So as much as I might wish that my whole experience with the Africanized bees nesting in the corner of our back porch ceiling were over, nearly a month later, we are still dealing with bees. The Nosara Bomberos (a volunteer organization that usually just means Ryan, possibly the hardest working guy in town) warned me after the first hive was removed that there might be some stragglers. But as the days passed and the stragglers started looking more like an angry swarm, I had to make the call again.
Our second visit came from the Nicoya Bomberos who had a much fancier truck and way better equipment. But for all that, the two bomberos in shirtsleeves, armed with one can of Baygon, just sprayed into a hole in the porch ceiling. They took my word for it that this was the new epicenter of activity since the bees were fast asleep. A few crawled out and died as we stood there and watched. (I began to feel foolish for their hour long drive on bad roads to do this for me.) Then they ripped down a few sections of ceiling for good measure, and left for Nicoya at around midnight.
Since the bees were not eliminated, only sleeping, they were up at the crack of dawn angrier than ever. I have long since lost my nerve to venture to the bee’s side of the house but rather peek timidly through the slats of the blinds from time to time. The entire downstairs apartment was now during the day humming with the angry sound of bees, intensifying whenever they noticed us in the house. (Yes, they do notice us.) They swirl angrily and hurl themselves against the windows as I anxiously inspect the screens for rips and frayed edges. So after a few more days and yet another call, we waited for Ryan, and he tiptoed out back and snapped this picture:
I was horrified, but felt a little relieved that my third phone call was warranted. Tens of thousands, Ryan told me, as he donned the suit once again. Another pile of dead, another admonition that there would be some stragglers, and he was off to repair a burst water main that was flooding the road a few blocks away.
So, that taken care of and the weekend ready and waiting, we set off towards Witch’s rock, one of Costa Rica’s legendary surf spots, accessible by boat or three hour hike through the Santa Rosa National Park. This was an easy weekend trip, stopping first in Tamarindo (because we had to just see it) and then heading north to Flamingo to spend the night. This area has some meaning for me since it was one of the places in which we might have spent the year. I was gratified to hear from all three of my boys that they preferred Nosara. But driving on the smooth pavement up here felt like a dream.
We arranged a boat for first light Saturday morning and met our captain, a friendly if somewhat deadpan Costa Rican named Walter. Our plan was to go past Witch’s Rock to Ollie’s Point, another legendary surf spot which works better at low tide. (“Ollie” is the very same Oliver North who played a key role in funding and arming the Contras to overthrow Nicaragua’s Sandinista regime in the 1980’s. Yeah, remember all that? There’s an airstrip just inland of this point break where the U.S. was delivering supplies.) True to the latest forecast, Ollie’s Point was gorgeous, isolated, and completely flat. But it was a pretty ride along this rugged coast. We anchored and waited for the tide to come up before heading back towards Witch’s Rock.
As we headed back towards Witch’s Rock, the wind had picked up considerably, and it was amazing how a slight change in our heading, or an opening between the coves, could so drastically change the conditions for our little boat. My mind started toying with the sudden change in temperature and conditions as the Rock came into view. Was it the Witch? Why was it so cold and windy all of a sudden? I had myself pretty convinced in short order that this whole thing had been a bad idea.
Well, I wasn’t getting into any cursed witch’s water, I decided. But that may have been a bad decision in the end; anchored in the boat behind the break I could see nothing. The boat would rise as each swell passed, one of the boys would paddle like mad, and then disappear. At some point Henry paddled back to the boat for some food and marveled at how awful it was for us on the boat. “It’s really cold out here. And rough, and really windy. I don’t like it on the boat.” And with that parting observation, he hopped back in the water and paddled back to the break where it was much nicer, I guess.
They had it nearly to themselves though, and they were pretty pleased with their morning. They were not ready to leave at all when Walter stood up and pointed at something. A crocodile, he observed impassively, almost three meters long. I am so bad at seeing things people are pointing at, so I just turned and studied his face. Was he joking? Why was he not alarmed in the slightest? Where? He pointed in the general direction of the boys. Only after seeing my concern did he start the engine and slowly begin to pull up the anchor chain. The boys heard the engine and paddled back to the boat. No one had seen the crocodile except for Walter. Maybe he had just decided it was time to go? He was so calm and matter-of-fact about it, that I find it hard to believe it was just an act to get us moving. We will never know.
So we puttered back, and yes, the wind did drop off as we left Witch’s Rock. We pulled into this pretty little cove for lunch, where you could see half a dozen puffer fish from the side of the boat. Not a soul out here either except for the occasional fisherman out on the rocks. There are so many beautiful little coves along this coast to which no roads go. Heaven for boaters…
When we got home, we were pretty windblown and sunburned and glad to have gotten such a nice view of this stretch of inaccessible coast. Somersaulting manta rays, schools of dolphins, baitfish and tuna busting out in feeding frenzies, and even a breaching whale were sights along the way. My only complaint is that this seemed so commonplace for Walter that it never occurred to him to slow down so we could watch.
Next day, we dropped Oli at the airport and headed back to Nosara. There, waiting for us in an infuriated cloud were our bees. Wearily, I shot a quick movie and sent it off to Ryan. It was nice to be home.
Kathawala Gap Year 