Wednesday, Oct 10 to Saturday, Oct13, Granada, Nicaragua

Our cruise this season started with a little land travel, so I thought I’d write a few notes on this portion.  Usually flying can be an adventure in itself, and our full, bumpy flight to Managua was no exception.  Jeff and I were among the last to get off the plane and the VERY last to go through immigration (Only $5 each to check into the country!).  We had spent a full day sorting through the items we were going to take to the boat, packing and re-packing three boxes and a bag, eliminating items that weren’t absolutely necessary to avoid over-weight charges.  We carefully wrapped delicate items, labeled each box “FRAGILE” with arrows pointing this end up.  When we saw them piled at the luggage carousel, my stomach dropped; they were upside down and SMASHED.  I dreaded taking them through customs inspection and discovering what all had been broken.  To my surprise, they just passed the boxes through the x-ray machines and said ok.  Nothing more.  They must have been tired after all those other people went through!

Our driver, Gustavo, was waiting at the curb for us with a tiny little car.  It was another puzzle trying to stow all the boxes in the trunk and back seat, but we made it.  Since we had arrived at the ticket counter in Sacramento 30 minutes before they even opened that morning and it was now 6:30 pm., we were beat.  The drive to our hotel, Casa San Francisco, in the heart of Granada, took about 30 minutes.  We had a decent meal at the hotel’s restaurant (fish with a passion fruit sauce) and crashed.

Our room was one of the nicest ones in the small hotel, with windows opening onto the inner courtyard.  They had a couple pet toucans and two parrots that they’d let loose around the courtyard so we were serenaded by the birds.  The rate included a typical Nicaraguan breakfast – beans and rice and eggs, plus they made other dishes if you preferred. 

Thursday, October 11, 2007, Granada

Not wanting to waste time, we hired Gustavo and his English-speaking friend Alan, to take us on a tour of the countryside.  We headed out from Granada to Masaya on a new road lined with lush greenery – trees, banana palms, bushes, grasses.  Alan pointed out a fort at the top of a neighboring hill, built in the 1800’s for the civil war between Granada and Leon.  In 1979 it was used by the Sandanistas as a jail, and now is a tourist spot.

Though I remembered hearing of the Sandanistas on the news in the 70’s, I never paid much attention.  I asked Alan about them:  He said the Contras were mercenaries sponsored by the Reagan administration; the Sandanistas were Communists who conscripted all the locals into their army, like it or not.  The wealthy people fled to the US or Costa Rica and the Sandanistas seized their property and doled it out to Sandanista leaders for their loyalty.  Starting in 1990, the original families came back to claim their land and now there are problems with determining who it the rightful owner of the land.  That’s one of the reasons why land deals are so shaky here in Nicaragua.

The president now has a legislature to deal with so the government is not as autocratic as it was, though the current President, Ortega, manages to get his way.  He wants no dealings with the US or UN, even refusing to ask for aide for the hurricane victims.  The main source of revenue in the country is drugs, and according to Alan, Ortega says he’s looking to crack down on drugs, but he sells the drugs that are seized for an extra high price.  That’s why he wants no dealings with the US.  Alan said this is his first of four years in office, and already he’s like the infamous Pablo Escovar or the 80’s.  

With drugs as the number one source of revenue for the country, that puts tourism as the number two source, and the third is Nicaraguans from abroad sending money home. 

Our first stop of the day was at the Masaya Volcano National Park.  Just beyond the trees lining the road into the park were large hardened clumps of lava; they looked like giant worm poop!  We drove up to Santiago Crater, the main one of five craters in the two volcanoes there.  It was rain forest at the lower elevation, but up at the top it was dry; the grasses were yellow, and there was spindly scrub and jet-black rock covering the ground.  The sulfur smell was so strong I started having coughing fits and burning sensation in my throat; we donned our gas masks provided at the park entrance.  We climbed to the top of the carter – no easy feat breathing at high altitude through a gas mask – where it was windy and haze; the wind stung my skin, my eyes burned.  We stood at the rim of the crater, looking 60 meters below to boiling lava- I could HEAR it bubbling, and the smell was intense.

Alan said the only creatures that live up there are small parrots who build nests in holes in the side of the crater.  There was a cross at the top, erected by Spaniards in the 1500s to “appease” the natives, who used to throw virgins down the crater to ask god to stop the eruptions.  Not much incentive to be a virgin, huh?  The view from up here was like a jig-saw puzzle of black, brown, yellow and green.

We hiked to the top of a second crater, this one with a lagoon in its center at one time, but the water dried up two years ago.  Actually it was a catch basin for the rain and there hasn’t been as much rain.  The rain mixed with the gases coming off the volcano creates acid, which burns the leaves and our throats!

Back in the town of Masaya we saw popular types of taxi – wooden carts with metal benches in the back, covered with a biminy top and pulled by two horses, and three-wheeled motorcycle carts.  We strolled through the Mercado Viejo (Old Market) built in 1891, where I purchased a lovely basket made with woven pine needles, made near the Nicaraguan/Honduras border.

Driving out of town, Alan told us not to stay at the motels along this stretch; they’re for people who want to pay by the hour (meaning that’s where they bring their lovers.)  There are LOTS of scroungy dogs everywhere; it is heart-breaking; much worse than in Baja.  Barefoot, dirty children stand on the side of the street with shovels, filling the potholes.  They put their hands out when you drive by, asking for cordobas for their service.  Enterprising little guys, no? 

In the town of Katerina with its higher elevation and cooler climate, we passed numerous pretty nurseries along the road, their plants potted in black plastic bags.  This is a quiet, pretty town, lushly green with crumbling paved streets and pavers.  Coconut palms line the road; red tile roofs and colorful walls adorn the little stucco houses; volcanic dirt and rock is carved out and used to make building materials.  There is not nearly the poverty we saw in the Asadero and Chinandega areas.  Old women with huge baskets on their heads wear white ruffled aprons with pockets; these are the traditional garb of the fruit sellers.

We stopped at the shop of pottery artisan Miguel Angel Calero, who supposedly is one of the country’s best and is world renowned.  The work truly was exquisite.  While we watched a young man work on a piece, Alan explained that they mash the clay and water mixture with their feet, put it on a wheel and shape it into a pot.  It is briefly fired, scored horizontally, then vertically, and the resulting alternating squares are gouged out by hand with a small pick.  Then the piece is fired again and shined with a rock.  For a four-foot high vase like we were watching him work on, the process takes about two weeks.  Naturally, we had to buy a small souvenir. J

Friday, October 12, 2007, Granada

This morning the toucans were out, and one of them spotted the red nail polish on my toes, and kept biting at them.  It didn’t hurt because their beaks are so long they can’t get any leverage.  But I remembered Lela on our tour of El Salvador showed us the toucans’ favorite fruit, and it was the same color as my nail polish.  Ah, no WONDER he was after my toes, poor guy.  While the one was after my toes, the other was bathing in the bird bath next to our table, daintily dipping its beak, fluttering its wings.  I didn’t realize how large toucans are – roughly twelve inches from the top of the head to the bottom of the tail.

Today we walked around the historical section of Granada, taking in the smells and noises of the city: vendors calling, cars honking, horse carriages pulling tourists.  The horses all wore fluffy, festive bows on their necks – so charming looking.

We climbed the tower of a 500-year-old church – 37 steep, skinny steps -  where we viewed Mombacho Volcano and the red tiled rooftops of the city; each home has a central courtyard, and for miles all we saw was squares of red with green palms in the center.  We also saw the home that was occupied by William Walker, the American pirate who tried to take over Nicaragua and Costa Rica.  (Not someone we read about in American history books!)

Strolling further uptown, one little guy tagged along, not leaving our side until we finally gave him a few coins.  Persistent little bugger!  We looked in the oldest house in the city – now a private shop selling antiques and books like it was no big deal.  We had a close-up view of the construction of some of the old walls: a mixture of grass, mud and clay shards covered with stucco.  As we got to the main square, the horse-drawn carriages were all lined up around the square.  On closer inspection, the horses were bony and ragged looking – almost depressed looking; they hung their heads low, but perked them up when they heard the camera click on, as if they’d been trained or still wanted to look their best for the tourists.  But as soon as I took the photo, their heads drooped again sadly; reminded me of Black Beauty’s girlfriend in the movie.

Lining the long street to Nicaragua Lake were Quilamate trees, robust trunks and beautiful foliage reminding me of the banyon trees in Hawaii.  I learned the name from an old man with one blind eye on the side of the street.  Of course, he couldn’t “help” without asking for a gift in return, which we gave.  Persistent kids and street vendors bug you incessantly as you walk down the street.  While resting on the malacon, one guy with an ice cream cart stood directly in front of us for five minutes, waiting for us to break down, before he finally walked away.  They’ve intuitively absorbed Og Mandino’s creed: you must hear “no” at least 10 times before you get a “yes.” This poverty-driven country is like Baja USED to be, the incessant pestering one of the downsides of touring.

The malacon was surprisingly bleak: no shops, no sculptures, just a few concrete benches and a tiny park with silly square hedges lining the edges.  Walking up the side road from the malacon we passed the low-income housing, the rain forest nipping at the edges just a block away.

A couple blocks from our hotel we stopped at Garden Café, a newly opened spot owned by a young American named Damien (who reminded me a lot of my nephew, Frank.)  He had come down here for college, ended up getting married, and decided this was about as inexpensive as you could get to start a restaurant.  They served simple soups and sandwiches, more American-style.  He introduced us to a fruit, which he made into a lovely drink: the pitahaya.  It’s brilliant fuchsia colored outside and in, with the texture and tiny black seeds like a kiwi; it’s sweet, slightly astringent and just a hint slimy like okra. He blended it with a bit of water to make the juice, and also served it peeled and sliced with a sprinkle of lime juice over it; delicious!  I found the lime juice smoothed the flavors and cut the sliminess.  He said the season runs June through October, so he was just getting the last of them.  We came back here in the evening to support his first “live music night,” and we had Damien make us drinks with pureed pitahaya, rum and orange juice.  Quite tasty!

Damien was right about this being an inexpensive place for a business start-up.  It is amazingly cheap to eat and live in Nicaragua.  For example: Capuccino, $1.45; Cake$3.00; Haircut, $1.00; nice dinner for two with 5 drinks, $14.00;drugs are cheap.  Services like tours, etc. are more on par with other countries.  Imported goods are expensive, like $5 for four AA batteries.     

Nicaraguenses have the Mexican’s affinity for LOUD music and lots of noise, though there are not nearly as many spike heels and gaudy makeup as in Mexico.  (Alan said some women wear things on their feet at night to make them able to wear higher heels.  OW!!!)  The women they still wear tight-fitting clothes, though the garments are not as “sexy” as in Mexico.  People are generally very small.  Jeff and I were like giants.  We were definitely easy to spot as tourists – towering over everyone, wearing funny clothes, toting bags and camera, sporting hats (not many of the locals wear hats), and white skin.   J

Saturday, October 13, 2007, Granada

For our last day in town we booked a kayak tour of the lake.  We paddled in our rudimentary kayaks – fiberglass shell with no cushion, no padding, no rudder – through the isletas (little islands).  Some of them were occupied, from the most impoverished to the wealthy.  One had the home (vacation home?) of the owner of Flor de Caña, Nicaragua’s most popular rum; another housed the owner of an instant coffee company; the low-income homes were as bleak and depressing as the wealthy homes were magnificent.  On yet another island, an elaborate hotel and restaurant was being built with Chinese-style architecture.  All along the way there were people swimming, fishing, washing clothes in the brown water.   I waved, but not ONE waved back.  They didn’t seem very friendly; but, maybe we wouldn’t be either if people were constantly paddling by our back yard and staring.

We stopped at one island to poke around a fort built in the 1700’s to protect Granada from pirates.  It appeared at one time someone had attempted restoration, but it is rapidly disintegrating. Sad.

On Monkey Island spider monkeys and capuchins came to greet us; they seemed just as curious about us as we were about them.  Or perhaps they were just looking for handouts, because some people bring them bananas and food.  Otherwise, they subsist on what the tiny island provides – which can’t be much - it’s only about 100 feet in diameter at the most!

Our guide, a young, shy kid, really wasn’t a very good guide; he didn’t point out much, only saying “Do you see it?” but never explaining what it was we were supposed to be seeing, and only had brief answers to my questions.  I did find out from him that these curious brown sacks hanging from trees were actually nests of some particular bird, though he didn’t know the name of the bird.  The older guy that owns the business probably would have been better – I could tell he was really into nature – but he didn’t speak any English and I felt my Spanish for this type of excursion would be inadequate.  In retrospect, compared to the amount of English the kid knew, it probably would have been fine. Too bad we didn’t have our former young crewman, Jon, the professional guide from Canada!

Those of us raised in California can’t fathom the beauty of the rain forests.  Though the temperature is warm, and the rain falls in soft, tiny drops, it’s heavy enough to form a gray veil in front of your face. We got rained on at least 15 times while paddling.  It would come on without notice full force, and stop just as suddenly – as if God opened the hatch and closed it again.  We were thoroughly soaked by the end of the trip, but our nylon shorts and shirts dried quickly.  Our guide was very cold; he is used to warmer climate, but for us it was perfect. 

Lake Nicaragua is huge – 1864 square kilometers of fresh water; it takes the ferry four hours to get to the islands in the center.  This was where the Americans originally wanted to build the canal, but through political wrangling they ended up taking over the failed French project in Panama.  By the way, if you’re at all interested in history, David McCullogh’s The Path Between The Seas is a fascinating account of the making of the Panama Canal

Sunday, Oct 14, 2007, Granada to Marina Puesta Del Sol

As we waited at the front desk for our driver, Gustavo, we saw the front page of the local newspaper.  Headlines “Alerta Roja en Chinandega and Masaya”  Photos showed cars in water up to their doors.  We asked the front desk clerk to call the marina for us and get the low-down on the situation.  He spoke with the hotel receptionist, who recommended we not make the journey; she didn’t think we could get through on the road.  Now what?!  Here we’ve vacated the room, we’re surrounded with three suitcases and three large 50-pound boxes; do we really want to stay another day?  Jeff asked the clerk to speak directly with Robert, the marina owner, who lives on a power boat in the marina.  Thankfully, Robert said we could get through; in fact, he was planning on driving to Managua this same day to catch a flight out.  Okay, we’re still on!

Figuring there’d be more selection of goods for provisioning in Granada than in Chinandega, we asked Gustavo to take us somewhere to buy groceries.  He dropped us at the “Super Mercado,” which turned out to be not-so-super.  Not five minutes after we arrived the power went out - not their fault, of course; the whole country loses power – so we were shopping in the dark.  The pickings were as poor as any store in the remotest parts of Baja Mexico.  Dusty cans and boxes; stale-dated products; wimpy, shriveled produce; empty shelves and bins; smelly chicken and meat.  We chose what we thought we could use, thinking maybe there would be a more promising roadside produce stand along the way.  I didn’t have my usual assortment of sturdy cloth bags so the bag boy threw everything into a woven nylon potato sack – and I mean threw  everything in.  I was loading goods onto the counter, so didn’t actually see what he was doing, but found out soon enough when I unpacked the bag.  Bananas – on the bottom.  V-8 – punctured.  Baking soda -  flowing out of the torn box.  RRRRGH!

On the way out of town, I mentioned to Gustavo how there wasn’t much in the store.  He said he knows another place to go.  It was in Managua.  I don’t know if we had to detour to go to that particular store, or whether we would have gone through Managua anyway.  In either case, it was a much more modern and well-stocked store, though, of course, not quite up to U.S. standards as far as selection.  The bag boys here did pretty well, putting all our purchases in boxes and taping them shut.  I had brought down ice packs which we kept in the small refrigerator in our room, so we were able to keep the chicken, meat, and cheese fairly cool on the ride to the marina.

And what a ride!  The incessant rains had caused a lot of problems all along the way, as evidenced not only by the washed out bridges and roads, but also the dead cattle, horses, dogs, and rotting garbage along the roadside.  In many areas there were mosquito breeding grounds in the standing water all over the fields, and a strong dark, vegetative, manure smell in the air.  It was still raining on and off while we drove.

Gustavo wasn’t quite too sure how to get to the marina, so had to stop several times in Chinandega and ask directions.  Some of the roads had been closed due to flooding, so we also had to take a more circuitous route, on roads that were partially paved, partially dirt because chunks of asphalt had washed away.  Once off the paved road, the dirt road to the Asaderros and resort region was horribly rutted; red mud filled the lane, and water stood in the fields, in people’s yards, inside their homes!  The houses, or hovels, were open and I could see that the dirt floors were swimming.  How can these people live this way?  Do they realize how bad off they are or is it just an accepted state of living?  Are they happy?  Content?  Satisfied with their lot?

I was afraid we would get stuck in the mud, but Gustavo drove through the muck pretty well.  He didn’t stick around though, when we got to the marina about 1600; he definitely didn’t want to be on the road in the dark!  Jeff paid him the $180 US as agreed, plus $20 tip and he was off in a flash.

I lost track of how many trips it took us to get all our bags and boxes down to the boat.  Fortunately it was high tide, so the dock ramp wasn’t as steep as it is at low tide.  It was so great to see our Musetta again; I didn’t realize how much I’d missed her!

Jeff opened the hatches and WHAM!!!  We were hit with the smell of mold so strong it almost knocked us back!  I was horrified!  We gingerly descended the companionway, holding our noses.  Oh my god!  What a nightmare!  There was mold EVERYWHERE!  The walls, cushions, floors, all had a white “dusting.”  I opened up a few cabinets – same thing inside!  The hanging lockers where we keep our clothing - mildewy as a flooded basement.  The forward head– UUUGH!  THE SMELL!!!  We were crestfallen.  “That’s it!  We can’t spend the night here – not with your nose!  You’ll never get to sleep, and you’ll be sick all the next day!  We’re renting a room in the hotel.”  Thank you, Jeff!

We make it a habit never to bring cardboard boxes onto the boat because cockroaches and other insects can lay their eggs in the corrugated layers.  Once you bring them onboard, it’s extremely difficult to get rid of the nasty buggers.  So before getting the room, we rushed to get everything unloaded from the cardboard boxes – and into the cockpit or cabins before the rain started up again.  We had stuff piled everywhere!  

Boxes emptied, we walked over to the hotel office and made arrangements for a room.  Though we got a 40% discount as marina guests, it was still quite expensive.  But, better than sleeping in mold – or so we thought.

By now it was dark and we hadn’t had anything to eat all day; we were ravenous.  We felt it best to get a quick bite to eat at the restaurant before going to the room.  Knowing it was “off season” we figured nothing on the menu would be fresh, and settled for the only menu item that held some hope - a lack-luster burger and hideous fries, which we wolfed down.

Afterwards, tired and ready for bed, we trotted back to the boat to gather our overnight bag then carefully made our way across the dimly-lit path to the hotel and our assigned upper-floor room.  With no outside light, it took Jeff a minute or so to unlock the room.  He reached in and patted the wall to find the light switch; we walked in and only made it a few feet before the smell of mold assaulted us.  Oh no!  Not here too!  A close inspection didn’t reveal any visible mold – perhaps it was just from being closed up too long.  The air conditioner didn’t work, but the overhead fan did so we started it up, and opened the balcony doors to get the air moving.  Even after thirty minutes or so, the smell didn’t go away though.  Jeff obligingly trudged back to the boat to get some Orange Mate air freshener and sprayed it all around the room.  After that, I could breathe easier.

Monday, Oct 15, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

Last night the hotel lost power sometime after 2000 hours. Since we had the black-out curtains closed, the room got incredibly stuffy; it actually became hard to breathe with all the mold smell.  I woke up sweating, gasping, groggy.  The room was pitch black.  I could only see by the sliver of “daylight” under the curtain hem when lightening would flash.  Feeling my way to the balcony, I yanked open the curtains and doors, which of course, let the rain in along with the fresh air.  By this time Jeff was up; he grabbed an extra towel from the bathroom and put it on the floor at the doorsill.  So much for getting a good night’s rest.

Before tackling the mess that is our floating home, we ordered breakfast at the restaurant.  We were the only hotel “guests,” the only people in the restaurant.  The food was horrible, and the coffee was instant.  Not a good way to start the morning. 

It took me all day just to clean some working space in the galley, then separate the food we’d purchased into smaller packs for freezing.  All day!  I started to stow some of the staples, but of course, everywhere I wanted to put them, I first had to empty out completely, clean the inside as well as all the stuff I took out, then allow everything to dry before I could add any contents.  The interior of this boat is a shambles!  

Tuesday, Oct 16, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

I worked all day just in the galley area.  There is white mold on every surface; inside every cabinet and drawer; on my Tupperware; on the pots, the silverware, the bottles, the cutting boards, the shelves.  Everything has to be taken out, washed, the storage area wiped with a bleach solution, allowed to dry before the contents can be restored.  I am so utterly disheartened.  I discovered the humidity destroyed the star fish that we’d saved from the site where we lost Lucky.  I can hardly keep the tears at bay.

Jeff told me about an episode he remembered on the old Outer Limits show (or was it Twilight Zone?): an older couple is on a sail boat, somewhere at sea, and they get becalmed.  Fog sets in and completely surrounds them for days.  Pretty soon, mold starts growing inside the boat; they clean, but can’t keep up with it.  Mold starts to take over, covering every surface.  By the end of the show, the people are little mold blobs with eyes, squeaking to each other.  Thanks, Jeff.  L 

Wednesday, Oct 17, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

I think depression is setting in.  Even though I worked all day in the galley again, it feels like I haven’t accomplished a thing.  Why are we doing this?  We could be having a much better time in Washington!  Is this really the life we want to lead?  Do we really like cruising enough to put up with this???  Right now the answer is a resounding NO!

It is still pouring rain, with lots of thunder and lightening.  We’ve learned the power usually comes on around 1500 and stays on for four to six hours.  Internet access is usually during this time, if at all.  The signal is strong, but the speed – oh my goodness – dial up is faster than this – 11 mbps!

How can a country run this way?  Jeff told me the latest news on the resort owner Robert’s latest property problems.  In the spring he had been battling squatters, paying them to move off his property.  The latest scheme – actually on-going since last July: some guy created a phony corporation; paid off a judge and Bureau of Land Management-equivalent big wig; had the deed for the resort property “nullified;” had the property transferred to the phony corporation; filed ownership in court with the paid-off judge; installed armed guards to protect “his” property; offered to sell the property to Robert.  Can you believe it?  Robert then petitioned the American Embassy and some other agency (I can’t remember which) for assistance.  It’s now in some legal battle which is supposedly to be settled one way or another real soon.  Meanwhile, work on the resort has stopped, pending the outcome.  What a nightmare!  This is Nicaragua’s first resort, first marina.  Here the country is supposedly trying to develop tourism and get out of poverty, and one guy who’s invested some diligent effort and major money to this end is now getting jerked around.  And Americans are buying property and condos like this is “the new Costa Rica.”  There’s NO WAY I would put a single dollar on the line in this country! 

Thursday, Oct. 18, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

Cushions out, cushions in.  Cushions out, cushions in.  Nothing can dry out!  Enough rain, already!  We’ve been told this area has never seen the likes of this continual rain.  I wonder how the locals are coping with it.

Tonight is the first night we’ve been able to actually sit at our salon table.  Prior to this, there was so much stuff piled around, waiting for things to be cleaned and dried out, there was barely room to walk through, let alone sit and eat a meal.  We had been sitting in the cockpit, in the rain, huddled under the dodger, dinner plates on our laps because the weld on the cockpit table broke.  At least it was a warm rain. 

Friday, Oct 19, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

Our work continues, as does the mold.  Barbara from Hurrah told us there was a pot-luck of sorts scheduled for this evening.  Evidently there was a power boat crew who off-loaded their provisions because they were leaving; included in the bag was nine kilos of frozen fish.  Diane on Bat Wing  arranged for the restaurant to cook the fish, so we cruisers only had to brings the sides and dessert.  Four of us women met on Bat Wing to determine who was going to bring what – salad, vegetable, rice, dessert.  There was a late, lone arrival yesterday – Robb on the vessel Triton  - and he brought booze that his crew had left aboard the boat.   It worked out great!  The cook did a nice job on the fish, and most of the other dishes were good.  More than that, Jeff and I really needed a break from the incessant drudgery, and this little gathering was a welcome relief.

Saturday, Oct 20, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

We are still cleaning, stowing, repairing, and it is STILL raining.  Since we haven’t had much sun and every piece of textile on the boat stinks of mold, the only thing I can do is launder everything.  Jeff helped me haul our loaded bags up so I could separate the loads and have everything ready when the power came on.   That was around 1500.  I was able to wash nine loads but that took me well into the evening.  Unfortunately, the light in the laundry room was burned out and I ended up folding clothes in the dark.  The bugs had a feast day on my skin!

Meanwhile, Jeff tried to get our new GPS installed and interfacing with our navigation software, to no avail.  He walked the docks, asking everyone if they knew anything about electronics.  Robb on Triton said he might be able to help, and would come over tomorrow.

Did I mention, there’s no hot water in the showers?  The hotel has opened a room for us to use for warm-water showers when it’s too cool at night.  It’s nice, but the room smells of mold so bad I almost don’t want to use it.  And they don’t clean the room since it’s only used by the cruisers.  Humph!

Sunday, Oct 21, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

It’s been such a relentless grind all week, we decided to take the day off today.  Our plan was to have a leisurely breakfast then stroll to the beach which everyone had told us about.  Jeff made pancakes, I sprayed Cutter’s Back Woods all over myself, and off we went. 

The path from the marina was clearly discernible, leading into a well-rutted mud road through dense jungle.  We walked past papaya trees with gargantuan green fruit hanging pendulous beneath the leaves at the trunk; past deep standing pools of red, muddy water buzzing with insects; past rickety thatched hovels under stands of trees where local families eyed us with interest; past skinny, filthy dark-skinned children playing in the mud.  Without the breeze of the open-air marina, the hot moist air became close, fetid, almost palpable.  We came upon a locked gate and crouched through the barbed wire at its side to continue on the road, which led us to a dead end.  Nowhere did we see a path that led to the beach.  Feeling uncomfortable in the heat and the some-what sinister-feeling jungle, we decided to back-track and just rest on the boat.

By the time we got back, Jeff had welts all over his body from insect bites; in spite of my being covered every inch with Cutters, the bugs still managed to get a good number of bites on the tender skin of my feet and ankles.  It’s almost as if they like my blood enough to go through the bad taste of Deet.  Lucky me. L 

We dabbed lotion on every one of our welts and spent the afternoon catching up on some reading.  It was relatively cool, so Jeff made one of our favorite snacks – popcorn. We also had the promised visit from Robb of the vessel Triton.  Turns out he’s a computer/engineer wizard and loves the challenge of solving problems that crop up on electrical/computer hookups (except that he HATES Windows!)  He came over to help Jeff get the new GPS working with our navigation program, and ended up staying for dinner.

Monday, Oct 22, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

The work continues.  Today was the first day we have a short break in the rain – actually a little sunshine.  What a relief to see the sun.  We put pillows and cushions out on the dock to air out, but of course had to take them back soon after when the rain started up again.  At least we’re beginning to feel like we’ve made some progress.

Robb came back today, this time to help fix the wireless antenna set-up; he joined us for dinner again, which is good because he’s quite funny and has lots of interesting stories.  He also doesn’t mind the mess inside our boat. J

Tuesday, Oct 23, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

More cleaning, stowing, repairing.  Reorganizing goods while I’m at it; bringing older food stores forward to more easily-accessible locations, updating inventory as I go. Diane on Bat Wing tells me the resort van leaves at 0900 on Wednesdays to go to town for provisioning; better go; not much left in the way of fresh produce.  The power comes on at 1430 so Jeff helps me haul our laundry bags up.  I do seven loads (this time armed with insect repellant) and get them back to the boat just as the rain starts up again.

Wednesday, Oct 24, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

“Hello, Musetta!  Are you coming? We’re leaving.”  What????  It’s Joel, the Harbor Master knocking on our hull.  The van leaves at 0800 – not 0900.  Scramble; drop bowl of cereal in the sink; grab shopping bags; run up the dock with to-go cup of coffee.  We’re the last to board, in the rear area where we discover the air conditioning doesn’t reach.  It’s stifling inside the van.  The windows only slide open two inches.  The guy sitting in front of me is ripe with body odor.  I have to go to the bathroom. 

We slowly squish along the rutted mud road.  Water is standing in pools everywhere – in the road, in the fields, in people’s yards, inside their houses.  My god, how can they live like that?  Barefoot children walk along the side of the road; there’s nothing around here but houses and fields – where are they going?

The road is in deplorable shape from all the rain; parts of it are running like a river.  Marina resort personnel have placed small boulders and stones in the mud, in an attempt to strengthen it for automobile traffic.  The van, loaded with nine people, drives over the larger boulders then sinks; the undercarriage pounds onto the boulder.  Clunk!  And again, thump!  We slip, we thunk.  My stomach is in knots.  I cringe with each jolt to the van.  It reminds me of when us older kids would go with my dad to the foothills to chop firewood and he would get the truck stuck in the mud.  I was always so frightened, fearful we would have to spend the night in the cold, dark hills, worried we wouldn’t be able to get home.  CLONK!  Dip.  The right side of the van tilts like Musetta heels.  The wheels spin.  Oh no, we’re going over!!! 

We don’t.  But we’re definitely stuck!  The guy in front of me pulls back the door; mud is oozing over the running board; we have to leap to a grass patch on the side of the road to avoid sinking like the van. Who knows how far we’d go down???  

This van ride to town is not looking good. I’m thinking there’s no produce that’s worth this.  The driver uses his cell phone to call the resort; they send out an enormous tractor with a heavy chain; evidently they’re used to this.  It takes numerous attempts to free the van but eventually they are successful.  The tractor has to pull the van maybe a tenth of a mile, out of the worst of the mud, to make sure it can go the rest of the way on its own.  We are on our way again.  Now I really have to go to the bathroom!

Normally it takes an hour and 15 minutes to get to Chinandega, the nearest town with sizable markets.  Two hours after we left the marina we finally reach the main road – and it’s not even paved part of the way.  At the intersection, there is the most wretched dog I have ever seen – ribs, neck, shoulders, hips, skull, all are jutting out in severe angles, poking on thin, frail-looking skin – I can’t even call it fur.  Pitiful; utterly pitiful.

Near the small town of Viejo, which is about 4 miles from Chinandega, we cross over a low bridge that shows evidence of recent repairs.  We can see where a portion of it washed out; materials are still strewn about.  I suppose we are fortunate to get through.  

Chinandega is a tightly-packed, hot, grimy town – “a hard-scrabble town” as Bill Chapman on Bones VIII says.  Our first stop is at On-The-Run, as gas-station/mini-mart/subway-type place, where we finally get a bathroom break.  Of course, being in the back of the bus, I’m the last in line.  We order what we think are breakfast sandwiches – one omelet, one ham & egg.  What we get are long Subway-type sandwich rolls with folded scrambled eggs in them.  We can’t tell them apart as they both seem to have the same ingredients, and they both taste the same – awful!  I down the egg and end up tossing the rest of the sandwich.

Le Selectos is our next stop, where we are let off in the tiny parking lot.  This back part of the store has the groceries, and the front end has clothing, housewares, etc.  It is dim and crowded, difficult to maneuver our cart through the narrow aisles.  At every end cap there are store personnel with radios, watching every move of every person in the aisle, evidently keeping and eye out for shop-lifters.  Supposedly canned and boxed goods are less expensive at this store, so we load up with soda water, beer, boxed milk and the like. 

I don’t even bother looking at the meat section because I still have some in the freezer, but my perusal of the produce section reveals pretty slim pickings.  The only bright spot is a bin of lovely, fushia-colored pitahayas.  I scored!  I get out my cotton net produce bags and load them up, then take them over to the young woman at the scale in the produce section.  (Here in Central America, they don’t have scales at the register; you have to weigh everything in the department where you picked it up, get the bag taped closed and a label with the price stuck on the bag, before you go to the register to check out.)  The young woman takes the fruits out of my bags to weigh them, then pulls a plastic bag off a roll and starts loading them in the plastic.  I stop her and explain that I don’t want to use plastic bags, please put them back in the cotton bags.  So she does, and then puts the cotton bag inside a plastic bag. J  Again I tell her I don’t want to use plastic bags.  She shrugs her shoulders, looks at me like I’m crazy, removes the plastic bag and sticks the label on the cloth bag.

When we get up to the register I hand my sturdy cloth grocery bags to the bag boy and he sticks them in a plastic bag. J  “No,” I explain, “please put the items in the cotton bags because they are more sturdy.”  I know I use the proper Spanish on this line because I had checked the phrase out with my Spanish instructor last year – and, more importantly, he understands.  Only thing is, he just fills the bags half way, then tries to switch to plastic.  As fast as he can put the goods in plastic, I keep removing them and loading them into the cotton bags.  I fill each bag to the brim and still have bags to spare.

Finished at this store, we wait outside in the hot sun for the van.  On the wall near the store entrance is a large white board with Poloroid photos taped on it, “Watch Out For These People” in bold black Spanish letters across the top.  They are shoplifters who have been caught, holding the goods they attempted to filch.  It is amazing what some of them are holding: toilet paper, personal sundries – things that to us seem hardly worth the risk of getting caught.

A couple of the cruisers have other business to take care of while we are in town, so we drive around for an hour or so looking for hardware stores and propane stores.  No stops yield the sought-after goods.

Our final stop of the day is at La Colonial, an “upscale” grocery store inside a strip mall.  With clean, well-lit, wide aisles, and air-conditioning, it is much more pleasant to shop in – and almost empty of customers.  Here we find better-looking produce, though still a pretty limited selection.  I am surprised that I can’t find cilantro anywhere.  The bag boy at this store does much better with my bags.  I explain (in well-rehearsed Spanish) to please put all the things that need to be cold in the red bag, which is a large, rolling cooler bag with ice packs inside.  He catches on right away, and asks where we want the vegetables put.  “Same place.”  But the celery is too long to fit because they sell it with the complete top on; so what does he do? He breaks it in half.  Now it fits! J  I can’t help but laugh.

It has been a long, tiring day, and we still face the drive back to the marina.  The driver makes one more stop, at the fruit mercado in Viejo so I can look for cilantro.  The market is on a narrow, dirty, crowded street lined, of course, with vendors with their carts and piles of shriveled produce.  I climb over bags and people and tumble out of the van, listlessly seeking cilantro.  I find one booth way in the back of the dim market that has decent-looking produce, buy a few cucumbers, and ask if she has cilantro.  She pulls a scraggily clump of weeds out from under a bin and hands them to me.  No, not what I wanted, thank you.  I can’t wait to get out of the market, out of Chinandega, out of the van, and back on the boat.

On the way back, we have to stop for herds of bleating goats and skinny, plodding cattle, driven on by scruffy young boys on small, bony horses.  The van driver honks, but the cattle assert their right-of-way. We wait. 

By the time we reach the Asaderros turnoff, the mud road has somewhat dried to dirt.  We can see where more rocks and tree branches have been placed over the extra-muddy areas.  Now loaded down even more heavily, the van still slips and slides, but this time we make it through.  We arrive back at the marina around 1645, just as the sun is setting – hot, tired, hungry.  We sort bags and make multiple runs up and down the dock ramp to carry our purchases to our boats. I am exhausted.  I stow only the cold items and leave the rest for tomorrow.

Thursday, Oct 25, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

More cleaning, stowing, repairing.

Friday, Oct 26, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

More cleaning, stowing, repairing.  The worst of the rains seem to have stopped for the most part.  Only problem now: without the rain, the mosquitoes and jejenes (no-see-ums) are out in force!  The worst time starts about 1630. We’ve learned to burn coils, which work well for the jejenes, turn on our electronic mosquito repellers, and slather Cutter’s Skin-Sations on.  For me, this isn’t quite enough; I need to use a stronger Deet product on my ankles and feet, which they seem to like the best.  We hate having to put these smelly chemicals on after a nice, refreshing shower, but the consequences of neglecting it are much worse. 

Saturday, Oct 27, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

We had sun today and no rain, so it looks like the weather reports are accurate; a late-week departure should be do-able, though rain/wind is scheduled by the weekend.  Two boats have already left to head north; both have had enough of the cruising life.  Shiraz, our dock neighbor with Phil & Nora aboard, is planning to head out on Thursday or Friday, but they are also “swallowing the anchor,” taking the boat back home to Sacramento, CA.  Triton is planning to leave soon and head home to the San Francisco Bay Area; Hurrah and Bat Wing (with Ron & Diane aboard) are both heading south like we are. 

These last two boats have been here all summer, and have gotten to know the employees quite well.  Diane on Bat Wing  made friends with one guy who has an informal “trio”: his father and himself, both on guitars, and his seven-year-old son, who sings.  They wanted to play for us so she set the performance up for this evening.  We sat in the open-air restaurant and listened to them.  The tunes were pretty – mostly religious and patriotic tunes I gathered; the young boy’s repertoire was astonishing, and he sang loudly with great passion, even getting down on his knee at one point, and putting his hand over his heart.  Cute as a button. 

Afterwards we all gathered for dinner on Triton, which is a 47-foot catamaran and has lots of room in the cockpit.  Robb’s wife, AnnMarie, flew in yesterday.  Unbelievably, she had made a delicious lasagna for us!  Here she was, flew the red-eye flight to Managua for a 0930 arrival, shopped in Managua, endured the five to six hour grueling drive to the resort, arrived after midnight last night, and she’s cooking for a bunch of people she doesn’t even know!  My hat’s off to her!

After the Nicaraguans left, Robb plunked the guitar while AnnMarie sang a few songs for us.  She has a stunning voice; was a music major, and the lead singer in the band that Robb started years ago (only as a way to “attract chicks” as he says J).   

Sunday, Oct 28, 1007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

Since so many of us are leaving this week, Barb has arranged with the Harbor Master to take us to town for provisioning early this week; we’ll go on Tuesday instead of Wednesday. 

Jeff and I spent the day cleaning, stowing, fixing, preparing.  (What else is new?) There was sun again today, so we got to dry things out more.  I pre-made some meals to freeze so I could simply thaw them and heat with rice for a dinner while underway.  Our first passage when we leave here will be an over-nighter, which will be more trying than usual since we’ve been away from the water so long.  I want to make as little work as possible for myself.  I also prepped dinner for this evening; AnnMarie and Robb are joining us; she leaves tomorrow; has to go back to work Tuesday morning; quick visit.

Monday, Oct 29, 1007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

More cleaning, stowing, fixing, preparing.  I did my last loads of laundry.  Dinner with Robb & AnnMarie last night was lots of fun.  She’s a true foodie, and very organized like me, so we had lots to talk about.  She was also a pastry chef at the famous Fog City Diner in San Francisco, and is quite an accomplished cook.  They live on a house-boat in Emery Cover Marina, where we own a slip and used to keep Musetta.  Triton will be their new abode; she’s a former charter boat which they bought in the Caribbean a couple years ago.  They did some work on her, and now are moving her to her new home, with plans to quit work and go cruising in a few years.

Tuesday, Oct 30, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

Oh eight hundred, we’re all standing at the top of the dock, ready to go to town, seven people, four boats represented – four boats that are leaving soon.  An assortment of bags and packs line the drive; very few cruisers rely on those flimsy plastic bags they use in the grocery stores down here.  We wait.  Oh eight fifteen.  We wait.  Joel, the Harbor Master comes up and tells us it will be ten minutes; they are checking the road to make sure it is passable.  Oh eight thirty.  Joel says we can get through on the road but they are repairing the van; the oil pan had been punctured.  Gee, I wonder how that happened!?!  And they didn’t look at it from last week until now???  It will take an hour.  All of us are a bit irritated because we all have so much to do before leaving. 

Since we’ve got our “go-to-town” clothes on, we meet in the open-air restaurant with our cruising guides so Hurrah can give us a few notes on some of the places at which they’ve stopped between Nicaragua and Panama City.

By 1030 Joel informs us that they are not able to repair the van, and the road actually is NOT passable.  They are going to send someone to town to buy materials to put in the road to make it accessible to the van; we’ll have to go tomorrow.  Back to the boats we go. 

By this time, we’re not really in the mood to work.  I prep a huge vegetable salad for dinner.  We both do a few chores then knock off around 1300.  With our bodies slathered in Cutter’s Back Woods, we take the quarter mile hike through the jungle on the marina resort property to the beach on the ocean side of the peninsula.  Here the resort has a lovely infinity pool and palapa, all set up for restaurant service, but there’s no one there; only a lone guard. 

We walk the length of the beach – at least a couple miles – and back.  What a joy to feel the sand in our toes, the wind on our faces.  At the far end of the beach there are a few well-to-do homes or structures, but other than that it is pristine; just fine sand, beach grasses and tropical trees; only a few pieces of trash.  We pass a small herd of cattle on the beach – big guys; I think they’re Brahmas – the kind with the humps on the backs.  They stand immobile, watching us intently.  When we pass, I look back at them; they had all turned to watch us.  A little further on, I look back again; they are following us.  As soon as they see me look at them, they stop, look the other way. J If they were people, they would be whistling or humming, gazing up at the sky – What? No, I’m not following you.  What gives you that idea? J

Back at the pool, the guard has left. We have the place to ourselves.  J  Sitting in the pool, we watch the waves, the sunset; it is a lovely way to spend the afternoon; our first bit of relaxation since we arrived.  Maybe it is a good thing we couldn’t go to town.

By now it’s Oh-Bug-Thirty and we have to “run the gauntlet” as Barb says, back through the jungle.  We spray the rest of the Cutters all over every exposed piece of skin.  I wrap my parea around my hips, my towel around my hat, head, face and shoulders.  Jeff laughs at the sight of me; I must look like I’m sporting the western version of a burkha.  Past the dense trees, past pools of standing water, past the beach on the inner harbor, past the guards at the bodega, past a family of locals playing at the water – they all look at me pretty funny; we brave the bugs.  With so many bites on my body already, what’s a few more?  But they just swell and itch to high heaven; I just can’t stand them.  I don’t CARE what I look like!!!

To the showers, then back on the boat to prepare for dinner.  Robb has invited us to join him and his crew, Robinson, on Triton.  AnnMarie had marinated some chicken before she left, so they were cooking it all up tonight.  Ron and Diane from Bat Wing also joined us.  How nice not to have to cook.

All-in-all, it was a good day.

Wednesday, Oct 31, 2007, Marina Puesta Del Sol

It was about 0845 when Joel told us the van was ready.  We piled in and bumped along the road, keeping our fingers crossed that this time we would make it.  In spite of the new materials on the road (rocks and gravel) we still went through some pretty muddy areas, the center of the van sometimes pounding down on rocks to the point that I was sure something would break again. When we got to the spot where we stalled last week, we almost didn’t make it; the driver slipped into a hole and spun the wheels.  Oh no!  But this time, he was able to get out.  Off to town we go, arriving in about an hour. 

Once in town, we pass hordes of people streaming to the arena.  Evidently there is a drum and bugle corps competition – and they take their corps very seriously in this country! 

Again we stopped at Selectos Market for staples; the young woman at the produce counter remembered me because of my bags, and said something in rapid-fire Spanish to the older woman next to her.  “No le gusto plastico?” she asked me.  I tried to explain how plastic bags blow in the wind, go out to sea, wildlife eat them or get stuck in them and die – tough to do in my fractured Spanish.  She had an uncomprehending look on her face but I wasn’t in the mood to try to explain more; I just let her chalk it up as a crazy gringa.

Most of us walked with Gary  and Barb a couple blocks away to a farmacia that they like.  Jeff and I took a different route back, around the opposite side of the block.  We discovered this is where the fruit market is.  The street was teaming with people, cars, carts, bicycles – so noisy we could hardly hear ourselves.  It was a tight madhouse.  The people jostle you as they’re walking through, and they don’t move when you say “perdoneme;” so I just started elbowing my way through just like the locals do.

At La Colonial Market our van driver ran an errand, so we all had an ice-cream while we waited – a rare treat for us!  One more stop – this one at my request: the Rosti Pollo.  This is a chain of franchises in Nicaragua, more upscale than the Pollo Feliz chains in Mexico.  We all bought roasted chickens to take back to our boats.  I freeze them because they’re handy to have on hand for salads or for a simple meal when I don’t feel like cooking. 

Near the arena, now the people are walking in all directions.  We can see some of the kids in colorful costumes, though none of them are carrying any instruments; they must belong to the schools or something.

Another long day in the heat and grime of Chinandega, and we’re all starving – all that grocery shopping and we didn’t eat anything; didn’t want to eat on the run or in the van – it’s a long enough day without stopping to eat.

This time on the way back we don’t have to wait for any herds of goats or cattle to get out of our way.  We pull off the paved road and onto the dirt road to the Asaderros region.  We travel maybe a mile?  Maybe two?  The van slips and slides, slips and slides, slips and sticks.  We’re in a rut.  Again.  The driver spins the wheels.  We sink deeper.  He tries to back out.  We sink deeper.  We open the van door.  The mud is up to the running board.  Criminy!  Here we go again! L  The women stand on the side of the road, sun bearing down on us intently.  The men all slosh through the mud and try to push the van while the driver steers.  They are able to back it up.  He drives forward, trying to turn over the hump; sinks again.  They push him back again; he drives forward and sinks it again.  It is a comedy.  Everyone is telling him to turn the wheel to the left; he insists on going forward.  Why would he expect any different results?  A big Mitsubishi flatbed stops behind us; the family inside gets out to help push.  The van sinks deeper.  Three young women on a horse pass us by, hardly curious; they’ve seen this before. A four-wheel drive truck comes from the opposite direction and stops; the driver offers a few suggestions; helps push.  The van sinks further.  Pedestrians and bicyclists stop to kibitz, watch the show. The four-wheel drive truck goes around the white stuck-pig van and tootles down the road.  The Mitsubishi flatbed drives around it and stops.  The young man climbs down from the back and ties a thin, nylon rope to the front of the van.  The Mitsubishi bears down.  The rope snaps.  No surprise there, huh?  Someone hails a tractor further down the road.  The tractor lumbers up; he has a chain.  They attach the chain to the van; the truck pulls.  The white pig slurps out of the muck.  Barb collects cordobas from everyone to give the truck driver, and a little for the tractor driver.  Only an hour lost to the mud.  We slosh our feet in the standing pools of water to rid them of mud and pile back into the van.  We pound a few rocks on the way back, slip in more mud; almost loose momentum again, but this time make it through. 

It is now 1500 as we pull through the resort compound gates.  We are tired, muddy, hungry.  We all practically run back to the boats with our bags.  Jeff and I don’t even stop to put the cold things away; they are in our cooler packs with ice so we’re not worried.  We pounce on those roast chickens like tigers on a deer.  What a way to live……..

Saturday, December 1, 2007, Bahia Ballena to Isla Tolinga 9˚46.513N, 84˚53.732W

We picked up Hurrah about 0815 hours and motored over to the village.  This time the tide was high so we were able to tie off the dink at the concrete pier, using he lowest set of steps to climb up – so much simpler!  The last of the fishermen were already in for the day, cleaning and sorting their catch; we slogged through water, lines, and stinky fish guts to get to the head of the pier, and the “Ballena Yacht Club” Restaurant/bar where the farmers market is held.

Years ago Honey organized all the local growers and helped them specialize in organic gowning practices; now she runs the market, picking up goods from each producer and setting them up in boxes inside the bar on the floor, bar, and pool table.  I was shocked at how beautiful the greens were: healthy bunches of Italian parsley, giant basil, arugula, rosemary, dandelion greens, romaine, red leaf, Chinese cabbage, bags of mixed greens, stinging nettle, burdock root (since there’s no doctor in the area, Honey is the local mid-wife and uses these last two in her ministrations to women.)  I scored and picked up the three fennel bulbs on the pool table.  She also had fresh shelled English peas, eggplant, green cabbage, broccoli, green beans, pineapple, sweet lemon (green rind, less tart than our lemons but not as sweet as an orange), green-skinned tangerines, green peppers.  She had blocks of cheese from several different producers, each one making only one or two types of cheese: Swiss, gouda, bleu, crescenza with basil, feta (which was delicious – I wish I’d purchased more!), ricotta, mozzarella, goat’s milk yogurt. There were whole-grain breads, whole wheat pita, whole wheat flour, honey, and she had some boxes of Pacific Crest soy milk and vegetable broth,  – items rarely found down here.

One of the fishermen walked in with a couple fresh red snappers on a plate – we bought them to grill for dinner, as well as a kilo of jumbo shrimp.  Also tried a chocolate stick, made without the butterfat.  Interesting story behind these: there were about twenty unmarried pregnant or single-mother women in the area who were struggling to care for themselves.  Honey bought property, put them on it; they learned how to make chocolate – from tilling the soil and planting to harvesting, fermenting, roasting, production, the entire process.  They do it all themselves, there on the property.  The chocolate is made from just the cocoa bean ground to a powder and added to ground sugar cane, so it doesn’t have the fat.  They add flavoring ingredients such as ginger, coconut, vanilla, etc., creating about 8 or 10 different flavors, rolling each into little logs about 5 inches long, wrapped in colorful paper.  They call them Chocoart.  They were too sweet for my taste, but I was surprised they weren’t as grainy as I expected.

I had only brought one shopping bag with me because I didn’t really need  much, and wasn’t expecting much.  I ended up using one of Hurrah’s  extra bags. J  While there, I asked Honey about sprouting the peas. “It’s too hot here; you’d have to wash them every hour.”  Don’t want them that bad!

Honey also told us about the new product she and Heart are coming out with next month.  Six years in the testing and development stage, it will be in West Marine and other retail store across the world next month.  It’s a new type of transverter that is software driven, not mechanical.  Once you buy the unit, you upgrade by downloading software, which is also how you add the components you want.  It has unlimited number of ac/dc outlets; monitors your boat systems via computer (for example, you can call up your boat computer by phone when you’re in the states, and check on the battery levels, etc.); can take unlimited input so there’s no more problem with over charging; it’s “UPS” grade – something to do with commercial requirements.  Most of what she was talking about was way over my head, but she was really excited about it and its potential for alternative energy sources.  It should run about $1500 US.

She had lots of stories about their run-ins with corporate America in their quest for funding.  (“Heart, why do you only have two shirts?” “Because one’s not enough.”  Of course, it didn’t help that they showed up barefoot!) Also recanted stories from their voyage down here; she had five children – one a week old and nursing – when they left, and the other four were born along the way.  She’s a real 60’s hippie style woman (her kids have names like Rainbow, Moon, etc.), still vivacious and loving life.  She probably would have talked all day if we’d stayed. J Pretty amazing life.

Back at our boats, we said good bye to Hurrah who was staying another day; I stowed groceries while Jeff weighed the stern anchor, pulled the motor off the dink and got us ready to go.  The sea was flat, light breeze in the air, clear sunny day.  As we headed out the bay, a pod of dolphins crossed our bow.  Not even noon, and already it was a great day!

Here in the Gulf of Nicoya, it’s like cruising in the Caribbean: the islands are all less than a day’s sail away.  At 1530 hours we dropped the hook at Toalinga, one of the Isla Tortugas.  This has a pretty, palm-fringed, white sand beach, which is why all the tour operators disgorge their boat loads of tourists here. When we arrived, the area was swarming with tourists, pangas, party boats, banana boats, jet skis, kayaks, even Big Eagle, a graceful mega-yacht.  Jeff and I sat in the cockpit and watched all the comings and going; it reminded me of when I was a kid and used to sit for hours, fascinated with the bustling ant farm.  By 1730 hours everyone was gone, all was quiet; we had the place to ourselves; enjoyed another dinner in the cockpit and the cool breeze.

Sunday, December 2, 2007, Isla Tolinga to Isla Cedros 9˚50.80N, 84˚52.287W

Scrambled eggs spiked with crescenza with basil – YUM!  Good breakfast under our belt, tourists starting to return around 0930 hours, we headed over to our first stop for the day, Curu Wildlife Refuge.  This is supposedly home to at least 35 species of wildlife, including armadillos, coatis, and anteaters.  We anchored Musetta in the small bay and rowed the dink in, not wanting to mess with the motor for such a quick stop. After Toalinga, this beach looked more like a landfill than anything; it was covered with logs and trash – household trash as well as flotsam; not exactly what you’d expect at a wild life preserve!

We paid our $16 entrance fee, and were handed a trail guide, which we dutifully followed, roots and rocks jutting into the well-trod trails.  Although it was nice to walk through the jungle, it would have been more worthwhile it they offered guide services to point things out.  On our own, we only saw 12 butterflies, one squirrel, one yellow-tipped dragon fly, and tons of termite nests.  Back at the encampment, one visiting scientist/photographer pointed out a couple iguanas, some bats, and we saw three scarlet macaws, one in a cage.  According to the sign by the cage, macaws were once plentiful in the area, but due to predators and poachers stealing the eggs for the pet industry, there are now only about 1000 left in the entire country, none in this region.  Five years ago, the scientists released 13 red macaws that had been bred in captivity; 9 remain, and the one in the cage was due to be re-released soon (he hadn’t been doing well so they brought him back in for nurturing and training).

Walking to the look-out point, we stopped where several scientists were gathered, clipboards in hand, taking notes about the antics of the monkeys in the trees above.  (There are rustic cabins on the site provided for staff, students, visiting scientists, eco-tourists, etc.)  Not my idea of fun, hanging out in a jungle; I’d rather be at sea.

After rowing back to Musetta, we motored to Isla Cedros, in a small cove on the east side of the island.  We were the only boat there, although at night we could se the lights of a few homes tucked up the hillside under the canopy.  Light breeze, flat water, what a gorgeous evening!

Monday, December 3, 2007, Isla Cedros to Isla San Lucas 9˚56.933N, 84˚54.548W

This morning was another perfect start; we are finally having more good days than drudge days!  THIS is what it’s supposed to be like!  After just another short motor passage to arrive at Isla San Lucas, site of a former penal colony, we pulled into the tiny bay and instantly knew this was different from the other places.  It was still. Silent.  Almost eerie.  There’s no swell here, so you don’t even hear water splashing ashore, the water’s flat.  Of course, we are the only cruising boat here.  There are some floating docks with fishermen’s shacks near a partially-submerged wreck in the center of the day; occasionally we catch a snippet of a spoken sentence, but stillness prevails.

After lunch we rowed to another wreck at the head of the bay, then over to the concrete pier of the former prison.  The guide books say the guards will give you a tour in exchange for some cookies or cold beer, so we came armed with our home-made cookies.  But something didn’t seem right to me; it was just too quiet.  There were some vultures on shore very calmly pulling apart some vittles – not like the frantic ripping I witnessed beside the road that day near Playa Del Coco.  These guys didn’t even bother to look up as we glided by. There was a black dog laying in the shade of a nearby tree, just watching them, watching us, barely moving.  As we got to the pier, I realized there was a young man lying on the pier, stomach down, propped up on his elbows, still as a statue, just watching us. 

“Hola,” I said.  Three or four beats passed before he responded in kind.  It was just WEIRD!  I put my hand on the pier to stead the dink while I alighted, and an army of black crabs scurried away.  EEOWH!!!  While Jeff tied off the dink, I climbed the steps – had to pass the guy to get to the top.  I realized he was reading.

“Good book?”  Four beats.

“Yes.”

“What is it?”  Four beats.

“Long Way Home, by Ewan McGregor.  He and his mate rode their motorcycles around the world and he wrote about it.”  I was surprised to get more than two words out of him.

“Wow!  Sounds like a great adventure!” 

“Yeah.”  That was as much conversation as I felt I was going to get out of him.  I proceeded up the pier.

We strolled up the old rock-tiled main path.  There was no guard to greet us, no sign indicating it was the site of a prison; in fact, the only sign said it was some kind of conservancy.  On the right were dilapidated buildings – one the old dispensary, others possibly guards homes.  But clearly someone was living in them now.  There was laundry hanging on lines, household items and water jugs stacked about; two Caucasians were soundly sleeping in hammocks on the porch and under the trees.  We passed by a young woman stretched out on a concrete bench, loudly snoring. It was as if a cloud of sleeping gas had descended on the bay, putting humans and nature in torpor.  And who were these people??? They looked like squatters, or people vacationing on the cheap.  Were they sleeping off a night of revelry?  The atmosphere was just too strange to be anything on the up-and-up.

At the top of the hill, the former chapel was on the right, next to the main prison structure.  All the buildings were crumbling, the second floors rotting through and almost falling to the floor below.  I entered one room and a bat swooped down in front of me.  AAAAGGGHH!  This place is creeping me out!!!  After that I checked each room before entering; most had bats.  ICK!!!

We walked around the left side to the back of the barracks, two-story dorm-like rooms with bars on the windows, one door only.  Must have been a  miserable life locked up in a concrete block in the humid jungle with a bunch of other stinky guys!  I was only in the back a minute before some big black flying bug started buzzing around me – ME, not Jeff.  Their glistening bodies were so bit it’s a wonder their transparent wings could carry them!  I tried to shoo them away but they were practically sticking to me – ME, not Jeff.  Jeff had to swipe them off of me.  This place is giving me the chills!!!

We double-timed back to the opposite side and into the exercise yard, pretty dismal.  I was anxious to leave.  As we worked our way back down the main path, I could see the young woman on the bench was awake.  But she didn’t even acknowledge our presence.

“Hola.” She gave me an annoyed look. Four beats.

“Hola.”  She turned away.  Perhaps I shouldn’t have disturbed her?  They didn’t look like they were meditating, or like they were following religious practices.  For the life of me, I can’t figure out what they were doing there.

The people in the hammocks never moved.  This place is just too weird!!!  The reader didn’t even look at us as we left, nor did the people on the floating docks acknowledge us as we rowed by.  There was never a sinister feel, but it was definitely not a natural atmosphere of calmness; there was something heavy about the silence. 

Without a breeze coming in, it was also hot!

Tuesday, December 4, 2007, Isla San Lucas to Punta Leona 9˚42.52N, 84˚39.80W to Bahia Herradura 9˚38.61N, 84˚39.45W

With the stillness of they bay, I slept like a log, up early to make a hearty breakfast.  We were out of the bay by 0900 hours, motoring again on a flat, windless sea.  Our destination was Bahia Herradura, with a stop for lunch at Punta Leona.  As we neared the entrance to the bay at Punta Leona, we could see a squall hanging over it, the shadow of the gray cloud making a black demarcation across the water. I hurried below to make sure all hatches were closed. Jeff put the wind screen down on the dodger, as the wind piped up to 17 knots and over we heeled.  The rain was light, and didn’t last long.  Our hook was down by 1230 hours, but as we were eating lunch a second cloud passed over us and released big fat drops on us again – this time much stronger than the first, and chilling as well.  It was a good rinse to get some of the salt off Musetta; she doesn’t like being grungy!

Another pretty bay, another palm-fringed beach, this one with town homes marching up the hillside.  The guide book says during December and January the manta rays come to this bay to bear their young; we were hoping to see some.  Though the water was clear, we had no luck in that department. 

We hung up our long-range wifi antenna, as Barbara told us we could probably pick up a signal from the resort.  No success there either, though I can’t be sure if there just wasn’t a signal or if the antenna is not working with this old computer.  I even read the user’s guide that come with it; it told me where to input my computer’s ID and Sub-mask addresses, but of course I have no clue what they are, nor how to find them.  In the technology area, this trip has been a real bust so far!

An hour later we were anchored at Bahia Herradura, right by Hurrah and another cruising boat, Permagrin.  The anchorage is rolly, the music is blasting off the beach, and the scenery is pure ugly!  They’ve clear cut the surrounding hills, one side already stacked with boxy condos.  The Los Sueños Marriot Resort and Marina is a humungous conglomerate of four-story orange concrete blocks.  Houses and more condos climb up the neighboring hill. 

We called the marina to see about leaving the boat for five or six days while we travel inland; the only slip available was 60-feet, for three days only, at $220US per day!  Doesn’t work for us.  Plus, they charge $40/day to use the dinghy dock, and $40 non-refundable cover charge to enter the grocery store there! Amazing!

We’ll just do a little shopping in town tomorrow, and take off the following day if we get everything accomplished.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007, Bahia Herradura 9˚38.61N, 84˚39

What a rotten night last night!  It was cool enough that I had to close the hatches and put a light fleece covering on, but just a few hours later the cabin was stifling.  We rolled side to side all night long, which woke me at least five times during the night.  Jeff slept in the aft cabin because that mattress is better than the forward cabin and his back has been bothering him, but he also had a problem with all the rolling.

The swell was pretty rough this morning as well.  When we took the dink ashore, we “pearled” as Gary says, which in surfer talk means the front end is buried in the sand or wave while the back end lifts up. That happened as the swell coming up behind us was so high, it lifted the stern of the dink, shoving the bow into the preceding swell.  Water poured over the bow; I was soaked and all our bags were soaked.  There was so much water in the dink we could hardly pull it ashore with all the extra weight.  Finally some guy took pity on us and helped pull it up past the tide line.  All my canvas shopping bags and cotton produce bags were drenched – not a problem except that now they’ll have to be washed to get the salt out and they’ll be difficult to dry without a machine in this humidity.  The backpack with the old computer in it was also soaked through; fortunately, I had packed everything inside it in dry bags so we were safe there.  Just have to rinse the backpack so it won’t smell.

After locking the dink to a palm tree, we rode the bus up to the main highway where there’s an internet café and strip mall with grocery store.  At the internet cafe there was no service when we arrived – not even any phone service, but we futzed around for a half hour and it finally came on.  One customer in there told us the Costa Rican phone company has extremely poor service, and right now they’re the only game in town. 

While we were downloading our mail, a ragged American ex-pat came in, loudly cursing and telling everyone he’s a Vietnam vet, got “fucked up bad,” hates liberals, hates Jane Fonda, collects $2400/month disability can’t stop drinking, he’s a trained marine, man, a trained killing machine, man, that really fucks up your head, man - all with curse-words in every sentence.  I doubt that he could do much skillful killing now.  He was toting a brown bag filled with a six pack of a Smirnoff cocktail mix, swilling from it in between proclamations.  It was embarrassing to be a fellow American.  I wanted to tell him, “It was 35 years ago!  Get over it!!!” I was afraid it would provoke a worse outbreak, so I just ignored him as best I could.  

We enjoyed a leisurely lunch at a Peruvian-Chinese fusion restaurant (sounds strange but it was delicious) in the mall, got a large dry duffle bag at the marine store, a wireless mouse at the Radio Shack to replace our water-logged one, and groceries at the upscale store.  They had a lot of American goods but I was already pretty stocked up.

By the time the taxi dropped us back at the beach around 1630 hours, the swell had increased dramatically; the breaking waves were now about 6 feet and close together – pretty scary trying to launch a dinghy in that because swells that size can easily flip a light-weight dink.  We studied the wave pattern along the length of the beach and decided to walk the dink to the end of the beach where the swell was broken by the marina’s breakwater.  Sounded like a reasonable plan in theory, but the execution was difficult.  Loaded with our computer and groceries, the dinghy was pretty heavy; several times it got stuck in the mud.  We would haul a few yards then rest, haul then rest; it took us quite some time to cover that one-half to three-quarter-mile stretch of beach.  When we got there, we watched the swells again and launched successfully.  Our caution and effort paid off.  J

While trying to put my groceries away the swell was rocking us so badly I almost fell several times.  It’s worse than being underway because when you’re underway you’re usually on one side; with this swell we’re rolling side-to-side and forward-and-back; I feel like a staggering drunk.  Looks like it’s going to be another sleepless night.

Thursday, December 6, 2007, Bahia Herradura to Manuel Antonio 9˚22.932N, 84˚08.868W

Somewhere between 0400 and 0600 hours I finally nodded off to sleep.  I had gotten up at least a dozen times during the night, trying to silence the rattling in the cabin.  When you’re trying to sleep and the boat is rocking, every sound seems magnified: the raised dink bumping on the lifeline, the liquids sloshing in the tanks, the cupboards and doors knocking.  I stuffed pillows behind every door and in the cabinets where the contents were rattling, put cotton pads between the cabinet doors to tighten them closed so they wouldn’t bang against the frames, but for the longest time, I couldn’t figure out what one persistent thump was.  Finally, when all else was stilled, I could track it down; it was the fire extinguisher over the bunk clunking against the bulkhead on a starboard roll. Mystery solved.

Jeff started continually radioing the marina fuel dock around 0600 hours to get an appointment to fuel up.  Today was the start of an international fishing competition and the big boats were heading out of the marina like a parade.  We could hear them checking out with marina security, but never heard a response from the fuel dock.  Finally at 0730 hours I got on the radio myself, lowered my voice a notch.  Bingo!  Got a response on the first call!  Being “the weaker sex” in a Latin-American country has at least one minor advantage. J  Hurrah was leaving just as we were heading to the marina.

We were on the dock at 0800 hours, the fuel dock staff being very friendly and efficiently cleating off our lines.  One guy could even wrap the line around the cleat without even bending down – just a couple flicks of the wrist and we were secured!   After fueling up, Jeff and I were discussing how to get off the dock; the fairway was too narrow for us to turn around, there was a current running, mega yachts surrounded us, and we don’t have bow or stern thrusters.  The guy on the dock said (in Spanish) “Sir, we throw these two lines off, I hold the bow line, the stern swings around.”  He cast off the stern and mid-ship lines and worked the bow line, keeping Musetta’s bow centered on one of the fender lining the dock wile Jeff put the transmission in forward, rudder hard to port.  It worked slick as a whistle!  What a great maneuver!

We had no wind on our passage to speak of, but the swells were running against us, eight to 10 foot high, although there was plenty of time between them.  Musetta rode them like a champ.

A pod of dolphins stopped briefly to play at our bow, and we passed several floating logs and coconuts with birds resting on them.  It always amazes me how birds can spot one small coconut floating in this vast ocean and use it for a rest stop.  The pelicans are always fun to watch too; they skim just over the surface of the water, wings outstretched, gliding quietly; it looks like so much fun!

Around 1400 hours gray clouds covered the sky, blotting out the sun, and started dropping gently but thick rain. It continued for three hours, making it uncomfortable below because we couldn’t open the hatches to release the heat pent up from running the engine all day – not to mention the ROLLY swell coming from two directions.  It’s worse than last night!  But since it was already 1530 when we dropped the hook, it was too late to make the next anchorage before dark.  (Entering this bay was like threading our way through a mine field, there re so many submerged rocks and reefs – definitely not negotiable at night.)  I put my two herb boxes out on deck to get some fresh water.  (Did I mention the seedling I’d planted in Nicaragua were destroyed in the Murcialagos crossing?  I still had a few seed packets left, and had purchased new potting soil at the Do-It-Yourself in Coco, so I started again.)  We put the protective strip up between the dodger and the bimini, and sat in the cockpit to wait out the downpour, listening to the lovely sound of myriad birds tittering in the trees.  When the rain subsided, we set the stern anchor to quell the roll.  Worked reasonably well considering the swell is coming from two directions.

This is a beautiful locale.  The jungle is different looking here than the sites we’ve seen so far: the trees are more varied and rugged looking, and tall palms grow amongst them even on the steep hillsides, not just at the beach.  The corner of the bay where we anchored is a National Park, where hopefully we’ll do some hiking tomorrow.  Again, our un-planned buddy boat, Hurrah, and we are the only cruisers around.

Friday, December 7, 2007, Manuel Antonio 9˚22.932N, 84˚08.868W

The stern anchor cut down the rolling motion enough for us to get a good night’s sleep.  Barbara said she wasn’t feeling well, seasick from all the motion at anchor.  (I had given her a packet of Stugeron (an anti-nausea medication), but she seemed reluctant to take it), so Jeff and I rowed to the beach alone.

We were still in the process of chaining the dink to a tree when a park ranger came up and told us we had to pay.

“No problem, where do we pay?”

“At the ticket office.”

“Where’s that?”

“At the other end of the beach.”  The other end of the beach was about a mile away.  Oh well, we’d planned on hiking anyway.  We chatted with tourists along the way.  It’s funny how it feels so different talking with tourists than with other cruisers.  With cruisers the first question is always, “Where are you headed?”  With tourists, it’s “Where are you staying?” When we tell them “On our boat anchored right out there” they are amazed and want to hear the details.

At the ticket booth we paid $14US to anchor two nights, plus $16US for entrance to the park.   Seeing so little at Curu park, we asked about hiring a guide, but the park does not provide “official” guides; you have to go out to the main road and hire one of the locals that hang around the gate; the ranger said they charge $25 to $35 per person.  We thought that was a bit much, and the ranger agreed; we set off with our trail map in hand.

The park was clean and well groomed, with picnic areas, bathrooms, and signs along the trails (unlike Curu).  We followed one trail that ran along the beach (back to our dink), then climbed the loop trail that overlooks the peninsula.  I was amazed at how incredibly tall the trees were; you don’t get a true picture of their size from the boats perspective.

The upper trail was muddy from all the rain, but easily traversed.  We doubled-back to the other side of the peninsula, heading up to the waterfall trail. On the way we saw a family of raccoons scrounging at one picnic area, no fear what-so-ever of the humans surrounding them.  We also saw a sloth way up in a tree, but really couldn’t make out anything; it was just a ball of fur, snoozing away blissfully.

The falls trail was clearly seldom used – trees fallen over the trail, paths washed out, narrow passage between shrubberies.  At one point we had to hoist ourselves uphill from a muddy ravine using tree limbs.  A guy coming back down the trail said “it gets more difficult.”  He was right.  I was surprised the trail map didn’t indicate the degree of difficulty; it only gave the length.  We had to wade across the river several times, dodging slippery rocks; scale rocks using vines as a rope; climb tree roots like a ladder; shimmy over and under fallen trees.  In other words, we got DIRTY!  But had a lot of fun doing it!!!  The falls couldn’t hold a candle to the ones at Montezuma, but still, we enjoyed taking the path less traveled.

Foolishly, we hadn’t brought any lunch or snacks with us, just water; our stomach told us enough was enough.  Following the map, we ended up exiting the park via an un-manned back gate (where you probably could get in for free if you knew about it), descending into the town.  What a shocking transition, going from the peace of the forest to the line of vendors hawking their wares along the street where the buses unload the tourists.  I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

The tide was coming in now, but we were still able to ford the river mouth by walking across a sand bar; the water was only up to my thighs (I love my quick-dry nylon shorts!); tourists were crossing via water taxi pangas.  More vendors – cold fresh coconuts – at the trail head leading to the ticket gate; we chatted with the rangers at the ticket gate, who pointed out another trail on the map where we’d see lots of birds.  Maybe after lunch. On the trail back to the dink – our third time down this beach path – we came upon a pack of eight or ten capuchin monkeys cavorting on the trail - two mammas with babies clinging to their back, three juveniles wrestling and chirping, all swinging effortlessly through the trees.  They stopped at the garbage can – oh, BIG FIND!  They would hang down inside the bin, using their tails or back feet to secure themselves while they rummaged around below, ten come up with food scraps and scamper away with their treasure.  A pack of raccoons scared the monkeys off and took over raiding the bin, also holding on with their back feet while they searched the contents. One baby wasn’t long enough to reach, and fell in; we could hear him scrounging in the barrel, then he’d jump back up to the rim.  One big bruiser came up with a ball of aluminum foil and jumped down to the ground with it.  He quickly opened the foil and started chowing down on the apple core inside.  A little guy wanted some too, and kept trying to get at it, but every time he got near, the big one would growl at him, just like Lucky did with the puppies when they got near his food bowl.  I was amazed at how persistent the little one was; in the end, he had to settle for a few morsels that the big guy left on the ground, and licking the tin foil.  Another little guy was digging a hole in the dirt, just like dogs do.  I’ve never had a chance to really watch raccoons, and was fascinated with their behavior – so dog-like!  When the raccoons got on the ground, the monkeys would come back to the can, then swing into the trees again when the raccoons jumped onto the rim for another dip in the can.  They went back and forth, like the turf-warring gangs in West Side Story, staking out their territory, until all the good stuff from the barrel was gone.

By the time we got back to the boat it was almost 1600 hours.  We’d only hiked roughly 12 kilometers or 7 miles, but with the heat and humidity of the jungle it seemed like double.  We were sweating up a storm!  I put my suit on, jumped in the water and immediately got stung by a jellyfish.  Quick dip that was! 

We had an early dinner in the cockpit, enjoying the beautiful evening.

Saturday, December 8, 2007, Manuel Antonio to Bahia Drake 8˚41.813N, 83˚40.222W

Underway by 0550, we had another calm passage.  I got a kick out of watching this particular type of slender fish that jumps UPRIGHT completely out of the water, nose to the sky, then skips across the water, its tail barely breaking the surface, like when kids skip flat rocks in a pond.  I’ve seen them skip as much as 25 feet before going back down, but I don’t know what they’re called.

Exactly eight hours later, our hook was down in this open but pretty little bay, Hurrah following an hour later.  According to the guide book this peninsula gets more rain than any place in Costa Rica, and the surrounding hills are proof – covered with lush, green, ultra-dense jungle with bright green grass ground cover.  There is a nice looking eco resort on the west side of the bay, homes and village tucked up under the trees at the center.  This is home to Costa Rica’s second largest national park, Corcovado, which we would like to visit.  All depends on the weather and swell.  There was a bit of both when we arrived; since the bay offers zero protection, we won’t be able to stay if it gets worse.

Sunday, December 9, 2007, Bahia Drake 8˚41.813N, 83˚40.222W

It rained most of the night, pretty heavily.  Even though all the hatches were closed, water still came in through the dorades.  With the boat all closed up and my sensitive nose, the mildew smell becomes almost intolerable.  For a week or more there has been dampness in the air that settles on every piece of fabric in this boat. No matter how long I hang things in the sun, nothing really dries.  Last night I woke up from a nightmare that I was spraying myself with cologne but couldn’t breathe, yet I kept spraying this thick cloud around my face.  When the dream shook me awake, I actually couldn’t breathe; I was tucked into my corner of the bunk, Jeff was in the middle of the bed closest to the breeze from the open companionway, all the hatches were closed; I was buried in sour mildew smell and I felt like the air around me was thick as cotton.  I got up and took my pillow to the aft stateroom, closer to the companionway and the only open hatch on the boat, which is protected form rain by the dodger.  I could breathe better, but noise of waves slapping on the hull and the dink banging on the lifeline kept me awake the rest of the night. 

We set the stern anchor today, which helped somewhat.  Jeff spent the day doing boat chores and I worked on my log.

Monday, December 10, 2007, Bahia Drake 8˚41.813N, 83˚40.222W

Hurrah decided to peruse the village here; she had finally taken a Stugeron and was feeling better within an hour.  Jeff and I were on our own for hiking in the park.  We picked up a path right off the beach, no entrance fee, and no signs.  It was strange because the path actually leads through restaurants and businesses lining the river.  It was miles long, with only a couple optional turnouts.  Muddy but easy walking through the rain forest and lushly green, with a long suspension bridge spanning the river, we passed few other hikers and saw little wildlife.  However, we were joined by a couple of friendly local dogs who decided to walk with us the better part of the day  the little boy, who was black with tan markings like a Doberman, never left me; the homely little girl stuck by Jeff.  I was surprised at how far they walked.  We shared our lunch with them at our beach rest stop then, headed back.  The two canines parted company right where they picked us up.  We watched them scamper off to the beach to greet other hikers, like little Corcovado ambassadors. J

Every afternoon it rains; we always have all the port lights and hatches open to allow for air flow, and we always have to scramble to get them closed before the drops start coming down.  You’d think we would be able to predict that moment, but the clouds are sometimes unreadable.  Plus, every second of fresh air wafting below is preferable to closed port lights and stuffy interior.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007, Bahia Drake to Golfito 8˚37.252N, 83˚09.251W

It was still pitch black out when we got up at 0400 hours, which made it a bit more interesting when Jeff rowed out to weigh the stern anchor.  Thankfully there was no wind or rain, yet we were underway by 0500 and not two minutes after we set the main, the rain started – lightly at first, then a respectable down pour.  It continued on and off most of the day, although it didn’t bring any wind with it.  By the time we rounded the point into Golfito Dulce, we could see the opposite side of the Gulf was covered by an ominous black cloud cover.

The radio crackled, ‘Hurrah, Hurrah, Bones VIII.”  Hey!  There they are again!  We got on the radio to respond to them.  They could see a sailboat coming into the gulf, and thought it was Hurrah, not us.  We explained to Bill that Hurrah decided to stay another day in Drake.  Bones VIII was on the opposite side of the gulf from us, just leaving Golfito, heading for Isla Parida.  Dang!  We missed them again! Bill told us they’re going to haul out in Panama City and maybe we can catch up with them there.

What we DID catch up to were those dark rain clouds – right over the entrance to Golfito (it’s a “little gulf” inside the bigger gulf.)  It was raining so heavily, we couldn’t see the narrow entrance or the buoy marker; it’s too narrow and shallow to go into without visual aids unless you really know the channel.  We hailed Land & Sea Marina on the radio, asking if there’s a pilot boat or guide.  Nada; “it’s better to wait until the rain clears; be sure you can see the entrance buoys and range markers before you come in.” 

We circled in the vicinity, watching as the rain would start to let up, then pour down with renewed vigor.  At times, it was so heavy the visibility was less than a hundred yards!  It was as bad as any Stockton Tule Fog, completely disorienting, and much wetter!  We had arrived at the entrance before 1500 hours, but with this delay, we were worried we wouldn’t be able to get inside before dark (another one of our safety policies: Never enter an unknown harbor after dark.)  As the rain continued to blanket the boat, our dilemma multiplied and tension mounted: do we wait it out; do we try to make it to the only other anchorage in the gulf, an hour across the opposite side; could we make it there by nightfall; could we anchor safely; would the rain be just as heavy there; we can’t continue sailing south because this is the last Costa Rican port and we need to check out of the country; what’s the safest choice?

About 1715 hours we heard Litos, a 98-foot motor-yacht, hail Banana Bay Marina for slip assignment; they’d be at the entrance in 20 minutes.  She responded, “It’s raining pretty hard here; be sure you can see the entrance buoys before you come in.” Holy Cow!  Only 20 minutes away from us, and we can’t see a 98-foot boat!!!  Can they see us????  Jeff hailed them on the radio, just to confirm that they have us on radar and won’t accidentally run us down.  They didn’t have us on their screen, but about 10 minutes later they radioed to let us know they had us on target.  A few minutes later he calls back, “Musetta, be advised there is a sport fisher coming your way and he’s going to miss your stern by inches!  I’m going to follow him in.”  Jeff started sounding our air horn; we were still circling, anxiously searching through the gloom for any movement, like waiting for the great white Jaws to surface.  “There he is!”  Like a canon shot, this dark-hulled sport fisher comes barreling down on us – missing us by yards.  No acknowledgement, no wave, nothing; within a flash, he was gone.

Soon after, Litos was in sight, following where the sport fisher had disappeared into the gray wall.  We radioed Litos asking if we could follow them in.   “Sure, no problem.  If I run aground, you’ll know it’s the wrong way!”  Amazingly, as soon as Litos got to the entrance, the rain lifted some and we could see the entrance buoy.  We followed Litos in, trying – without success - to keep up, but as soon as we were inside the entrance, we could see much more clearly.  Litos  radioed us to watch for the range markers in front of him, which we couldn’t see because his boat was so big.  The navigable portion of the channel is very narrow, with wide shallows on either side.  We couldn’t see the channel markers until we were practically on top of them, so we were thankful to have that big motor-yacht lead the way.  Finally we were at the end of the entrance, made our right turn to continue in the narrow fairway to Land and Sea marina.  Litos was right next door at Banana Bay Marina.

Tim, co-owner of Land and Sea scooted out in his skiff to help us grab a mooring ball for the night.  We would move to the dock in the morning.  It was a tense few hours, and we were relieved to be settled as night fell.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007, Golfito 8˚37.252N, 83˚09.251W

This morning while there was no current running, we slipped our mooring line and motored over to the dock, where Tim helped us snuggle stern in.  There is only room for two boats on this dock, and one was already there.  After Tim tied off our stern lines, he motored out to set the bow anchors – five of them.  We were set.  No power today – there’s only one outlet at the dock and the other boat is using it, but they’re leaving tomorrow se we’ll get it then.  Our whole point in moving onto the dock is to have power while we leave the boat and do some inland travel.

Tim gave us a quick tour of the facility.  This is definitely a unique place!  Tim and Katie are ex-cruisers who loved this harbor so much, they decided to make it their home and try to make a living here, rather than go back to the states to earn more money.  They understand cruisers’ needs and mentality, and keep things simple and inexpensive. For example, they charge only $6 per day for their mooring balls, and 50¢ per foot per day for the dock (the docks at the neighboring marinas run $2 per foot per day.) 

Being an ex-contractor, Tim built the two-story wooden structure on pilings himself. At the top of the wooden ramp from the dock is one of those huge Kirkland stainless barbecue units with several grills, rotisserie, cabinets, the works – the kind Jeff covets. J  On the lower floor, the covered deck is filled with tall wooden communal tables and barstools, benches lining the rim with naughahyde cushions.  Katie’s got it decorated about as funky as you can get, with planters made from a bull’s skull and metal cast-offs she welded together, solar lights hidden inside cute metal cats and dogs, old fishing nets and floats .  A large galley is available for “authorized” persons for cruiser potlucks and gatherings.  Inside, the library area is stocked floor to ceiling with book exchange goods, a bathroom, and a cooler stocked with cold beer and soda, which is self-serve on the honor system – you simply make your tally mark next to your boat name on the whiteboard whenever you take a beverage.  Once you’ve seen the front office, you understand why the tally marks work – paperwork is definitely not their forte; papers, boxes, and junk are piled on every desk and counter surface, spilling onto the floor in some cases.  It’s dark and dank smelling; I don’t’ think they spend much time here.  J

Upstairs is the “lounge,” filled with broken down chairs and tables, a tv with video and DVD player and a few movies, plus a full bathroom and a sleeping room that they occasionally rent out or loan to personal guests.  Every available wall space is covered with hand-painted boat names of the cruisers who’ve passed through.  (Tim provides the paint, but we just didn’t seem to have time to get creative and add our logo.)  The covered deck on this level also has bar stools and a wooden plank with electrical outlets across the balcony for those who want to set up their laptops and pick up the wifi signal.   

Besides helping at the marina, Katie has an informal shelter for street animals, and collects money to have them spayed and neutered, then tries to find them homes.  As is usually the case, many of the animals end up living with the rescuer as a permanent member of the family.  J  Right now there are two cats (black and white Elvis, and I didn’t get the brown one’s name) and four dogs (Peanut, a young, previously-abused Chihuahua; Rags, a long-haired Shitsu-sized mutt; Riley, a boxer mix; and Chocco, an old “queen of the marina” Chihuahua) living at the marina, all of them extremely friendly.  It’s been like a Christmas gift to have so many doggie kisses again! J

There are all kinds of people coming and going at the marina, not all of whom have boats here.  I get the impression they are ex-pats who are friends or neighbors of Tim & Katie, but it seems like there is always someone here to chat with.  Could be easy to get lazy and lose time here.

Today we just got acquainted with the local routine, and dropped our laundry at the front.  Aleita, the Tica who does the laundry, will have it back to us by tomorrow.  I actually prefer to do it myself because I can give a little more attention to those garments that need it, but Tim explained that there are no coin-operated self-serve laundries in Costa Rica.  You have to pay someone else to do it.  Not that it’s all that expensive; I just find I take better care of my things than someone else does, plus I’m sure to get everything back.  When someone else does it, you run the risk of having something mixed up with other people’s garments.

We cleaned the boat today.  Ah, she feels SO much better!!!  And it’s such a luxury to be able to step right off our stern swim step onto the dock, no lugging things in the dinghy. J 

We’d heard the food at Banana Bay Marina was good, so walked over there for dinner.  Bad choice.  The menu was boring, the food was bland, and the prices outrageous.  I should have just cooked myself!!!

Thursday, December 13, 2007, Golfito 8˚37.252N, 83˚09.251W

Either we’re a little too close to “civilization” and the street noises, or I’m not used to flat water.  I just wasn’t able to sleep.  After tossing half the night, I got up to have some Relax Tea, and thought I saw movement in the salon.  What was that???  I went to the companionway and put my hand on the steps, only to find something warm and furry!  Yeow!  It startled me at first, until I realized it was the brown cat who’d been prowling around our boat.  I climbed into the cockpit and with all the security lights on the dock, could easily see Elvis had also made himself at home on a pillow on the cabin top under the dodger.  Nice to feel welcome. J

On the day we came in, we had given a courtesy call to the Port Captains’ office to let them know we were entering the harbor, but we still needed to check in.  The town is spread out along one main road that parallels the beach, and his office is several miles down from the marina, closer to the entrance of the harbor.  But it felt good to us to get walking again, even though it was hot and humid.