Here´s an old story from the Golfo Dulce... believe it.
After my Cabo Matapalo stint with the Olympic Boardercross crew and before Fate's rendezvous with Tu Laki in Pavones, I needed to buy some gas. As such I headed deeper into the Golfo Dulce to Puerto Jimenez.
Port Jim is what the gringos call it.
This was a big turning point for me because after a solid month with the Newport boys, Snootcher, and Kevin ¨King of the World¨Muras, I was sailing nailbitingly alone once again.
It takes some getting used to. Lonely too. But it only lasted a day.
In a matter of hours I got my errands done and passed out early and hungry. At dawn the next day Maestra (the Mexican Street Bitch) and I set out across to the Gulf towards Pavones.
It was a beautiful morning with no reason to rush. We sailed slowly on the light offshore breeze through calm waters.
In the middle of the Gulf, a good 5 miles from the nearest shore, I came across a lonely fishing skiff with two Ticos frantically waving to get my attention. They were standing atop the makeshift cabin of their 25 foot inboard converted panga. It made my piece of shit sailboat look good.
As I got closer I could make out the crudely painted name on its side: Jhony Woker.
They meant to write ¨Johnnie Walker¨, as in...
While Costa Rica is gringofied in select spots, the rest of the country hovers somewhere between the second and third world. These two fisherman lived on a seashore trapped between the collapse of the local banana industry and the onslaught of tourist development. They were piss poor and technically lost at sea.
Anchored in 170 feet of water, 5 miles from land they suffered a broken motor and a broken radio. They threw the radio around dramatically to show what a worthless piece of shit it was.
"It hasn't worked for years," they laughed, relieved that I was stopping.
I pulled up beside them, dropped the sail, and we shot the bull for a while.
They'd been stranded out there for three nights and at least a dozen sportfishing yachts loaded with gringos had cruised right past them. They'd doubtless been seen, received casual waves in response to their frantic calls to attention, but noone had bothered to stop.
Typical Gringo.
Too scared to stop.
Too clueless to stop.
Too arrogant to stop.
Too busy guzzling gas.
Too busy fishing
Too busy drinking.
Take yer´ pick.
Anyway, these two poor, thrice-benighted fisherman hadn´t caught any fish yet so they'd been living off of a two liter bottle of Coke. They´d been drinking water from the melting ice in their hold. It stunk of dead fish and motor oil.
Anyway, we hit it off and breakfasted together. A PB and J apiece and a dozen hardboiled eggs between us. The more we talked the more apparent it became that these were two solid dudes.
Naturally, I let them use my radio to call the Port Captain in Golfito who contacted the owner of their boat and the Guardacosta who promised to tow them in later that day.
As I was untying SIN FIN from alongside the Jhony Woker, they were all smiles. At the last second they decided to reward my kindness with a gift of their own: a rusty Scripto lighter and two packs of POINT cigarettes got slapped into my palm.
¨Smoking is cheaper than eating,¨ one said pseudo-seriously as the other smiled and nodded.
And they were right.
Know the feeling?
MAX
After my Cabo Matapalo stint with the Olympic Boardercross crew and before Fate's rendezvous with Tu Laki in Pavones, I needed to buy some gas. As such I headed deeper into the Golfo Dulce to Puerto Jimenez.
Port Jim is what the gringos call it.
This was a big turning point for me because after a solid month with the Newport boys, Snootcher, and Kevin ¨King of the World¨Muras, I was sailing nailbitingly alone once again.
It takes some getting used to. Lonely too. But it only lasted a day.
In a matter of hours I got my errands done and passed out early and hungry. At dawn the next day Maestra (the Mexican Street Bitch) and I set out across to the Gulf towards Pavones.
It was a beautiful morning with no reason to rush. We sailed slowly on the light offshore breeze through calm waters.
In the middle of the Gulf, a good 5 miles from the nearest shore, I came across a lonely fishing skiff with two Ticos frantically waving to get my attention. They were standing atop the makeshift cabin of their 25 foot inboard converted panga. It made my piece of shit sailboat look good.
As I got closer I could make out the crudely painted name on its side: Jhony Woker.
They meant to write ¨Johnnie Walker¨, as in...
While Costa Rica is gringofied in select spots, the rest of the country hovers somewhere between the second and third world. These two fisherman lived on a seashore trapped between the collapse of the local banana industry and the onslaught of tourist development. They were piss poor and technically lost at sea.
Anchored in 170 feet of water, 5 miles from land they suffered a broken motor and a broken radio. They threw the radio around dramatically to show what a worthless piece of shit it was.
"It hasn't worked for years," they laughed, relieved that I was stopping.
I pulled up beside them, dropped the sail, and we shot the bull for a while.
They'd been stranded out there for three nights and at least a dozen sportfishing yachts loaded with gringos had cruised right past them. They'd doubtless been seen, received casual waves in response to their frantic calls to attention, but noone had bothered to stop.
Typical Gringo.
Too scared to stop.
Too clueless to stop.
Too arrogant to stop.
Too busy guzzling gas.
Too busy fishing
Too busy drinking.
Take yer´ pick.
Anyway, these two poor, thrice-benighted fisherman hadn´t caught any fish yet so they'd been living off of a two liter bottle of Coke. They´d been drinking water from the melting ice in their hold. It stunk of dead fish and motor oil.
Anyway, we hit it off and breakfasted together. A PB and J apiece and a dozen hardboiled eggs between us. The more we talked the more apparent it became that these were two solid dudes.
Naturally, I let them use my radio to call the Port Captain in Golfito who contacted the owner of their boat and the Guardacosta who promised to tow them in later that day.
As I was untying SIN FIN from alongside the Jhony Woker, they were all smiles. At the last second they decided to reward my kindness with a gift of their own: a rusty Scripto lighter and two packs of POINT cigarettes got slapped into my palm.
¨Smoking is cheaper than eating,¨ one said pseudo-seriously as the other smiled and nodded.
And they were right.
Know the feeling?
MAX