standing on the edge of civilization.  And what will I say then?  What will my gratitude or gripe be then?  I am between myself, if that is even a way to describe it. I can't filter today.  I just can't.

The weeks before my boss comes onboard are a lesson in preparation and humility that I consider priceless and nuts, even to my years of experience in this industry.  It is a hustler-type finagling of prices with local vendors. A sweaty walk down a dirt road to an amazing Carniceria where the butcher offers his own cuts and cured meats that only the locals know about. It is a visit to the local spice farms to buy monstrous and fragrant vanilla beans at a price worth killing over. A moment of  being humbled by the loyalty of a hard working old farmer who drives 2 hours out of town so we can get bananas on a stalk that my boss has demanded.   I sweat, I exercise for my work, I rest when I am in the galley washing off the hundreds of bugs from my farm fresh produce.  But what I do is nothing compared to what those who provide for me do.  I appreciate the work that goes into what I make because I know that so much more work came before me.  I have never worked on a yacht that required and also allowed this life of me.  My efforts from beginning to end come down to one dish that is a blink to the hand that raises it to the mouth.  They gulp down wine, they have a conversation, and all that happened before is a vapor that has passed.   It can crush or raise your spirit to climb up a mountain to this one moment of accomplishment to have it loved or unloved.  I get through it in remembering what I have gained in the journey that bringing food to the table brings.  It is that journey that makes me feel like a chef and not the luxury of the cooking afterward.  I know what each piece means to each person who brought it there and it is as priceless as gold to me at times.

I sound like a sad puppeteer to myself when I re-read that last paragraph yet I am proud. I have been nothing but me and my work for this time in such a way that I almost feel lost in it.  Like it is all I am anymore.  This life on the boat, this fulfillment of experience is rare and is unique.  I miss home so much though.  I want to be selfish and go home. The plethora of photos of me in places that I can only dream to be cannot replace the beauty of the embrace of a dear friend or watching a movie with my dad on the couch with my dog sitting in between.  I question myself all the time in why this worked out how it did.  It was timely, it was a prayer answered, and now I wonder if the answered prayer was one that I never made...to be taught that I had it all in my hands already and was just too damn blind and ungrateful to see it.

Peace and Gratefulness in Quepos

We left Panama City on the 11th of February.  Our captain drove us to a beautiful, remote, surf resort several hours outside of Panama City for a couple days off.    It was a gorgeous location, nestled in the middle of a long stretch of beach, untouched by cities or stores, with beautiful waves that curled into sleek barrels consistently throughout the day.  We arrived in the early evening and took the tender to the beach for a delicious dinner under the moonlight.  During the days, we kayaked to the beach from our anchorage or rode the small tender in.  Since the waves were a decent size, we would be dropped off as close as the boat could get and then jump off with surfboards and dry bags to surf in to the resort.   When we arrived we were nothing short of amazed.  A bohemian, modern-day hippie surf retreat in Playa Venao, it is owned by a beautiful young Israeli couple whose 5 kids bounce around their outdoor shaded paradise in the middle of nowhere.  Their resort offers 3 different hotels for low, mid, and high income travelers, which brings a nice mix of people to interact with.  The cost is fairly inexpensive, a decent room costing around $80 a night.  All get to enjoy the bamboo outdoor living room and restaurant on the water, which are connected in a very home-like setting.  Surfers and families lay on couches reading, ambient-massage parlor-ethnic music plays in the background, lunches arriving to hungry guests in the restaurant.  A small circular thatch covered bar hangs off of the end of the living room, patrons tipping back cold beers and looking out at the set of waves rolling in. Little boys skateboard through the restaurant,  mops of curly uncut hair.  We sat outside in peace each day, quietly reading our books in the outdoor living room, drinking freshly blended fruit juices.  I walked up and down the beach looking for shells and taking pictures.  The surf was perfect and glass-like with gentle breezes. We would return to the boat for dinner and have barbecues on the swim platform every night and enjoy sunset together.  After our three months in Panama City where our activities were limited in the big city to movies, malls, restaurants, bars, and casinos…it was nice to be out of the rat race and back into the breathing world.  I had begun to forget again what it was like to be in the outdoors and to be quiet in nature.  After our 3 days in one of the most amazing places I have been to, we made our way through perfect, calm waters to Costa Rica.  We caught two large Mahi Mahi on our first afternoon out and sailed quietly for another day before reaching Quepos.  After a couple days, we arrived. 

Quepos is a quiet town known for its sports fishing and for Manuel Antonio National Park.  It is one of the top destinations in Costa Rica for tourists from the U.S. but still a quiet and peaceful town with beautiful beaches, mountains in the backdrop with unreal jungle mist, and an occasional monkey hanging around.  HOT as hell.  So much hotter than Panama but I am happy for the exchange to be able to be on the water and to actually be docked at a marina and not anchored outside of the city.  We re-provision here for our next trip, relax a bit, and then the madness begins as we slowly make our way up the Pacific Coast amidst 3 long guest visits with lots of hours of work ahead. 

I have only to pinch myself every day to realize this life is not a dream.  It has been such a blessing, such a healing, and necessary place for my heart to grow again.  I am in the best shape of my life and able to help our crew to make healthy eating choices and to encourage exercise.  Some people describe it as a lonely life and perhaps that is partly true.  I consider it to be a quiet, reflective time for me and a gift at this time when I needed it so much.  It is STILL hard for me to think about my dear Tilly, though I try to let it go more and more each day.  I see her face in every stray dog that runs the streets and long for her energy and warmth in the mornings when I am not motivated to go on runs.  It seems unbelievable that anyone could have been so attached to a dog but I guess I am starting to see now how lonely I really was when I was in Vancouver and hurting still so deeply after losing my relationship with Brian.  She was the only living being I felt safe opening up all my love and care to, though I know I had people in my life I could have shared that with.  The crutches that have been removed have been replaced with warm hearted and loving people that I live with and a career that allows me to open up my creativity and share it with others.  It's funny how life turns out sometimes when we surrender to the leap of faith.  I thank God for this opportunity.  It has not only made me so grateful for all that is around me, but for all of those who stood beside and behind me to help me to get to this amazing place in my life.  I am one very blessed lady.

Taxis and Hookers

I am in the restroom of the Veneto Casino washing my hands when two tall and beautiful Latinas flank me on either side, applying exaggerated lines to their eyelids and plumping up their bras.  One is darker skinned with a leopard-print bustier, long silky black hair resting down over a pair of skin-tight black pants, long legs standing in gold 6-inch heels.  The other is a little more European looking wearing a sparkling sequin silver pantsuit boasting one of the largest fake asses I have ever seen. Her feet are squished into tall heels, hair cut into a black straight bob.  There is a lot of upkeep to this kind of beauty and it is a deliberate exaggeration of appeal. 

Hookers.  I am standing in between two hookers.  I finish up my hand drying, try real hard not to stare, and scuttle out of the restroom to the roulette table my crew mate is saddled up to, feeling as inadequate as a 12 year old girl.  As I sit down and take a look around, I realize that the bar top is lined with sex workers awaiting the evening traffic, lipstick applications occupying small hand mirrors, leaning bangled wrists on the bar ledges lazily.  Men smarm around the casino slowly sucking on toothpicks, eyes lazy and pervy checking out the menu for the evening.  A young woman close to me in age and a little more casually dressed sits down and smiles.  I scoot over graciously. She orders a drink from the waitress and orders Jake and I another.  We thank her, raise our eyebrows to each other impressed with our luck in meeting such a nice person and go back to playing.  She asks if I am having a good night.  I tell her it isn't bad so far.  She points to my chips and squishes her bosom on the table closely.  "Can I have some of your chips?"

I greedily hug my pile in realization and shake my head with a smile. "Sorry hon. I don't think so."  Her candy sweet smile melts into a disinterested line and she turns to my crew mate.  Giving up, she moves to the blackjack table where two young men hand her a couple chips.  She's smiling and on her game again. The waitress returns with our drinks (which are free at the casino), we shrug to each other and continue on. 

To learn a lesson from a good hustler one need not go much further than Panama City.  Taxis and hookers are where I would look first.  They await you patiently in dimly lit corners of slot machines in casinos and in the dark alley you stammer down in the late hours when the bars let out.  Bass blasting in the background, drinks sloshing the movement of your legs, hand up, they arrive. The fare for American travelers is what is called the "Gringo Tax" here amongst ex-pats.  Five to even 10 times the price for cabs but still so much cheaper than we can experience back home which is why most don't complain too much.  Hookers cost around $80 for an hour of their time.  A very hurried time, a cab driver once complained to me, but still not as expensive as in the States.  They spend an hour at a time with several different men a night, turning each quickly.  I have never thought to know this much about the sex industry here but you really can't help it.  It is everywhere and fascinating with its allure and manipulations to more than I would care to have known about.  Taxis and hookers work hand in hand, taxi drivers offering young men places to get special massages and pretty women to keep them company for the evening.  The working girls shuffle their business back into the waiting cab drivers who carry the buyer back to their expensive hotel room downtown.  Overweight Tommy Bahama-wearing old white captains on our dock almost always eventually end up sporting a young twenty-something beauty as a girlfriend for their stay in Panama City with no shame.  

A month ago I was invited to a dinner by a young guy on the dock I am friends with.  Crashing our lovely outdoor evening dinner came 2 of these captains and one yacht owner from a few boats down.  Snapping their fingers at our waitress, they drank their rums and quickly delved into the subject of fun for the night.  I listened quietly while evil-eyeing my friend as they discussed the kind of fun they would like to have.  Classier or younger?  Venetto or call up Manuel for his contacts?  One of the captains looks me up and down and asks me what I do  for a living.  I told him I was the chef on the yacht next door.  He smiled at me sheepishly, pointing to his admittedly large man boobs.  "Hey would you date this?  I can't get a pretty girl to look at me or smile at me unless I got a $100 bill attached to my forehead."  I smile and look him in the eye, put some food in my mouth and try to eat my meal and listen. I wanted to ask... Why do you have so little respect for yourself? I am almost embarrassed to admit I wanted to hear more of this conversation and to see truly what these guys would end up talking about.  They were pretty comfortable talking about their sexual options for the night.  I listen to the yacht owner beg the guys to stay out with him.  His wife is asleep on the boat and he is looking for "young ass."  I have passed this yacht owner and his dear wife everyday as they tool around their retirement home of a fishing boat, traveling the world for their golden years. I shake my head in disbelief.  My friend looks at me and says, Let's go.  I am relieved. I feel as though my eyes are darkened inside somehow.  Tinted from this.  I cannot explain it in any better way. I am becoming numb to it now.

That being said, this conversation is not uncommon.  It is almost like a sport, talked about with ease, something I am not used to.  Many young and old men from the United States let their inhibitions down and buy a woman for the night or simply entertain her with drinks at the blackjack or dinner table to have the attention. For a lot I naturally assume it is their shot at having a beautiful woman by their side that perhaps they may not be able to otherwise attain.  For all it is some sexual issue.  For some, something to try.  Some things I wish I could unsee, it is so unbelievable to me how common it truly is.  I know it is not just a Panama City thing too.  It is a Jaco, Costa Rica thing…it is a Dominican Republic thing…It is a Las Vegas thing.  It is an everywhere thing, especially in Central America.  

As for these women, a lot of them are truly stunning.  I can understand the allure handed so deliciously on a cheap platter of ease.  A lot of the women come from Colombia.  One of my regular cab drivers, Diose, tells me that this is due to a corruption in Colombia where a lot of these women are forced into this line of work at a young age.  Often voluptuous, often with plastic surgery, of which the butt implant seems to be the fad to a point of ridiculousness. They are given these surgeries and makeovers, brought to Panama, and required to bring in a certain amount of income a day towards their debt for all their "upgrades."  Some have their families threatened. They need to do a lot of business in one day and there is a lot of competition. The reason they are brought here, naturally, is because Panama boasts the U.S. dollar with a much better economy.  Although this is new to me, this is a business transaction that has been in action for many years with our military and the settlement of U.S. and European citizens. It is obviously a huge part of Panama's draw for travelers here, foreign business men from all over the world partaking regularly.  The government turns a huge blind eye to it, requiring these women to have health check-ins, yet maintaining their hypocritical stance that it is still illegal.  As with many areas of the law in Panama, the police seem nonexistent. This is, after all, a huge money maker and what government can be upset about that?

Taxis are like hookers in that they are also everywhere and they are typically there to scam an unknowing traveler.  It costs the average Panamanian a couple bucks to ride across town.  The average tourist will pay $10-15.  I have gotten my cabs lowered to $5, sometimes paying a couple bucks more if I am impatient and it's hot out. They don't operate on metres, so you can be stuck in traffic for an hour like I was yesterday and the agreed-on price remains the fare.  Due to the amount of business we give to cab drivers with provisioning for the yacht, we have 3-4 taxi drivers daily that will call trying to outbid the others.  It works in our favor for this sort of thing and I have come to really care for and enjoy talking to the drivers that I have gotten to know over the last few months here. Taxi cab drivers that work for us also are still relatively inexpensive, charging us around $10 an hour and offering butler-esque service.  My regular guys escort me through the fish market carrying my cooler and helping me through watery walkways.  In the grocery store they help to carry bags and through the cat-calls of the produce market, they are escorts of security.  Taxi drivers are as diverse as people normally are.  Some are good, some are sly, some will try to drive you to their house at the end of the night and drag you out of the car (true story, though I obviously got out alright), and almost all are hustlers in some way or another.  Their eyes are guarded, they don't talk a lot, they don't ask a lot of questions, and they seem to understand more English than they lead on.  I have yet to meet one who obeys any traffic laws and rightfully so.  Nobody here does.  No one is above cutting into any corner, to get an edge, to pass miles of traffic to the front of the line and force their way in.  It is a survival of the pushiest and an inability to care about anything but the destination and the dollar being acquired quickly that allows these men to continue to raise the small funds that they do to support theirs.  

I want to wrap this blog up with something safe and explain.  But sometimes things just are what they are and there is no making them anything else.  Certainly there are other wonderful and beautiful parts of Panama and I will write about those too.  For now…Taxis and Hookers. 

From Costa Rica to Panama City...

Small wakes from the local ferry jostle Dardanella on this early Saturday morning. The motion rolls me around in my bunk, as though the boat were telling me to wake up and join the day.  Try to go back to sleep and get rolled again.  I give up and swing myself into a sitting position. This isn’t going to get any better today.  Ferries and fishing boats zip closely by Dardanella’s side several times a day, so we have become used to the occasional sway or unexpected wave that sends you stumbling into the nearest corner. I can only battle it so long in the mornings, and reluctantly dangle my feet over the bottom bunk waiting for my eyes to adjust. My roommate is on a month long trip to South Africa.  I have the room to myself and it is a luxury looking down and not having to step over someone to hit the ground.  Several of my crewmates have taken the weekend to get out of Panama City, so I am not only enjoying the freedom of a room and bathroom to myself  this weekend, but a boat with only a couple people on it, quiet and home.  I jump out into the crew mess and no one is up yet.  I have the television to myself to watch the morning news without a running crew commentary, the toastie machine all for me and the coffee pot.  Today is going to be great.  Now I just have to figure out what to do with it.  There are a lot of options.

Panama City is a book all on its own. It is a city that wakes up with hot mornings and lately ends with a breezy cool night.  Cab drivers drive locals and tourists through the alleyways and highways for a fair price that must be haggled, roads lit up with yellow and black vehicles.  American and European tourists walk in the old town of Casco Viejo with Panama hats and cameras flickering at the colonial ruins and churches.  The women from the local Kuna Indian tribe sell their wares and woven baskets while cradling a small child swaddled in bright colors and wraps. The evenings are littered with foreign backpackers drinking rum at the local bar with a bowl of ceviche and casinos full of old white men picking out a Colombian prostitute for their hour.  Lots of locals come to the Causeway de Amador where we are staying to get out of the city for the day and ride a bike down the long peninsula to the small island of shops, tiki bars, and marinas. Sloths and iguanas move around in the trees that line the marina, while raccoons and cats play together near the entrance. Fishermen come home from their sun soaked day with Tuna and Dorado.  Cabs take people up and down the Causeway and the sun sets over the Canal where I usually take an evening walk.

Today I will probably enjoy the city, however, in Casco Viejo, my favorite part.  It is beautiful, feels safe, clean-ish, with alcoves and doorways, garden bars hidden in hostels, top notch restaurants nestled in refurbished historical colonial buildings, breweries, and water-front walkways with artists everywhere selling and creating.  There are bright murals and graffiti splashing color on the white washed walls that line many of the narrow streets in Casco, large dark wooden doors with heavy brass knocks, an occasional stray dog or cat, and brick ruins of buildings soon to be refurbished in this small piece of progress.  It is very tourist friendly and reminds me a lot of Taicang Lu in Shanghai.  It is an easy place to get lost in with a camera and an appetite.  I will miss this old town when we leave in a month.

Coming here from Costa Rica was a welcome change.  The two locations couldn’t be more different so there is a definite “grass is always greener” effect going on.  Costa Rica is lush, green, beautiful beaches, local surf spots, small cities and towns, remote and quiet.  Though Panama certainly offers the same experience outside the city we don’t really get that here.  Panama City is a big city, dirty, noisy, lots of people to meet, lots of restaurants to try, shopping, and history with malls and skyscrapers.  When we left Golfito in Costa Rica we were waking up to glass-like waters, morning kayaks, rain in the afternoon that didn’t let up till the evening.  We would walk up the wooden dock in rain jackets to the marina restaurant the Banana Bay, and use their Wi-Fi while sipping a beer for a couple dollars.  Weekends we would go to the local surf spot or nearby beach and play outside all day.  There weren’t a lot of people to meet, there wasn’t much to do after dark, and provisioning was a joke. But it was amazing, nonetheless.  Panama City is a welcome change for the crew to be somewhere to send packages home, buy a new set of headphones, go out to a movie theater, eat and stock up on foods so hard to find in Costa Rica, or to enjoy the nightlife and meet other people.  I personally have met a lot of nice people in the city and know that returning here is a possibility in my future.  Provisioning for me as a chef is also preferable here.  Panama offers what I need, as they are on the U.S. dollar and have a strong international draw.  The fish market here is amazing, with a ceviche market adjacent to enjoy with a nice cold beer in hand.  It has been a welcome break for me to get everything I need and a time of appreciation, both for what I had in Costa Rica and for the friends I have met here and gotten to enjoy while I can.

As for the yacht life, I am wiggling my way back into it like a duck to water.  We do live such an unusual life, even for yachties, and one of a lot of privilege for our hard work and trade of freedom.  As a yacht chef, I couldn’t be more grateful.  I get to travel the world and learn other cuisines, learn to provision and negotiate with all sorts of vendors from fishing boats, to trading with neighbors and asking local restaurant owners for advice.  I walk through the local fish market during my workday and pick fresh local produce from the fresh produce outdoor market.  I’ve gotten to know several of the fishermen on the dock and a couple of them have given me some of their catches in exchange for fresh baked cookies and fish tacos. My crewmates catch fish for sport, and I get to cook it for sport.  

No complaints there!  We do work hard, 8 hours a day, 5 days a week and non-stop 17-hour days when the boss is onboard.  But we are greatly rewarded for our efforts. The only other downside is living in such close quarters with people you don’t choose who are from all over the world…but it sometimes lends for amazing friendships…which we have…and for interesting debates and growth of open mindedness.  We sometimes want to strangle each other but we mostly get along great and live very close lives to each other. 

And of course…the life on a boat is the best part.  We got to stop at small deserted islands for several days on the way from Costa Rica in order to do scuba diving and surfing “research” for our boss’ recent trip. Late night watches at sea sitting up at the wheel in the bridge watching the boat dip in the waves, coffee in hand, a comedy recording playing in the background as my crewmate and I giggle into the darkness looking out for other boats.  Next morning we are anchored somewhere else and exploring the reefs and surf breaks there.  After our Christmas charter, we anchored out into the bay of this small deserted island near the city of David, full moon hanging above, no other boats around.  I paddle boarded out to the small island, about ¼ mile in circumference, with a dry bag, a tent, and a couple beers and snacks.  I lit myself a small fire and slept the night under the stars listening to the waves crash on both sides of the island and the occasional hermit crab trying to get into the tent.  Not a bad way to spend Christmas day.  

I know I sound like an asshole when I say this, but it is easy to take this for granted because it becomes such a closeted and unique experience.  More and more so these days when we are in the city and living closer to a normal life than when we were in Costa Rica. When I step outside of it and spend time with my friends in Panama City, I realize how rare and special this experience is.  I get to live a life that not a lot of other people get to live. When my day ends on land, I walk down to the end of the marina, radio the boat, and the small tender departs from the side of the big boat to come pick me up.  One of the boys arrives shirtless in a pair of board shorts, sunglasses, music blasting, and a relaxed smile.  I jump in the boat, he hands me a beer, and we drive out into the bay back to the boat swaying in the waves with the sun setting in the distance.

Finding Somewhere

I stepped onto the plane in Portland, Oregon in the early morning, a sheen of sweat on my upper lip from the night of Halloween partying and regret the night before.  My tired eyes searched the plane for my row number and I sat with relief to see I would be able to rest my head against the window for the few hours to Dallas.  My last few days were a blur of packing, throwing away long-kept unnecessary items, saying goodbye to new and old friends, and what seemed like an endless amount of drinks and social activities.  I had joked that I would be crawling to the plane but truly, the joke felt more reality than jest.  My head throbbed with so many emotions, undealt with feelings about Tilly and the last year I had held at bay till I crossed this imaginary border, my heart swelling and shrinking in a manic frenzy to make sense of everything inside of me and to also hold back the flood I knew was coming.  I was not right and close to breaking.  Thank God for Devon.  

A young attractive man around my age with a big red beard and kind brown eyes sat next to me. He looked at me as if to say he had an idea I was struggling.  "So are we drinking blood mary's this morning?  Cause you look about how I feel."  

I laughed out loud.   Judging by the nearby passenger reaction maybe a bit too loud.

"Probably not a good idea," I confessed pathetically.  It took me a microsecond to look at him again and say, "Oh what the hell." 

"Atta girl," he laughed.  

Devon is an Oregonian headed back to military base in North Carolina.  We talked boats, travel, family, and future aspirations…all before takeoff.  I must have said a dozen times, "Where the hell have you been?"  We laughed and laughed with ease and I thank God I didn't sink into the window just yet.  He was a welcome caffeine to my drudgery.

After the plane took off, he hailed down our flight attendant for a drink.  Scott, as we came to know him, was an older male flight attendant who had obviously seen a few too many flights and was over it.  He was more than happy to have some morning drinkers on his route this morning.  He came back with an extra beverage for us and wished us a good day.  We said a cheers to him and had an amazing flight to Dallas.  After a warm hug goodbye and a promise to write, I said good bye to Devon.  I slept in the airport there for the entirety of my 4 hour layover until I heard my name being called over the intercom for the final boarding call to Costa Rica.  Rushing up to make my flight, I was the last one on the plane, I am embarrassed to say.  But hell, I made it. 

Continuing my forage into the world of sleep, I drifted in and out of sweaty consciousness the rest of the flight, waking occasionally for a drink of water or to the sound of someone laughing nearby.  In all honesty, it was a blur.  I woke up as the plane made a ridiculously rough landing, gasps erupting from startled passengers as we bounced onto the runway, the plane as drunk as I was the night before.  I didn't care so much about the landing…I was in Costa Rica finally.  No more explaining where I was going.  No more waiting to get there to let go.  I was here.  The moment had arrived.  I wanted to cry and I still couldn't quite put a finger on why or what the emotion was or if it was just exhaustion.  I just knew I needed to get off the plane and get to my hotel and deal with it later.  Suck it up for now Sarah.

My elation was quickly sated by the reality that I was in Costa Rica and I am a gringa, which in simple terms means I am easy to over-charge and easy to take advantage of.   After an hour and a half of cab drivers taking me to the wrong Marriots,  (there are 4 in town) despite having handed them the correct address, I finally made it to my hotel at 1am in time to sleep a few hours before my 5 am flight to Golfito.  And true to Murphy's Law, I couldn't sleep a wink, though the bed was as comfortable as a cloud.  Dragging my bags in the early morning, I wearily took a cab to the tiny airport where my flight to Golfito departed from.  A tiny establishment, the size of a small house, I wasn't sure I was in the right place.  Knocking on the front door and peering in, hand over my forehead leaning on the glass, I gazed into what seemed to be an empty airline check-in, unlit with no-one in view.  I knocked and called out, "Hello!" and a young man peered around the corner of the building. 

"Buenos Dias!" He was friendly and smiley, a welcome sight.  Through hand signals and broken English and Spanish, I realized I was the first passenger to arrive.  They hadn't even opened yet, thus the reason the employees hadn't turned on the lights.  In fact…I was the only passenger until noon.  However, they opened the doors, turned on the lights, brewed some coffee, and were as kind as I have ever seen for any airline.  I was greatly impressed and relieved for a friendly face.  Two very happy, charming captains escorted me out to the 12 passenger Sesna, joking that I could brag I had my own private plane to my friends.  I smiled feeling at ease and sat right behind them for one of the most beautiful flights I have been privileged to have down the Pacific Coast of Costa Rica during sunrise.  

I can only describe what I saw as breathtaking.  Clouds rested in pockets of lush green hills, mist steaming off the mountains as the sun parted the evening into the day.  The plane dipped in and out of clouds as the two captains chattered in Spanish about this and that.  I watched the city dissipate into jungle and wilderness, orange sunrise bathing the green in its warmth.  Undisturbed coastline with inlets leading into marsh cleared into deep blue water as we made our way over land and out over ocean.  Memories of how small I used to feel out at sea, my respect for this world so unknown and so untapped began to wash over me in a familiar and old way.  

We circled a small gulf surrounded by green jungle and mountains, a sprinkle of buildings and fishing boats began to emerge.  In a matter of minutes, the plane lowered itself onto one small runway.  A handful of people awaited the plane. My fraction of working brain couldn't conceive of why so many people would be waiting for me, as I was the only passenger.  However, they weren't.  One man waved at me, a large smile on his face and a rain jacket covering him appropriately for the changing weather.  A young white guy with freckles, blue eyes, and a stocky build, he wore surf shorts and a pair of sandals.  I knew he was from the yacht.

"Hey there!  I'm Brady," he smiled, hand out with a firm shake.  He grabbed my bags and spoke perfect Spanish to our cab driver telling him to wait.  We went into the small terminal, a shack with a tin roof, and waited for a package he was also waiting for.

"Sorry to make you wait, I'm sure you're tired.  Getting mail here is ridiculous. You have to pay nearly $500 to mail something back home or wait for the random flight that comes to town.  Those other five people are pretty glad you flew in today," he laughed, a look of sheepishness on his face.  I smiled and let him know I was not bothered at all.  

"Oh, you'll get bored here quick.  There really isn't much to do here but surf and sweat out in this damn humid rain.  It's beautiful but it gets old quick."  

"I think I"ll be just fine," I laughed assuring him.  At that moment I knew I would.  This was heaven to me.  After my new captain grabbed his parcels, we loaded my luggage into the cab and rode the bumpy streets to the tiny Banana Bay Marina where my new residence would be. This town was truly tiny with one small road that ran through it and very little to speak of aside from an occasional restaurant or fishing boat.  In my exhaustion I grinned as I stepped out of the cab and wheeled my bags up to the sole vessel in the tiny marina.  Smiling to myself I realized I truly was in the middle of nowhere.  Thank God.  I was finally home.