There is no secret to Costa Rica's draw for international travelers. Having recognized, long before it was vogue, that its extraordinary biodiversity needed to be protected, the government set aside 13 percent of the land as national parks. Rain forest, cloud forest, marine sanctuaries, and desert lowlands--there are an astonishing range of ecosystems all jammed into a country the size of West Virginia. Flora and fauna are prolific--ten percent of the world's bird species, more butterflies than in all of Africa, and abundant big-ticket animals like monkey, sloth, crocodile, iguana, and sea turtle. Couple these natural wonders with the most stable political and economic conditions in Central America, and it isn't hard to see why Costa Rica has become the Eco-Mecca of the western hemisphere.
For the cruiser, Costa Rica offers a tantalizing taste of her national treasures along the Pacific coast. We enter the country at Golfito, a dirty backwater near the southern border, but from there it is an almost continual feast of pristine anchorages, accessible wildlife, and outdoor activities. Our first dose is Drake Bay, bordering Corcovado Park on the Osa Peninsula, where white-faced monkeys and scarlet macaw chatter and squawk on pristine beaches. Next is Isla Cano, where clear-water diving affords intimate contact with slumbering reef shark and curious manta ray. Then Manuel Antonio, with jungle trails and long white beaches, where I get my first pummeling by Costa Rica's world-class surf (I bought a used board in Panama). Later comes Montezuma, a gringo magnet on the southern Nicoya peninsula, where a locals and tourists alike leap from a waterfall into the churning pool below. An finally, on the northern exit we'll visit Santa Rosa National Park, the country's biggest, which boasts great snorkeling and over 50 species of bats.
It was an action-packed six weeks, but the highlight, far and away, is the two weeks my sister, Leslie, joins me for the holidays. We rendez vous at Punta Leona, a notoriously cruiser-friendly resort on the central coast. Leona offers boaters full access to extensive facilities--beaches, pools, ping-pong, nature trails--all free of charge (an unbeatable price for the frugal cruiser crowd). Bringing Leslie aboard Gypsy is like opening a can of sunshine--everything is fresh and new, and she immediately falls in love with the boat. She is upbeat and outgoing, and there are no filters--she says what she thinks and you never can tell where her thoughts will wander. The first night, she can't believe how many fish are hanging out under the boat. There is phosphorus too, which she hasn't seen before, so I take her out in the dinghy and we do donuts in the anchorage--hundreds of fish streaking away like shooting stars while Leslie laughs and points.
Straight off, we sign up for a nature hike at Leona, and from the moment we enter the jungle our Guide has his hands full. Among Leslie's many passions are plants--her apartment in Portland is like a bush camp in inner Borneo, and she tends a sprawling garden with near-religious fanaticism. The guide, Joshua, identifies certain plants and Leslie is transfixed: "Oh my God--climbing fig. Isn't that the same species as broumella?" or "Wow--orchids. Are they only indigenous to the lowland rain forest?" Joshua pauses, digging deep into the naturalist database before offering a tentative "yes," or occasionally "I don't know." Clearly he needs a few of whatever pep pills Leslie takes with her morning coffee.
Later, when we rent a car and drive inland, Leslie, constantly scanning the foliage, screams "OH-MY-GOD!!" "What?" I gasp, sure we're bound for a head-on collision. "That is a ficus!" she says, pointing at a tree.
We spend three days on the road, north through the agricultural lowlands of Guanacaste and then east to Arenal. Our first night we reach a quaint lodge, La Ceiba, at nightfall. We wake before dawn to the shriek of howler monkeys, and emerge at daybreak to a spectacular view--the namesake Ceiba tree, a 400-year-old colossus fronting the lodge, is illuminated by the first morning rays. Birds and butterflies flit and chirp across the tiered landscape and below sparkling Lake Arenal stretches in each direction as far as the eye can see. At breakfast in the main lodge, half a dozen toucans pick at fruit trees in the jungle below, and a troupe of monkeys, our morning serenaders, clamber through the trees towards higher ground.
A few hours beyond, we reach Volcano Arenal just as the clouds lift to reveal the smoldering summit. Hiking is another of Leslie's obsessions, and from the Observatory Lodge we set out on a four-hour trek rated 'difficult' in the understated guidebook. The route, which often requires feet and hands to negotiate, is a near vertical ascent through slippery cloud forest. Humidity is 100 percent, and within minutes I'm soaked with sweat, but Leslie, leading at a blistering pace, doesn't even look winded. "Wait--Leslie," I say, catching up to her at a ridge and fumbling in my fanny pack, "I think you should stop and drink some water." Aching and exhausted that night, we visit a hot springs and watch the orange glow of the crater as we sip drinks at the in-pool bar.
Our last day ashore, we loop south across the Tilaran range, passing tea plantations, rolling pasture, and numerous cascading rivers. We stop near the coast mid-afternoon, and hike down a steep canyon to the base of a 600-foot waterfall. Along the way we see more wildlife than anywhere yet--scarlet macaw, toucan, coati (like a raccoon), and white-faced monkeys leaping from tree to tree with wild abandon. The falls themselves are spectacular, if not a bit intimidating, and at the base the pounding spray literally knocks us off our feet. We scramble back to the car amid the cacophony of bird calls, and reach Punta Leona at sunset-home to Gypsy in time for the holidays.
Our Christmas is laid back and thoroughly enjoyable. We anchored at Leona with our friends on Hoptoad, and the night we return they join us on Gypsy to decorate cookies and listen to Christmans carols. The next day we are joined by Margarita--the first reunion since those halcyon days in the San Blas. Christmas morning Leslie and I exchange gifts on Gypsy and pitch in for a monster brunch. At 1:00 we join the other boats on the beach for a potluck barbeque. Afterwards we have a good laugh with a 'white elephant' gift exchange (everyone donates a present--mostly gags--and then we take turns picking from the pile or taking opened gifts). Then we play ping-pong, and volleyball, and round out the activities with a rowdy game of Marko Polo which clears the pool of all paying guests.
At night we converge on Hoptoad for ice cream, pumpkin and apple pie, and a proper gift exchange between the boats. Leslie and I sing a spoof carol, roasting the other boats ("Diesel smells... Diesel smells... motor all the way"), and with some prompting, Margarita brings out their instruments and leads us through rousing renditions of all the Holiday favorites. It's not a silent night, but there's a holiness to it none the less.
The next day, Leslie and I set sail across the Gulf of Nicoya. A fresh wind blows from the southwest, and it's about a three hour tack, all sails flying and Gypsy heeled to the rail, before we reach Islas Tortugas on the opposite shore. We anchor off a beautiful, deserted beach, and both doze in the cockpit, watching stars as Gypsy rolls with the swell.
There are notable differences between cruising the Pacific and the Caribbean--at least from what I've seen thus far--and the ubiquitous swell is one example. In the protected waters of the Caribbean, most anchorages are flat as a bathtub. Along the coast of Panama and Costa Rica, however, Gypsy is in perpetual motion. There were anchorages where sleep was barely feasible--I would roll from one side of my bunk to the other in groggy apathy. In others I've resorted to setting a stern anchor, pointing Gypsy into the swell to keep her bucking bow to stern, as opposed to side to side. You adapt to the constant movement, but it often requires unconscious bracing against bulkheads or gripping handrails. That's life on the Pacific.
Another dramatic difference is the tides. I'm sure there's a logical scientific explanation for how you can leave the Caribbean, where typical tides rarely exceed one foot, and emerge on the Pacific, 50 miles away, where the tide range can be 20 feet. Before the Panama Canal, I associated Tide with my laundry detergent--now it's a way of life. Where to go, how deep to anchor, and what time of day to travel are all influenced by stages of the tide.
The most traumatic difference with Pacific cruising--landing the dingy--is exacerbated by a combination of tide and swell. On the Caribbean side, when there wasn't a dingy dock (which there generally was), landing was a simple matter of motoring to the beach, dragging the boat a few feet up the sand, and calling it good. Now every dingy landing is like a morbid reenactment of the first scene in Saving Private Ryan, when they storm the beach at Normandy. Motoring in, you hear the pounding surf gain volume, and feel the butterflies careen in your gut. When you reach the break, it's like the doors on the troop transport drop: you're never sure if your going to end up on you feet, dazed and dripping, dragging the boat 40 or 50 yards to the high tide line like a wounded comrade, or you'll wind up on your back with waves crashing over you and dingy lines tangled around your legs. There's a fine art to surf landings, and I'm still a long way from mastering the technique.
In the morning, Leslie and I enjoy some quality snorkeling off Tortugas, but by the time we return to Gypsy our 'deserted' beach has been inundated by sunbathing hordes motored in from the mainland. We sail north, and Leslie lands a nice tuna on our way to the auspicious-sounding Isla Gitana (Gypsy Island). But while our guidebook promises a tropical resort what we find is more like the Bates Motel--a crumbling cluster of thatch-roofed huts, a swampy swimming pool, and discarded junk washed up on the 'beach.' We chat with the friendly caretakers, a couple who have been more or less abandoned, without money or materials, since the death of the owner four years ago. They lead a creepy life of former glory and faded photos, and we were only too happy to motor the dinghy across the bay for dinner.
Sadly, Leslie's stay draws to a close, but the next day we speak with Hoptoad and Margarita on the radio and plan to meet them at a nearby island for one last hurrah. En route, with a light breeze and clear skies, I jump in the dingy and ask Leslie to tack past so I can take pictures of Gypsy under sail. Suddenly the wind picks up, and for a moment, with me shouting "Wait! Come back!" Leslie gets Gypsy hiked up nicely. We meet our friends for an evening potluck, followed by a ruthless game of Celebrities, and the next morning I leave Leslie at the bus to San Jose with an empty feeling in my chest.
Costa Rica has been an easy ride, if not a bit more expensive and 'westernized' than its neighboring countries. You don't have to work as hard to find food or change money, but eventually you start craving the challenge and diversity of undiscovered lands. As Neill on Margarita is prone to reminding people who trivialize cruising, "this is a lifestyle," and it demands work and responsibility to balance the pleasure. The next leg of our journey falls into the work category--a long sail through notoriously strong winds to Guatemala. I believe the vacation has ended.
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January 5 - Club Pacifico
