It's peacefully quiet. Birds and monkeys chatter from the shore. Little silver fish that hide under the big, blue mama fish, which happens to be our boat, occasionally have a splash party at the surface. And then the world lurches suddenly and chaos erupts as we start rolling side to side.
Dishes dive off the drying track, silverware skates around the sink, and fruits get a woozy ride in their hammock. The smaller limes escape captivity, jumping to the floor to flee in all directions.
If we're awake, we stop what we're doing and brace ourselves, otherwise we're rudely awakened from sleep, rolled into the sides of our bunk. Huh? What? Oh. Ugh.
It's a random set of rogue waves barging in from an unexpected direction, causing havoc. Most of the time, it only lasts a half minute.
The sea can be naughty like that, though sometimes it's the careless wake from a fishing or charter boat.
There is hardly a waking hour that I don't prairie-dog to eyeball the sea and the sky with suspicion. What mood are they in? What might they be up to? And still, we rarely see those rogue waves coming.
Arriving in the late afternoon, we anchor behind Punta Quepos, a high, rocky jut of land that affords us some protection from the open sea. Our friends John and Meredith on their sailboat Jackdaw arrive at night, having buddy-boated with us around the Gulf of Nicoya.
Being coastal cruisers, geography is just as important for us to consider as weather. The high terrain here blocks all but a pleasant sea breeze that keeps us feeling good.
It's a decent anchorage, quiet at night, but the southerly swell wraps around the point, bounces and refracts, so it can be rolly. Using a second anchor off the stern is essential to minimize rolling here.
Punta Quepos isn't a great anchorage as far as comfort goes, but the view is beautiful and the area is one of our favorite stops in this country so far. In retrospect, we'd have skipped huge areas of northwest Costa Rica so that we could spend more time here. The clock's always ticking on our 90-day visas.
The nearby town of Quepos is named after the indigenous Quepoa people whose language, history, and cultural identity have been lost to time.
After making the trek into town a few times, we call it the Quepos Triathlon: it starts with rowing to shore, the change of clothes, the hike up a muddy jungle path to a road, and then ascending the long, winding road that climbs steeply to the tourist village of Manuel Antonio. The roads here have monkey crossings, thick ropes string over the road. We see spider monkeys one day, howler monkeys another.
We arrive at our finish line, a bus stop, hearts pounding and sweaty. The bus carries us down a narrow road full of hairpin turns, windows open, dog-legging down to the sea-side town of Quepos.
There, we find a farmer's market, local food, fishing supplies, groceries, hardware, bakeries, and other goodies. Tourists pass through, but Quepos is not a destination.
Still, we find it charming, snacking on fresh pastries while watching Ticos go about their day or play a lively game of fútbol.
We walk the malecón, or waterfront, watching local fishing boats brave the rough river bar crossing where surfers ride the waves. Even after the fishing boats run the gauntlet of breaking waves, they must thread shallow, hidden sand banks into the estuary.
I watch a 2-man fishing boat do this, one man at the bow, the other steering, the engine struggling for headway against the strong current. A stray, floating coconut rushes by them, showing how they'd be carried out to sea faster than anybody could rush to help.
I hold my attention on this understated drama, and wave with respect as they finally make it past us and through the worst of it, even if the hand-made boat is slightly comical. They'd probably survive an engine failure if they jump ship, but the sea would chomp up their boat and spit splinters up on the rocks in seconds.
The malecón doubles as the town center's protective breakwater should a massive storm attack. The town might flood, but the buildings would stand.
Thunderstorms are common, almost daily, but we're spared from all but a bit of rain, thunder, and light shows in the clouds while we're there. There's plenty of sunshine as well, sometimes too much.
While two and a half weeks happily slip by, we sometimes make the trek into Quepos simply just to get off the boat, letting the world surprise us as we walk aimlessly. Mind empty, eyes wide, hearts content. I smile at everyone, happy for everyone to be just where they are, doing whatever they're doing.
An armed guard lets us into the air conditioned lobby of a phone service provider where we hope to buy a SIM card. The doors lock behind us. The windows are darkly tinted and the lights are low, 4 or 5 people in the lobby are slumped shadows, waiting.
We're told the enrollment network is currently down, but I say we can wait, too. The man shrugs whatever. I'm handed a number and we sit on a bench. When our number is eventually called, we're told the network is still down, it's been down all day, might be down tomorrow, who knows?
We leave happy anyway. A half hour break from the sun in a cold, dark, air conditioned lobby? What a treat! I want to come back tomorrow even if it's another pointless wait, but we don't, finding a SIM card merchant in a nearby street corner.
There is a marina here, but slip prices in Costa Rica are outrageous. We're content to anchor just a couple miles away. In fact, from a park at the edge of Quepos, we can see Miette far off in the distance. It's weird to see her so far away.
Aside from the bus stop, we only visit Manuel Antonio a couple times since it's crawling with tourists. Once, to marvel at the highest prices for American food brands we've ever seen anywhere. I caved-in to buy a small Gatorade that set me back nearly $5.
The second time we visit Manuel Antonio is to get appetizers at a restaurant we'd seen from a bus called El Avión.
El Avión is a hilltop pub built around an entire 1950s vintage cargo airplane. I climb up from the cargo hold, which has its own bar with swirling disco lights, to the flight deck. There, I sit in the captain's chair, my feet naturally find the rudder pedals out of habit, hands on the yoke.
It's been a few years since I logged hours as a pilot, and I suddenly miss the feeling of airflow over the wings at my fingertips, the earth falling away as the wheels leave the runway.
My eyes sweep the C-123's instrument panel. Most of the instruments have been removed except the attitude indicator, where the artificial horizon looks passed out drunk, rolled back and cockeyed.
We read a sign at the restaurant that claims this aircraft was one of several used to illegally carry US-provided weapons to the Contra rebels in Nicaragua back in Reagan years. It doesn't explain how this airframe was transported to this high jungle ridge in Costa Rica.
The hostess seats us at a table that looks out for miles across the jungle below, the sea disappearing in the distant horizon. It is a lovely sunset, but rain is on the way. We hail a taxi just as the deluge begins, then walk the trail to the beach, the slippery rock and mud path webbed with tree roots, lit only by our cellphones. We hadn't thought to bring our LED headlamps.
The jungle canopy shields us from much of the rain, but we feel silly for getting caught in the rain we know comes nearly every evening.
When we get back to our dinghy, the beach is deserted and completely dark. We load the dry-bag with shoes and shore clothes. Shawn has a bikini underneath, but with nobody around on the moonless night, I strip completely, to minimize what has to get hung to dry tomorrow.
From our anchorage off Playa Biesanz, we watch every morning as locals set out beach chairs, tents, paddleboards and kayaks, which they'll rent to visitors throughout the day. They even have a beach bar set up under the trees.
Every day, we watch people try paddle-boarding for the first time, though the swell makes this a hard place to learn and few can stand up.
Jet-skis, which have been the bane of our life anchoring in Costa Rica, also show up, but they're following a guide, and for once, keep a safe distance from us. Say what you will about El Salvador and Nicaragua, but at least their beaches don't have reckless jerks on jet-skis careening full speed near swimmers and anchored sailboats.
The Quepos jet-ski tours are considerate, so we wave in sincere thanks. The tours often grin at us, maybe at our laundry, hanging off Miette's lifelines from bow to stern.
Buying tickets in advance, as they're limited in quantity each day, we pick a Monday morning to bus out to the Manuel Antonio National Park with Meredith and John. The tickets are expensive if you're a foreigner, but we're excited to go. We later realize the animals we'll see are basically everywhere else we go, we just aren't looking.
Initially I'm bummed, seeing a crowd forming a queue at the entrance. Any time we see tourists anywhere, I want to go a different way. Tour guides with tripod-mounted scopes work the crowd to get hired. Personally, I dislike tours, and prefer to hike at my own pace, in silence.
We squeeze through the crowd bottlenecking the path leading away from the entrance. They reek of perfume, shampoo, aftershave, and scented deodorant losing the jungle battle. They trail an unnatural stink that lingers in the heavy jungle air.
The guides speak decent English, but make comments to each other in Spanish, or to themselves, assuming tourists won't understand. One guide is pointing out a female sloth, frustrated that he can't get a good view with his scope. In Spanish, he mumbles "come on, stop moving around, you dirty bitch!". In English, he comments "she take a shit and not even wipe the ass". The sloth, mortified, quickly climbs out of sight.
Soon, the trails branch off, and little by little, we escape the crowd. Now that we know what to look for, we find other sloths on our own.
While Shawn walks and chats with our friends, I fall back until I can no longer hear them. I have a small, digital audio recorder with a very sensitive stereo microphone. I pause, slow my breathing, and find a comfortable stance to play statue. The microphone can pick up creaks in my joints so I try to not move a muscle.
I don't record until at least 30 seconds have elapsed, since the jungle gets quiet as people walk through. While the others walk out of sight, it's as though nature's volume knob gets slowly turned up. After a minute, the animal party is back in full swing.
John and Meredith are running out of time on their visas, and part ways a couple days later. We watch them sail slowly out of the anchorage.
John is a sailing purist, using his engine only if he absolutely must. We've watched Jackdaw's satellite-relayed GPS track as they spent days at sea, bobbing no faster than a crawl, or tacking with little or no progress toward their destination. We cheer when we see them finally moving at reasonable speeds.
Costa Rica may be beautiful, but the winds this time of year are shifty and too light for good sailing.
We never know if or when we'll see sailing crews we've befriended. Some have leapt westward across the Pacific, a few have bashed back to the US, many have stayed in Mexico to bum around another season, some have thrown in the towel and sold their boats, while the rest float in sun-baked limbos, undecided.
We're really undecided, too, but we keep slowly moving. After a pleasant stay near Quepos, it's time to move on as the days on our own visas dwindle.
A last few runs to stock up on diesel and provisions, then we weigh anchor and sail to Drake's Bay, 54 nautical miles further down the coast.
This post accompanies the following YouTube videos:
Parque Nacional Manuel Antonio
(and one more in the works… )