3/10/05
11pm, 36,000 feet. Somewhere below me in the cargo hold, hopefully, is my luggage. One bag contains a sea kayak that I have only just finished building this afternoon, the other holds shelter, nourishment, amusement, communication, and tools. The basic ingredients for human life. My mind wanders down through the drybags inside of drybags, past ziplocks and gasked plastic cases, to mesh bag called TOOLS. Duct tape, string, aquaseal, glue, parachute cord, multi tool, small japanese saw…..and no low angle block plane. I had agonized over this decision, and now miles from my shop I was really starting to feel the fear. What if I needed to shave a part down, what if I needed to make a new paddle, what if I was kidnapped by Hondouran pirates and forced to work in a cabinet shop manned by white slaves; they wouldn’t have the proper tools, I know they wouldn’t, I couldn’t bear it. But this is what had to be done, I was going on an ultralight expedition, and a block plane is not ultralight. Ultralight camping is not for everyone, it demands that one make every possible sacrifice for weight without comprimising the safety of the journey. It was with this ethic in mind that my toothbrush remained at home, in it’s place I’d chosen 2 packages of dental gum, somehow the toothbrush just seemed to large, too heavy. Yet by the time I’d finished packing, my luggage would contain an 8 pound kit of tree climbing gear, a large steel machete, three paperbacks, and 3 first edition hard bound books. Two of the books were on an unauthorized loan from a close friend, one was very rare. It was risky, but I couldn’t stand to leave them behind.
It takes 22 hours aboard airplanes, buses and taxis to reach the small jungle town of Sierpe, 15 miles inland from the Pacific Ocean, on a river of the same name. It is hot here, very hot. To survive the 100 deg 100% humid climate I am forced into the nearest restroom and emerge with a greasy, whitish sheen from the application of a quart of 50 SPF sunblock, it feels as though my pores will never breathe again. Downtown Sierpe, if there is such a thing, consists of two city blocks lined with small restaurants and two grocery stores, but mostly peoples homes. This place is not ‘touristy’ but it’s local dock serves as the launch point where tourists board small boats to make the journey to sea and then south to one of many Eco Lodges dotting the coastline. Bar crossings and beach landings are performed in ordinary motorboats and prospective travelers are more often than not in for rough wet ride. The Sierpe river marks the northern boundary of Costa Rica’s Osa Penninsula, a large thumb of land that pokes out southwest into the Pacific. To the south lies the small Golfo Dulce, to the south of that, Panama. Corcovado National Park covers 30 miles of the coastline and roughly half of the interior of the penninsula. It is the largest single tract of protected lowland primary tropical rainforest in Central America and is home to an immense quantity of animal and plant life. Monkeys, macaws, snakes, anteaters, peccaries, giant bugs, giant trees, vines, palms, coconuts. These are the things we came here to see. Myself, Rob, and Scott, who would be arriving in three days with their folding kayaks to begin our journey. Until then the town of Sierpe would be my home while I assembled my kayak. I checked into the Hotel Margarita, a small family owned establisment with 6×9 turqouise rooms and a $6 per night price tag.
3/11/05
I awaken in the twilight of dawn to the sounds of thousands of tropical birds, the wildest of which I would later discover to be ordinary chickens. Feigning confidence I haul the big grey home made bag out onto the porch and set to work in spite of the facts. The facts being that I had never assembled this kayak before from the bag, I had never loaded it and paddled, I had no idea if it would come together, and if it did whether or not it would float. This entire trip was planned in similar fashion. I’d bought my ticket three weeks prior on a whim at the suggestion of a friend who was making the trip down the coast, under the delusion that I was a real sea kayaker he invited me to come along. I’d made it this far though, so it only made sense to keep going. By midday I had the frame assembled, a lattice of wooden joints and lashings not unlike it’s eskimo ancestors. Far from the frigid waters of it’s conception, this quasi arctic kayak frame now baked at 95deg in the harsh tropical sun. I too baked in the sun, far from my home on the Oregon coast at the 42nd parralel I was fish white and not at all suited to the weather here, I began to melt and was forced to take refuge at the nearby Las Vegas Restaurant. With a fan and a covered veranda I sat here for hours, sipping mango shakes, and watching the tide races on the river. Huge flotillas of water hyacinths passed by. I chatted with Oscar my waiter, the first time I’d spoken english in 2 days. People may tell you that everyone in Costa Rica speaks english, this is not true.
3/12/05
At 2 am a searing pain in my left foot blasts through my dream and I shoot upright in my bed and onto the lightswitch in a nanosecond. Christ, something stung me! The culprit was nowhere to me found. The pain was incredible and I knew that soon the foot would swell and by tommorow night I would be sweating and delerious in some dirty little hospital, awaiting amputation. By 9 am the pain is gone and the bite soon after. I begin work on the kayak again, this time greasing the frame with olive oil and pulling on the skin. Glory! With a tug of the back deck zipper my experimental kayak was a reality. I had gathered quite the entourage of curious local children and they shared in my celebration. Locals walked by and gave me the thumbs up. I was proud but midday heat was once again forcing me into the shadows. This time I chose a jungle hike with a local kid named Miguel who led ‘tours’. Miguel was not a sanctioned tour guide but rather an aspiring young grifter who specialized in unnoffical tours for a very offical price. I don’t want that sort of tour anyway though. I instruct Miguel to walk me straight through the jungle and point out anything potentially dangerous. These are not my home woods and simply bumbling about could be fatal. After a few hours we arrive a a break in a waterpipe and drink from it sitting in the surrounding pool in a deep ravine. Miguel tells me how much he loves the jungle, and regales me with strories about surfing and riding bulls. Too soon we are back at the river, paying the local drunks too much to paddle us across in a big ugly canoe. I retire to a smaller local restaurant and order fish, I recieve a fish, fried to death, with the head still on.
3/13/05
Two days pass as I outfit the kayak, deck lines, paddles, compass, solar panel and battery charger. Finished the kayak is 22″ wide, 14’6″ long and 8″ deep. Small and light, 28lbs unloaded.0 Bored to tears of this tiny town I was relived when I am finally able to drop my now 80lb kayak off the dock with a resounding splat onto the water. I slide into the cockpit, seal my skirt, and am off, paddling against the current upriver to meet Rob and Scott at their hotel. The kayak floats, rolls, and moves at an acceptable speed. I coast through the ever narrowing channel lined with grasses and mud and overhanging trees. Crocodiles spalsh into the green water but I don’t see them or fear them. Aparrently they prefer to dine on fish and local dogs. 2 miles upsteam I come to the Eco Manglares lodge, a fantastic improvement in accomodation and food with a price to match. I eat a lunch that is the best I’ve had yet in Costa Rica. Rob and Scott arrive with their Feathercraft kayaks and I am visibly envious of their set up in an hour instead of a day. Rob is paddling a Khatsalano, Scott a new K-1, both are using Lendal carbon paddles, fancy stuff. We review the trip plans and eat an equally fantastic dinner. Our plan is to head west following the river to the mouth, wherepon we’ll cross or wait, then turn south and follow the coastline, camping for nine days. I’m stoked.
3/15/05
We launch at 8 am just as the tidal flush begins to pull, making a brief stop in Sierpe where we learn from a local boatman that the bar is rougher than it’s been all year, This fact is of large concern but matters little to our present course as we paddle downriver following the currents through a maze of mangroves. Aside from a few monkey and birds and a single crocodile the paddle to the mouth is uneventful and quiet. We paddle past a small tract of secondary forest that is being cleared with chainsaws and dozers. Even after witnessing old growth logging in the northwest I am sickened by the sharp cracking and snapping of these hard trees, the sounds are violent. At 1 pm we arrive at the rivermouth and it is indeed very rough with large breakers across the entire bar. Our current position offers no pleasant camping so we watch and wait, contemplating every lull and rip for a possible opening. I am continually distracted by hundreds of red ghost crabs that pop out of the sand and run with alarming speed from place to place. At 2:30 we spot a hole on the flood tide, it’s not a real hole but rather an avenue of less badness. In the transit we are raked by considerable waves, but ultimately all three gain the open ocean unscathed. The wind is 10 knots from the southwest, air temp 90 deg, water temp 89 deg, west swell 6 feet. We paddle south toward Isle Violin and a tiny cove that may be partially sheltered. The cove appears to be shetered on the south side, but directly in our path is an endless line of large breakers roaring across a sandbar extending a mile or more out to sea. We have already ventured to far into this area when it becomes apparant that we will have to go around the sand bar and head out to sea. I was the first to make this course correction and so imagined that I would be spared the worst of the waves. My luck ran out when I reached the critical area just as set waves began rolling in. I was able to punch through or sneak over the first few but the inevitable wave approached that threw back over just as I reached the crest. Maybe an 8′ wall of turquoise water. The inertia I’d amassed did a fantastic job of rocketing me straight up into the air, and then I fell backwards and was swallowed by the wave. Expecting a savage and lengthy beating I completely relax to conserve oxygen and am very surprised when the washing stops after only 4 or 5 seconds. I roll up and continue out to sea processing the event while continuing to punch waves. This water is different than the thick cold ocean at home, it is warmer and saltier and therefore less cohisive, this is ‘friendly water’. After our detour we head in without incident and made our camp in a woody area adjacent to the beach. The camp is dark and lush, very ‘jungly’. We string up our hammocks and and eat dehydrated meals on the beach. It’s not exactly food but it tastes good after paddling 20 miles. The night is full of sounds, in the darkness we are surrounded by animals.
3/16/05
I was skeptical of the hammock when I bought it, but after the first night I’m sold, this new generation of camping hammocks by Hennessy places the sleeper at a diagonal so ones knees break over the center ridge instead of locking at the knees as in a conventional hammock. Our late waking in a noisy jungle is a testament to the comfort. This morning we are late to launch, unlike at home, as the tide rises the shorebreak is getting steeper and the outer sandbar break is threatening to merge with another sandbar to the southwest, creating one super closeout wave that would seal us in until the tide dropped again. By the time we’re ready to paddle there are 4′ dumping waves slamming into the beach and we get pushed around pretty hard on the take off. The outside sand bar breaks are beautiful and big, it takes all my restraint to keep from heading over for some big wave surfing. Back in open water we turn south and after an hour arrive at some beautiful offshore stacks with mangroves and palms, soaring frigate birds and brown boobies. From here it is a long crossing, 12 miles to Punta San Jose we steer wide of the southern mouth of the Sierpe river. By 11am the sun is pouring onto us with force and I am transformed into a weakling, feeble stroking toward the distant point of land. My hands are badly burned from the day before and thanks to some glove on loan from Scott, I can paddle today. This is where I am supposed to be wondering at the warm water and tropical beauty, but insted it’s just stroke stroke stroke, seemingly forever. At 3pm we arrive at a gorgeous lava shoreline with pocket beaches backed by palms. Rounding Punta Rio Claro this is the northern most boundary of Corcovado and we are within sight of the San Pedrillo ranger station. Between us and it lies a sieve of rocky teeth that bare with the pulse of the swell. We all have whitewater skills and decide to just go for it despite the risk and reach the cove on the other side unharmed. At the beach we are forced to land on the back of dumping waves an unseen beach. For me this is one of the biggest hazards of touring in surf, commited and coming in I am suddenly flanked by very sharp lava rocks that I had no way of seeing from the sea. There is no route to guide the others in because the nasty little buggers poke up everywhere. Carrying our boats up the beach it is very clear that we have reached paradise. The san pedrillo ranger is set on a large lawn, palm trees line the beach and we string our hammocks between them. The shoreline is a sandy with lava outcrops and is absolutely covered with hermit crabs. A sign behind us reads (translated) ‘the park ranger is your friend, please ask questions’. We watch the sunset and cook dinner.
3/17/05
This morning I am not so happy. At 2 am last night the skies of paradise delivered an epic deluge. Without my rainfly on, me and my hammock were soaked in seconds. I cursed like a sailor and by the time I finished attaching the fly naked in the dark, everything I owned was wet. There was nothing to do but crawl inside and curl up into a shivering ball and wait for the morning sun. At least I had the guarantee of 90 deg temperatures in the morning. Today is a rest day and I am inclined to do just that. In the morning we hike inland along the San Pedrillo river, to a large swimming hole. The 70deg water feels ice cold and is refreshing beyond words. The most beautiful colorful spider I’ve ever seen hangs above a small waterfall, it seems to have a good stock of food here and it’s web shimmers a golden irridescence. Further up the trail we arrive at a fantastic waterfall, spider monkeys napping in an overlooking tree. Hiking in the jungle here is beautiful but demands vigilance, deadly vipers live here in abundance and favor the trails for warmth. Many trees have spines on the branches to repel the unwary leaner. The afternoon is spent alternately sleeping and reading my books. I feel like royalty with my small library here in the jungle. All day Pelicans fish in the surf and Scarlet Macaws frequent the trees foraging for fruit. We are visited by a bold troop of 17 Coatimundi. I spend no small amount of time watching my favorite jungle creatures, the industrious Leafcutter Ants, hauling away what must be entire trees on their endless trails. Our Ranger spends 15 minutes fishing from a rock out front, she is expert with a handline and is rewarded with a large Snoek. I take an interest in her catch and she graciously offers me half the fish. That evening I prepare and cook the Snoek for my mates serving each piece on a freshly hacked half coconut. It is amazing, the best fish I’ve ever eaten. At bedtime a surprise is waiting in my hammock, a tenacious red land crab, I have some suspicions about how it arrived there. Tonight I secure the rainfly before drifting off.
3/18/05
The morning surf is small and easy to exit. We get an early start and are quite happy to paddle under cloud cover. South past a rugged shoreline, the swell picks up a bit and I am mentally launchy and landing on every hideous jagged pocket beach I see. Mind surfing I call it, I can’t see a wave and not picture the currents, the rips, the breaks, the sneaks in and out, the flesh rending zones, the probabilities of success and failure. I have yet to ever enact my most drastic emergency procedure to be used only when being literally thrown onto a reef, this involves literally leaping from the cockpit into the wave face and swimming down, as I said, mindsurfing. It is 12 miles from our present location to Sirena Ranger Station. Beyond Punta LLorona the landscape changes and now we are flanked by miles of endless tan sand beach backed by palm trees. This is the front of an enormous sea level inland flood plain that extends miles back into the park. Skirting the edges, hiking the trails one sees a remarkable array of flora and fauna, but I also get the impression that if I could penetrate 2 miles back into that towering vigin raiforest, I would find myself in the ensconced in a much more intense primordial wilderness. The calls, squaks, howls, and snorts that reach us even a quarter mile out to sea, signal that such a place exists. Jaguars, nearly poached to extinction still roam this forest and the giant fierce Harpi Eagle may still breed in remote areas of Corcovado. Paddling down this section really all looks the same. I’d hate to say boring but after a while how many palm trees can you pass and still be enchanted. Our conversation drifts to debate over the same nature television shows filmed in locations such as this. I am of the opinion that Crocodile Hunter is merely molesting the wildlife, Rob takes the opposing view that Crocodile Hunter is in fact helping to preserve crocodiles even while harrassing them. This is a good analogy to the situation that Costa Rica is facing with it’s bourgening Eco Tourism economy. I have to concede that bothering the wildlife is certainly a better fate than clearcutting it to extinction. At 2 pm we arrive at the Sirena river mouth. This area is known as the local hotspot for large crocodiles and notoriously aggressive bull sharks. People have actually been attacked here. Though I do not wish to be eaten I am secretly hoping for a close encounter, I love sharks. I am dissapointed as we pick our way through the breakers at the mouth of the river and sneak into the shelter of an offshore reef, landing at the base of the Sirena ranger station airstrip. No sharks today. We haul our kits 500 yards up the airstrip to the ranger station. We are required to check in at each station and the camping fee is $12 per night. I am glad to pay it knowing how underfunded the parks are and how they need to battle poachers. The ranger is a friendly fellow and even so much as offers to haul our gear up on the tractor. There is another torrential rainstorm in the afternoon and that night I am awoken and spend hours watching the brightest flash lightning storm I’ve ever seen. More than a flash per second, remarkable.
3/19/05
Sirena Ranger Station is in the heart of the Corcovado coastline and is less accessed by tourists on boats. The wildlife is more abundant here and can raise quite a racket in the mornings and evenings. To view this place most people make long and grueling hikes through the sweltering humid jungle or on soft sand along the steep beaches. The resulting effect is that most people stagger into Sirena and collapse onto one of the many porches, the sight of which gives one the impression of an epidemic stricken encampment. The epidemic is exhaustion and I was glad we fared better than most. One of these victims was Missisipi mike who arrived out of water and proceeded to produce a small radio and a box of hostess cupcakes. He indulged in both blues and the wretched Ding Dongs meanwhile becoming sicker and sicker. Missisipi Mike vomited so loudly and profusely that night that I was sure by morning he must be missing liver and spleen. He blamed the water, I blamed the ding dongs. Sirena station also serves as a base for biologists and researchers in the park. It consists of maybe a half dozen buildings in a large field, all connected by raised covered walkways. Looking not unlike a resort, I’m glad it’s a research station. Today we chose to lay over again, our mission, is to paddle up the Sirena river in search of even more deep jungle spendor, and crocodiles. We launch late morning and paddle through the river mouth at high tide, it’s very shallow and I hope the crocodiles we saw beneath the water yesterday do not feel crowded. At any rate I am in back and in the ideal place to watch Scott or Rob get mauled by startled crocs. Paddling upstream we are forced to portage several shallow gravel bars as we press deep into the seldom paddled river. The river is teeming with fish and we see several small crocodiles. Further in the water slows and we pick our way through endless mazes of water hyacinth until the thickets press us too close to the shady banks. We get that spooky feeling, we are far enough upriver to encounter truly large crocodiles now and it seemed foolish to crowd their territory. This is truly a wild place. Adding to the ambiance, the ever present howler monkey are vocalizing, one troop from one side of the river another troop responding from the other. The sound does not associate with monkeys but rather with prehistoric monsters, an enormous roar as dozens of howlers sound at once, and then their couterparts responding with an even better roar. We paddle back, our thirst for adventure temporarily sated. The afternoon is passed as afternoons should be, sitting around. I feel a bit guilty for not hiking the trails, but it’s hot, really hot and I don’t feel like it. The barometer is dropping and that makes me nervous. We have no way to get swell data in this location and an approaching storm could effectively seal us in. Or worse, a swell change at sea could make landing impossible.
3/20/05
In the morning we have to make a potentially dangerous reef crossing and there is no good route other than straight over the reef. What’s worse is that after crossing the distance to the reef it becomes impossible to effectively boat scout the sets and lulls as smaller waves block our view. We chance a rush across what may or may not be the right moment. I have my own ideas as to the nuance of this crossing and take a route to the north of my friends. A 40 yard danger zone exists where large wave jack up and blast onto the reef below. I love surf but I dislike chancy reef crossings, knowing too well the consequences of a mistake or just an unlucky moment. The geology of Costa Rica is young and the rocks are still very sharp and jagged. Our timing proves lucky and we gain the open water once again. Today’s paddle is not unlike the day before yesterday, a jagged lava headland and then a long beach to the ranger station. The storm indicated by the barometer had blown itself out miles out to sea and it’s only evidence was a slight northwest chop imposed on the primarily southwest swell. This created a slight following sea and the unique stern design of my kayak, pioneered by the Aleuts thousand of years ago, gave me a little shove with each passing wave, I easily kept pace with my companions. Slicing along at a slow but acceptable 3 knots my little home made skin boat was performing quite satisfactorily and I felt a twinge of pride in designing an experimental boat specifically for the conditions of this trip. Despite the unsightly duct tape used to seal the zipper and the solar panel lashed to the aft deck she looks smart and does her job, what more could I ask. I am also pleased with the small Greenland Paddle I chose for the trip. Even after using the GP for years I never truly belived that a GP could keep pace with a Euro blade, this trip was proving that false. My companions did have to slow down for me but this has to do with a nagging shoalder injury more than anything. Down the coast, approaching La Leona ranger station, the southern boundary of Corcovado. Our paddle today is only 10 miles so we arrive early at noon, centered on the high tide this is the worst time to land. The swell is not big, maybe 4 or 5 feet, but as they hit the steep beach they jack up into much larger faces and overturn onto the sand. The set waves are mean and hit with a boom and a backsplash that hisses and glints in the sunlight. The worst type of dumping wave. A 3′ wave of this type could easily break a kayakers neck or crush a folding boat frame. We’re all watching tentatively, inside I’m ‘tuning in’, breathing deeply and quieting to my mind to everything but the waves and how I will be landing on them. We get another lucky break and find a slightly less violent section to land on directly in front of the ranger station. This is a better dumping wave that is not hitting directly onto dry sand. Rob moves though at the right moment and times the lull perfectly. I am right on his heels. Scott is the unlucky kayaker today, his lull is eclipsed by set waves, and I am ashamed to admit it I licked my chops as a giant blue jaw of water closed over Scott and swallows him whole. Scott was blasted clean out of his cockpit but to our surprise he is still holding onto the boat as the next wave delivers its terrible blow, and then to my amazement Scott performs a cowboy reentry in a split second and paddles forward surfing the next big wave to shore. Good work Scott! Upon checking in the ranger tells us that we are the first kayakers she has ever seen land at La Leona. We string up the hammocks and head out for the hike. After dinner a night hike is in order and we tiptoe into the jungle to search the nocturnal realm. The most abundant creature by far is land crabs, thousands of blue and orange land crabs, underfoot, climbing trees and fighting over bits of fallen fruit. Our big discovery was an amazing insect we’ve dubbed the LED cockaroach. Properly called a click beatle this 2 inch long insect actually has NATURAL HEADLIGHTS that shine a solid 6 inches ahead of it. Amazing. If you could get four of them in your hammock you could read a book. The evening festivities concluded with drinks a la moi. I hack open coconuts and add rum and wild lime juice for a nightcap for my pals. I dont drink so I set to work on a riper coconut, providing the evening entertainment as I hacked and chopped in the darkness, desperately trying not to lose a finger in pursuit of the edible nut.
3/21/05
Low tide in the morning and a much friendlier break. I was overzealous on the run and had to spear through the top of a curl to pop out the other side. Hanging back momentarily while set waves explode in front of us, we run the lull and make it to sea without a scratch. Again more of the same, beach on the left, rocky point in the distance. Todays paddle is 14 miles. This time though we are joined by some new friends. Every so often a ray about a meter across would burst from the glassy water and literally fly 6 feet into the air before flopping with a loud splat back into the ocean. Rob told us they use this manuever to rid themselves of sea lice. One nearly landed on Scotts deck! We passed by an ancient river of lava that ran out of the jungle and ended abruptly at the ocean, likely much the same as when it was formed. Blue waves smashed against this unique formation in a great display. Slowly, from the distance emerges Cabo (cape) Matapalo where the land turns sharply back into the northeast, the tip of the Osa Penninsula. Matapalo is a steep head rising to a thousand feet or more. The geology changes abruptly here from lava and limestone to granite, for me this is interesting but not being a geologist I cannot discover the meaning. Scott is a scientist, but not the right sort I guess. At sea level there are fantastic stacks, caves, and arches, the treasure of any coastal paddler. We skirt them gingerly and take plenty of photos before moving on. A mile to the northeast we come to Matapalito, a beach with surfers, auto access, and a farm behind it. Free Camping.
Another steep and rocky shore we picked our way in without incident and set up camp behind the steep beach of white granite fist sized round rocks. As unfortunate as it is, it is often the case that the best wildlife viewing can be had near civilization where animals are pressed back to the edge of the jungle. Such was the case at Matapalito with it’s resident infestation of Scarlet Macaws. These huge red blue and yellow parrots are marvelous, but their voices are not. A terrible loud squaking from dozens of birds drove me offshore to play on the local waves. Matapalito is a point break and surfable point breaks are rare in Oregon so I was stoked and proceed to surf in earnest catching great rides in my unladen sea kayaks. Unknown to me was the effect that my kayak filling with water would have on the next wave so I was quite surprised when barreling forward all that water sloshed to the bow weighting it down and locking me on course to the beach. Bad news. I leaned into the wave as it exploded overhead and then relaxed in the foam trying to draw as little water as possible while the kayak skipped forward over a minefield of shallow rocks. I was deposited squarely on the boulders, humbled, and minus some deck rigging. A very pretty lady commented to me on the beach “You looked great out there.” I mangled some sort of response that sounded in my mind like “Thanks, do you want to have dinner?” but came out of my mouth like “Um, well, that’s not really supposed to happen, I sort of screwed it up.” Rob, Scott, and I sit on a log, backed by mangroves, fronted by beautiful blue water, and cook double dinners as the sun sinks into the Pacific.
3/22/05
I bid Scott and Rob farewell this morning and launch early alone. I am now paddling northwest into the Golfo Dulce, tracing the coastline toward the city of Puerto Jiminez, 11 miles distant. The only city on the Osa Penninsula. I catch every tiny point breaking wave despite the rocks, I can’t help myself, I’m an addict. I discover later from photos that my buddies are doing the same. The idyllic shoreline of crescent beaches and rocky points is now dotted with farms, the water is calm and glassy. Three dolphins visit me briefly and then they are gone. I wish desperately that they would return and chase them to no avail, dolphins will do as they please. At noon I round the point and head into Puerto Jiminez, making my final landfall on a dingy beach in a rather dowdy sort of port. It just seems such an ordinary a way to end my adventure, but it was a good adventure. No injuries or serious mishaps. I unload the boat and haul it up onto the seawall where I pay a local kid, Richard, to assist me with the dissasembly. Though he is only 5 Richard is a great help at peeling the miles of duct tape off all the folding joints. Soon we have the boat in the bag and it begins to pour rain, there is no use hiding from it. I lug the gear into town dripping wet. I’m happy to check into a hotel and buy myself dinner and a set of clean dry clothes.
