To Stand

Present day note: that spring, after 4 months of making our way south, dogged by the only too natural repairs that neeed be made to an aging wooden boat, a boat that lived its best years in the climate of southern california, perfect for wooden boats, with its cold waters and infrequent rains, the correspondences took a bit of a frustrated turn. Interesting now to look back, but Costa Rica was a difficult county for an

01 May 2007

N 08º 43’ / W 85º 52’

Golfito, Costa Rica

I sat still looking out from under the hood of my rain gear. The night is black, and as the lightning flashes beads of rain illuminate in the scope of my vision and I can see the calm sea and the rain swept water. I watch the sails catching the little wind from the passing front. Silently I sit, cold and wet watching for the break in the clouds when the storm will pass over us and once again we can make good time through the water. I look at the clock and it is six hours after I took the watch. Four hours into a squall, and only two until the sun will rise. The light fills the sky again, the boat shakes from the thunderous clash of energy and lightning strikes the water making contact through a fire like ball on the horizon. The lightning is close. So close that my ears ring from the clash and my heart shakes. Another beam hits the water behind me, and still more bolts connect the clouds in the sky filling the horizon. Humbled, and with each crash I sink in my posture like the sight of mortars contacting the desert unable to control their direction, unable to control their contact with the earth. I put my head into my hands brushing the wet hair from my eyes, the moisture dropping from my beard. “I must survive this night.”

“Survive this night.” How many times had I repeated this like an oath. It continues. I think of the nights that I have faced deep fear. This was something all together different. This one I had no control. When the squalls hit, and they come every night, an unavoidable mass of black clouds they bring strong winds that shift from every direction for thirty minutes, then there is nothing. The sea is calm and we rock with her. Our electronics disconnected. All power turned off. We drift uncertain of whether to motor or not, seeing the engine runs the alternator and generates power. We attempt to isolate the boat from electrical current of any kind and instead drift. When the sun rises and the rain has neutralized the sea to land temperatures we sit idly without wind for the entire day, waiting for a gust. In essence we have motored now 18-20 hours a day with no wind and counter currents.

We set out from El Salvador with decent wind and strong currents against us. We made the best of the sails with the wind that we had, and when the wind rose, it rose to a strong breeze against the current developing strong chop that along with the current kept us moving at only a slow 2 to 3 knots. In one case of bad chop we were fighting to stay on course. As the sail tacked to one side, the forestay snapped like a shot into the wind. And the sail became limp. 50 miles from land and the cable that runs from my bow to my mast holding it up as well as guiding my largest sail, my foresail, was now of no use. As we fought to get the sail down and inspect the damage the shackle that holds the main sail out snapped and it as well began to beat wildly against the force of a strong wind. Now rocking violently in the sea with nothing to create momentum I felt my head sink.

“I must survive this moment.”

The sail was fixed the stay sail run up and the damage inspected to find that the brass mounting bracket on top of the mast had been what had given way. I attempted climbing the mast in the seas. Half way up it was determined to be too dangerous so we motored for Marina Flamingo in northern Costa Rica.

Here we encountered our first taste of Costa Rican hospitality. Bluntly, this is the rudest most unhelpful country I have ever been in, but with some of the most fantastic landscapes. Our troubles began when we arrived at what the cruising guide described as a good marina with fuel and hardware. We found boats sinking in the mud, destroyed docks, and an abandoned fuel pump. The Coast Guard had taken over where an American family had let off and repossessed the property. Once ashore trying to find a way to check into the country we found nothing more than a bar with Texas land developers that offered no help to us or advice on a place to find fuel or a migration office. A lady who owned a pizza place would not comment on what had happened to the American that built the town.

All she said was “We don’t discuss that.”

Come to find out later, the rumor was that he would not cooperate with the local mafia so the government had him shut down for environmental infractions and still have refused to pay him for the property. The town is on an electricity ration and there were no services. No police, the nearest police were twenty miles away and could not make the drive to Flamingo in the event of trouble because they didn’t have enough gas. So communities hired their own armed private security. Unable to buy diesel we decided our best bet was to shoot down the coast to find a marina with it.

After drilling a new hole in the lower bracket made of steel instead of the softer bronze, we were able to rig the forestay back and tighten it down. This is when we were hit with the lightning storms. On the third night exhausted from the lack of sleep from the crashing thunder and hot days of motoring we found a marina on the charts. The guide said we could check into the country there.

To avoid navigating across the channel in the Gulfo de Nicoya with it’s shipping and floating logs we anchored across the bay that night in a downpour in no visibility. As the light rose over Bahia de Bellena we motored to Los Suenos in Bahia de Herrera, for fuel. Upon our arrival I called in on the radio and the lady informed me that we could not fuel until checking in to the country. She then told me to use their dock to tie up the dinghy would cost 40 dollars a day. We have never paid more than five. The fee to check in would cost me $530. The reasoning was that they would have to have the government officials travel from Punta Arenas to the Marina to make the proper arrangements. In other words, it was not a Port of Entry, even thought the cruising guide had said it was, and most large marinas like this that we had encountered to date had someone capable of completing the appropriate paperwork, usually for a nominal fee.

I told her that we were down to our last 3 gallons of fuel, and I could not afford the fees. Naturally, this was not her problem so she asked me to leave and sail to Punta Arenas. Maybe she hadn’t heard me, so I re-informed her I hadn’t the gas, seeing it was mandatory to motor through the reefs lining that anchorage I would only just make it our of the harbor. She informed me it was not their problem. I informed her I was coming into talk to her.

Of which she was correct, not her problem, but I wasn’t taking that for an answer…

Ok, at this point the present me should fill you all in on a comical little back story. As any sailor can relate, somethings out there take on a life of their own. For us, this was the dinghy. Now I had a dinghy, it was small, it needed a bracket for the motor, but it was a stout little vessel that stowed neatly away as needed. This was not our dinghy.

Before leaving San Diego a friend took one look and said, “Oh no, I’m not letting you guys sail off with that.” And so he took us to his house where in his swimming pool he had a larger, nicer dinghy, clearly floating and holding air. Downside was that it was made of PVC. He said this shouldn’t be a problem unless you poke a hole in it. They can be difficult to patch.

That was all good until in Cabo San Lucas we were cruising back from dinner and started to lose some air. An unattended cherry from a burning cigarette was the culprit. From that moment on various pin holes and multiple attempts to make a patch all failed and it was not an uncommon sight to see two derelict guys running around, one driving the stuttering outboard, one furiously working the pump to inflate the tender.

Then there was the outboard. It was inoperable when we left, Dave, who had a bit of mechanical interest and expertise, ran it to some guys in San Carlos that got it to run, barely. Since that time it required a little love and patience and would at times get that un-inflated dinghy magically on plane, but mostly just putted along coughing blue smoke behind it.

We even got to a point where when at anchor we would let the dinghy deflate and the cowling on the motor would keep it afloat. Once such morning in El Salvador I awoke to some well intentioned local fisherman, and when I came up onto the deck with a beautiful sunrise over that tucked away river with the mangroves and the birds already at it they fishemen looked at me and said, “señor, your boat is sinking,”

“Oh, I know,” I said, “It does that every night.”

So now imagine two long haired, unshowered, emaciated, greasy, and incensed sea hippies in a dinghy putting along at a full speed of six knots with a gunny sack full of documents that they were determined to get cleared from a first rate yachting marina…

With a failing outboard, a leaking dinghy that no longer holds air for more than an hour, and a broken foot pump Forrest and I began to make way for the dock.

As we entered the Marina an armed guard began yelling at us and it was obvious there were only two masts in the marina. The rest of the boats were large sport fishing yachts in which sun streaked long haired blond boys in yachty shorts and drinking Imperial beer were pointing and laughing as we stuttered our way in. The marina was upping the cost to keep the riff raff out.

We cleared with the security guard and made our way through the Marina. With our armed escort we arrived in the office after two weeks at sea without a shower, dirty from working on an engine and wet from the rain I approached the lady asking for an explanation. Simply she said, customs would have to drive an hour to get here and they will charge a fee, 530 dollars. I talked to the customs man and it was clear we were getting no where, even after explaining I did not have enough diesel to go anywhere. “You’re problem.” I walked out into a thunder and lightning storm and sat on the bench feeling far away from home. Looking up at the bar and restaurant I was barred from, and seeing a fuel dock I was not allowed to approach, being told I was an illegal ashore. The armed guards told us to leave. I asked to wait out the lightning. NO. I was to row out under the drunk sneers of the yachty fishermen in the lightning.

Furious we rowed to the boat. Our luck changed as we approached a large yacht anchored next to us. It was professionally crewed and the Chief Engineer was an Aussie. Seeing the condition of our dinghy and the state we were in I asked if he would take the cans in to be filled. And in true Aussie fashion he simply said, “No worries, just give us some greenbacks mate and we’ll run in and get you filled up.”

Well, there it was, we didn’t have any greenbacks on hand, so we told him we would get back to him that night. The following we omitted from the original account out of some paranoia that the Costa Coasties were scanning our emails and looking for a reason to seize an old wood boat and put two surly American kids in some chain gain in the jungle. Unlikely, but youthful imaginations do get out of control.

So Forrest and I huddled under the dodger in the rain smoking the last of our tobacco, him looking disagreeable as his kid brother had just put him in a tight position. Oh, we knew what we had to do. We just didn’t want to talk about it.

So in the cover of darkness with our darkest clothes on, and in a bright white half deflated dinghy we charged the beach of that horseshoe bay at a choked off stuttering six knots, and here’s to hoping that the surf wouldn’t capsize and roll the dinghy leaving us with the unenviable option of swimming back to the boat and abandoning the dinghy there. That would have totally screwed us.

But we timed the approach and surged down a crashing swell just in time to land the dinghy and pull it up the long beach to some palms where we stashed it for the moment.

There was a little town there and a restaurant, apparantly not yet alarmed to the fact that there were two illegal derelicts anchored in their harbor, and they gladly told us that they would sell us a beer, but first things first, ATM? 30 miles away. Do you take card? No. Can you call us a cab? Yes.

Waiting in the shadows like the common criminals we fancied ourselves to be, we waited until the cab showed up, then in we got and were soon on our way through dark mountainous streets to the larger town 30 miles away, all to wind up at a very well lit, and very clean Burger King, where I made the appropriate withdraw, checked the balance, got a little sick to my stomach, then hopped back in the cab, paying our fare and it was back to the restaurant.

Not to common to forgo some world class beach bar fresh caught Tuna, we dined, we drank, then disappeared into he shadows once more to retrieve our dinghy. Then we realized, getting it back in the water was going to be a much wetter challenge than it was running it aground. So Forrest maned the motor, I manned the bowline and pulled him just enough to get the boat floating in the surf, kicked the motor, made a run through a gnarly wave that soaked us and our papers through, and we were free.

Boarding the yacht soaking wet we were treated to Aussie humor, beer, and grins as they took the money and sat us down for some sea stories of their own.

The next morning the engineer showed up with 20 gallons of really expensive diesel.

So we evaded the jailer, got our fuel, and sailed for three more nights, 150 miles south through lightning and rain to Golfito.

The greeting was about the same. The Port Captain is an 18 year old kid who speaks English, he was wearing a lavender polo shirt which for some reason amused us, he had slicked hair, and was very out of shape, misshapen even, and a bit effeminate. He informs me to report at his office at 1:30. He showed up at three. He closes at four and so he told us we would have to pay him overtime to clear our papers. But that wasn’t the first thing he said. The first thing he yelled in my face was “You are in Big Trouble, I can send you to Jail.”

“For what?”

“Big Trouble, Big Trouble.”

Discrepancy in my paperwork apparently. Our Certificate of Documentation from the Coast Guard had lapsed and the paperwork from the exit Zarpe from El Salvador was lacking a stamp. He began to tell me of all the laws I had broken. He just repeated and repeated trouble, trouble, trouble, mister. Forrest walked out of the office red faced, and I about asked him to add a “please and thank you” to his growing list of demands and accusations, but then reminded my self that his kid could make it as easy or hard as he desired.

It was clear, I was about to have to make a bribe, as everyone has had to do. Amazing enough the kid was proficient at his job and once he got the paper work going it was quick and easy, aside from his waiting to get overtime, and flatly telling me the price of a good bribe to all the officials, not only there, but at migracion where I would no doubt also be in “Big Trouble”.

I was sick to my stomach by the time we cleared in and ready to just lie down, thinking if his energies were properly channeled where he could go. Instead we see him every night at the yacht club being wined and dined by the gringo charter fishermen in the area. We found a place to dock our dinghy for 4 dollars a day and the owner Tim is a retired hippy that runs a friendly place for sailors. He has a fridge of beer and fruit juice with a chalk board to tally up your tab on the honor system. He has a TV, wireless, and a porch overlooking the bay.

I sit there looking out over the picturesque town and think of the Odyssey. It was believed that Zuess was God of Strangers and so in the Islands when sailors would come ashore, and vagabonds would happen into a kings domain they were clothed, fed, and bathed. Where has the hospitality gone in our World?

Tim Discusses the corruption of the politics and simply told us sailors have worn out their welcome. They have always brought diseases, theft, rape, piracy, and other crimes which to this day carries a bad reputation with one that sails into port. He has a point, but when a human being is in distress and trouble needing assistance where have we gone as a society in which we take advantage of a person’s misfortunes? A man is at sea living off of rice and oats for two weeks without shower and rest in constant battle of body and spirit seeking refuge and his greatest challenge is to simply go ashore. Why? A lot may have to do with the AntiAmerican sentiment. We get dark stares, cold shoulders, and unfriendly curses from the people in the streets here. Our capitalist system that has worked for us for so long is shrugged off here. Here it has not worked so well.

I now have formed a new principal in my life. I am determined that I will never close the door on someone in need. I will never look at a man digging through the trash and consider him to be riff raff. Life gets hard on us from time to time and strong men find themselves reliant on others. Luck goes bad, and some times your dinghy is sinking faster than you can bail. It can happen to you just as easily as it can happen to the poor. You may find yourself like Job, with all lost crippled and feeling defeated by life and not everyone recovers. So when you see someone cast down to low depths stop and help them up. For yourself, do not lose hope. Hope takes strength to maintain, but in return gives strength and you can pick yourself up and carry on always striving for something better.

I think in my trials, through the lightning storms and broken equipment tossed and tired on the sea of Shackleton. Shackleton did not give up when the endurance was lost or the James Cairn beaten on the coast of South Georgia. He did not give up the rescue of his men on Elephant Island. John Paul Jones stood on the deck of his burning ship and defiantly raved “I have yet begun to fight.” Christopher Columbus pushed on when all else were certain he would sail off the edge of the earth. Sir Francis Drake never gave up his conquest of seizing Cartagena. I am a man as strong as these men and when I have to see the lightning strike the water next to my boat and look in the eyes of a kid that holds his power over me, feeling my pride of the struggles that have shaped me into a man knowing he is only half of me but yet I have to be strong and bite my tongue. When everyone turns their back on us and closes the doors kicking us into the rain. When the sails rip and the mast is about to fall, when the boat takes on water I think of that day in Tehauntepec when all failed and I just laid down. I laid down ready to give up the ship and felt a disgust in my gut at it. A voice, perhaps Shackletons or any of the other lost sailors, said “You would rather lay down and die than stand up and fight?” So I got up and began to work to empty the bilges and asses the motor, to trim the sails. Knowing that this is life. Whether you like it or not you are on the sea alive, and this boat is the proof of my like and the product of my hard work and money. As I breathe air for necessity of life I have to continue to work and occupy my mind with productivity to maintain mental stability. When you lose your discipline and cease your work your life is idle. As long as you are idle you are no longer living, but instead dying. So the choice is yours. Stand up and fight, or lay down and die.

When I stand up and live the sun rises revealing the storms that fall their sheets of rain around us. The green coast line becomes alive. The mist rolls from the hillsides. The golden clear light and the early morning feeding frenzies on the water isolate me from the lightning, and the early morning breeze carries with it a feeling of purpose for the life which I am fighting to live. The fog of the frustrations is lifted and I feel in me the love for life. I feel the presence of the creator in the beauty I see. I feel the happiness from the gift of another day. I still long for home, but I feel the purpose of the Odyssey to arrive there. This is an amazing test of endurance that I realize has left me beat down at times. It is a valuable learning experience of the strength of my mind and soul, and has taught me how to and not to live. I no longer contemplate the times that I have allowed myself to be weak, but instead push through the fog of the mind to strive for the clarity that brings me triumph over my weaknesses. It is an endurance out here. It is a struggle. Though I do not want to live constantly in struggle, I am now pushing myself to become stronger through it, so that it would not be without purpose. These are valuable days in my life that will sooner than I know be over. When it is, how will I remember them? As a boy that lay down, or a man that stood up. Even if I have to hold myself up braced against a stanchion I will stand.