Shawn's upper lip is jeweled with sweat as she sits in the shade. She's in a bikini reading a e-book out in Miette's cockpit. I stick an index finger out and she touches the tip with the tip of hers, the limit of physical affection in the mid-day heat.
"Tropical rainforest". The phrase used to be an exotic notion spurring my imagination, evoking wild jungles exploding with colorful plants and animals. Daydream material for a city kid.
As we've slowly sailed our way along Pacific Costa Rica, we have now crept into the tropical rainforest climate. We're slowly adapting. If our surroundings were not so postcard-beautiful, we'd be in poorer spirits, smothered by heat and humidity.
We've learned to spot the sloths in high branches, to recognize the cry of the toucan, the low, grating chain-smoker screams of the scarlet macaw, and the lunatic squeaks of parakeets who frantically take to the air by the hundreds every sunset.
The irritable howler monkeys often fill the early mornings with angrily bellowed vulgarities. They don't actually howl, not like a wolf. It's deep, belligerent, full-bellied shit-talking. If they could drop the F bomb, it's all they'd ever say. Their grunts escalate like an alcoholic family argument until everybody is stupidly shouting over everybody else. I don't know if they ever actually come to blows or if it's all bluster. They yell at each other, at us, at birds, at sloths in neighboring trees. The other types of monkeys know the howlers are raging assholes and make themselves scarce.
When they're not aggravated, they can be seen half-dozing, languidly sprawled out in high branches, sleepily looking down at the world with contempt. They are quietly waiting to be aggrieved by some trivial nuisance, looking as though they're nursing bad hangovers and stewing in their own stink. They do stink. Their babies are cute, though, holding fast to their mothers, looking at us wide-eyed, "who that, mama? they ugly!"
Behind all the sounds we do recognize, there's a riot of unseen songbirds and insects weaving a wall of noise, sometimes desperately shrill.
Out at anchor, though, it's just the water gently lapping at the hull, the small surf breaking at the beach, distant birdsong. We get swallows in the hour after sunset, coming for the flying bugs.
The tropical rainforest is all I imagined and much more, but I underestimated the rain. Daily downpours drench everything sopping wet. Fat rain drops that slap and splash.
The sun seems to pass too close to the earth here, blazing the water into steam. The heavy warm blanket of humidity is nearly suffocating until the wind picks up. Heavy, lead-bottomed clouds with high, cotton-ball tops flickering electric silver roll in and the temperature begins dropping slightly.
We close the hatches, put buckets under the rain-catching tarp, and make hasty decisions about what to leave outside. We've been doing laundry entirely with rainwater, and clothes that were drying on Miette's lifelines might get an extra rinse or two in the rain, sometimes on purpose.
Inside the cabin, we huddle with e-books. The rain beats down on the deck so hard that we have to raise our voices to be heard. Instead, we sit in separate sides of the boat, feet up.
The skies clear but the air remains heavy and wet. Don't stare if I grow gills, ok? We open up the boat again and collect our rainwater, wait for the sun to dry everything off.
There are far fewer tourists here in Drake Bay. This is a remote area, without paved roads and hard to reach. Only rugged vehicles arrive over land, and locals get around by small dirtbikes. Visitors come and go by small motor-boats from a town 30 miles away.
The bay is named for the infamous British pirate, circumnavigator and possibly psychopath, who plundered the area.
The village here is Agujitas, little needles. A few mini-supers where we buy groceries, a half dozen small restaurants, and fronts for tour operators.
The tourists are marshmallow soft and pale, some with so many bites the mosquitos are getting away with attempted murder. They're young and child-free.
We've heard German and British English, and many of the lodgings we've seen are closer to grubby hostel than hotel.
We've only seen a couple expats here, and they look identical to ones we see everywhere else. Hard-eyed, leathery beef jerky in faded clothes, silently bad-vibing us.
The locals here are friendly, though. Most will wave, smile, throw the hang-loose sign with a "pura vida", the national catchphrase and philosophy.
The draw here is Corcovado, a national park, and Isla de la Caña, an island wildlife refuge and diving attraction 12 miles offshore. We'd have stopped there had it not required an anchoring permit, park fees, and a 3pm limit to our stay.
At night, it's usually quiet, save for the surf and rumbles of thunder. We have a second anchor deployed that keeps Miette's bow pointed into the swell, minimizing uncomfortable rolling.
Tonight is a different story, though. The skies darkened well ahead of nightfall, ominous clouds gathered, flashing light and grumbling. By 9pm, Miette is groaning, pulling hard at the bridle hooked to the anchor chain. The winds are screaming in from the open ocean, raising ever larger waves to throw at us as the rain starts machine gunning the boat. Items and dishes in the cabin are falling over as we're rocked violently in every direction.
I start a GPS track on my phone, which will show me if the anchor is getting dragged. Except for a headlamp, I get naked and go out into the deck to lash down a few things that are flapping loudly. I want to put on the same clothes when I'm done, no sense in getting them soaked.
I tie off the helm to stop the rudder from getting slammed against the stops. At the bow, I check the anchor bridle to make sure it's still attached to the chain and that the lines aren't chafing through.
Shawn gets out of bed, where she'd been getting tossed around. We're on stand-by, ready to react if a bridle line snaps or the anchor begins to drag, since the ocean seems determined to wreck us on the beach. If we have to, we'll start the engine, untie ourselves from the stern anchor (which we can retrieve later), and use the engine to help keep us away from the shore.
Hours like this can be terrifying, but fear is the mind's enemy, ready to start growing into panic if you let it. Keep a level head, have a plan and a backup, monitor the situation, and try to relax. We sit low on our settees, braced against the motion, with iPads to read or play games.
By midnight, the worst is over and we quickly fall asleep. Every now and then a massive wave set goes by and we roll in bed. I crack open an eye to look at our GPS track, see that the anchor is still holding, and go back to sleep.
The morning is peaceful, gray, and wet, the seas are calm again. The jungle is a vibrant palette of greens, the birds singing happily.
You take the good with the bad.
We've enjoyed terrific hikes here, walking as far as our water supplies last, miles if we get an early start.
Back at the boat, we check there are no crocodiles posing as logs, then jump in the water which is not quite blood warm. If she doesn't swim from shore to the boat, Shawn will tread water for 15 minutes while I float on a foam noodle. We're anchored in 9 ft of water at low tide, but we cannot see the bottom. We climb aboard, rinse off, and spend much of the afternoon rocking in our Nicaraguan hammocks under the shade of the cockpit, eat dinner around 5 and call it a day at 8.
We continue exploring the area as the rains allow, following the Corcovado trail as it provides beautiful jungle beach vistas at nearly every turn.
There is one gravel road into Agujitas, but few cars. The locals get around by dirt-bikes or motorcycles with mud tires and small engines that whine like chainsaws.
We watch a dirt-bike go by. There's a toddler holding the handlebars, sitting between the fuel tank and the father, who is in control of the bike. A barefoot sister hangs on behind them. They're only going 10 mph or so. Any faster on this dirt road would be dangerous. More dangerous. The wet, muddy road is strewn with potholes full of rainwater that looks like chocolate milk.
Shawn and I grin at each other as they go by. We've seen up to 4 people, 2 adults and 2 kids, on these 1-person dirt-bikes. I now hope to see 5.
There is a cluster of buildings at the top of a steep hill which must be the town center. Two grocery stores, both reasonably well stocked, sit on opposing sides of the street. One day we shop at one, the next day the other.
Each store also has a connected restaurant, but we end up favoring the one that looks out over the Bay.
It's easy to spot Miette out there in the sparkling water. Not only is she the only sailboat, but our tiny home looks like a full-fledged ship compared to the other dozen boats tied up to mooring buoys out there.
I've been watching the forecast and no matter what day we pick, we'll encounter some kind of rainstorm, and will have light winds that never settle on a consistent direction. We'll have to motor, and to make the next anchorage in daylight, we'll need to get up at 4am.
Love it! We may not be in the “same boat” but we are in a similar hot, muggy, squally, beautiful boat in the South Pacific!