It was our eighth day at Finca Tesquina, an eco lodge amid the Costa Rican rainforest near the world class Pavones surf break, and we didn't realize it yet, but we were about to leave. Abrubtly!

Our benevolent host, Peter Aspinal, brought up the fact that our stay had run out just after lunch. "Vacate? Sure. No problem." Or so we thought. What we had failed to consider was that the tide was coming in rapidly and we had precious little time to cross the river.

If we waited for low tide, we were looking at the prospect of driving the unmarked dirt roads back to the ferry in the dark. And then the ferry would probaby be closed for the evening. Basically, it was make the river or spend the night as vagrant campers in Pavones.

The tension built as we loaded up our Toyota Landcruiser and headed down the bumpy dirt road out of the most southwestern reaches of Costa Rica. The beach was very narrow. The tide was already very high. We were counting on making it to Golfito for the night and sleeping in a cush hotel bed, but things weren't looking good.

 

When we reached the river it was higher than we had previously seen it. Kids were in up to their necks, driftwood was floating not downstream but upstream. What had previously been a modest bed of sand was a swift-flowing torrent of water.

I removed my shoes and scouted the river depths in my surf shorts,  marking the tide level with a wooden staff. Behind me, in the cab of  the Toyota Landrover, Brad and Matt looked grimly across the swollen channel. The water quickly rose as I waded further into the stream. It was soon up to my lower ribs. I managed to find some shallower water by a sand spit, but was still less than half way across when I heard the Landrover's engine rev. Brad had made the critical decision: we would not wait. We would risk everything and go for it.

Peter had warned us against anything so foolish as to try and cross Rio Claro at high tide. "If that saltwater goes into your intake through the air filter, you'll never get your truck out of that river bed," he said.

I watched as the tires, then the bumber disappeared into the muddy, chocolate-colored waters, rising higher still - above the grill work, right up to the hood. It happened so fast. The car heaved and sputtered and navigated through the deepest section of the crossing. As the chasis rose from the deepest water, the muddy liquid gushed from every nook and crack. Our shralp vehicle had hacked the trecherous high tide rapids of the formidable Rio Claro.

Once the vehicle was firmly upon the north bank, we cheered with joy and relief, then opened the hood to take a look. Steam was coming off the engine block. Mist blew out of the air filter like a pneumonia-riddled lung, coughing out excess fluid. We had overcome a major geographic obstacle. At that point I was certain we would be drinking rum and triumphantly toasting our feat, comfortable and dry in Golfito by nightfall.

The drive back is always quicker than the initial ride in. The mystery is gone - the sights weren't quite as mesmorizing and we were a bit more road wise.  In quick order we made our way out of the coastal rain forest, beyond the cleared ranching acreage and on to the ferry - but not before we happened upon the strangest accident: a dead horse in the road, impaled apparently upon a bicycle as an injured boy limped lamely up the road. It was a gruesome, disturbing sight to be sure, something surreal like a scene from a Luis Bunuel film. Perhaps it was an omen of things to come at the ferry crossing.

When we arrived at the big river, we found the ferry jammed in the middle. Actually, it was closer to our side of the shore. Apparently the ramp had dropped prematurely and was snagged upon debris at the river bottom. We watched a brave Tico dive into the brackish waters to work his proud barge free.

This was a huge river, one we could never dream of driving across. It was just shy of a quarter-mile wide in my estimation - the kind of river that Tarzan would think twice about before trying to swim across. It was probably full of crocodiles. The edges were green with jungle overgrowth. I happened to pull a large tree limb from the bow of the ferry -- my small contribution to progress in the hope that we would soon be crowding around a well-stocked bar telling stories of this adversity from a distant perspective by sunset.

We had read and heard of the mythical port of Golfito - once an international hub for banana shipping. United Fruit built a state-of-the-art facility there that at one time processed hundreds of tons of
the coveted yellow fruit per hour to hungry Americans and Japanese, but the unions demanded too much, so the story on the street went. With neither side willing to compromise, the banana barons pulled out and closed shop, leaving the region with a 90 percent unemployment rate. 

 

Consequently, Matt was concerned about rip-offs and vindictive Union thugs who might take a little retaliatory joy in beating some unsuspecting touristas with lead pipes and black jacks. If we feared the out-of-work longshoremen, however, the fear was countered by our curiousity for their unemployed sisters and daughters.

Once the ferry was repaired, we were just a heartbeat away from the formerly booming banana metropolis. We found lodging at the Golfito Yacht Club, a posh port for sportsmen, wannabe Hemingways and various pretentious Gringos on the outskirts of town. It was rumored to be one of the cleaner hotels, but before you, the reader, become overwhelmed by the snootiness of it all, I should tell you about our rickety ceiling fan. It squeaked like a pig bitch in heat, tilting off its axis as if the blades were about tot torque free and rip through
the walls.

The bar was much nicer than our room. Brightly colored in friendly orange hues, it was neatly nestled on the bay with a long pier sretching out through the mud flats to the yachts anchored in Golfito's calm estuary. It was there that we met some ugly Americans, surfers from another generation, San Diegans who had fled the stateside scene for semi-retirement in a tropical getaway several years ago. There were also the two engineers, a rather anal retentive pair  in dark socks and wingtips that appeared to be your standard, repressed East Coast Yankee paper pushers.  Matt asked them off-the-bat if they worked for the CIA.

 

"No they replied in unison, practically offended by the question and looking at themselves incredulously. "Why do you ask?"

 

I wasn't sure if it was so wise to "out" them. We would see them again later, on the road.

Settling into our newfound surroundings, we plugged the video camera into the bar's electrical outlet to watch our nature trail footage and Pavones surf session highlights. Unfortunately, there was no footage of our brave river crossing earlier, and amazed audiences at the bar had to rely upon our colorful narrations and dramatic oral recollections of our daring bravado.

 

In all the excitement I ended up breaking a bottle of Vodka on the bar room floor, christening the place with a flamable, high-proof liquid, like one of those brand new banana freighters which receives a shattered jeraboam of spirits across its bow as it slides down off the quays.

 

Trecherous river crossings, dead horses, broken vodka bottles and suspect spies lurking in the shadows behind us. It was all rather ominous, and as I lay beneath the squeaky, unbalanced ceiling fan after a night of serious drinking, I couldn't help but contemplate about the coming obstacles tomorrow.