dead ends ... the edge ... & my first wave

Life has a way of forcing you into dead ends.

I spent twenty dollars on a sandwich that day. I felt like I had no choice. This was the airport, after all. I sat at a table for one in the eatery. I had opened my puzzle book and was pouring over a word search, but there was no way around that devil trap. It had clamped itself to the hind leg of my mind. My pen was shaking in my hand. I was panicking.

It was the third of November. I was flying to Costa Rica and I had never solo travelled before. I reasoned with myself. Upon landing, I could lock myself away in my hotel room and watch Family Feud for hours on end. But there’s no point in that. There’s no point in playing it safe. Not when I wanted to fill the pages of my life with colourful scribbles.

I flipped to a different puzzle in my book. The word search was hurting my eyes.

***

There were at least a hundred cabbies standing outside the airport in Liberia. Some of them tried to get my attention. For a moment, I thought my name was "Senorita Taxi," because that's what they kept repeating. Smiling felt like a mistake, so I kept my eyes straight ahead. I wanted everyone to think I was a seasoned loner, not just some girl. I stood in a corner for ten minutes before my driver found me.

It took two hours to reach my hotel from Liberia. My hotel was on a steep cliff beside a crumbling building… or was it under construction? I couldn’t tell. The shuttle gobbled up the incline. It must’ve been a forty-five degree angle. I felt like I was on a rollercoaster and was fairly certain that these roads would be illegal in Canada.

The lobby of the hotel was completely exposed to the outdoors. It was jarring at first and I wasn’t used to it. It was like seeing someone naked on the street. But it meant that the view of the Pacific Ocean was unobstructed. I checked in with Josue, the receptionist. I had to strain my ears so that I could understand him. His English was good, but my ears were throbbing after a long flight. He told me my room was on the seventh floor. I left to go up the elevator, but noticed a cat sitting on the tile. I could not resist. It had a scowly little face that was easy to fall for. I went to pet it and, when it meowed, I learned that cats had accents too.

Hotel rooms are designed for couples. But since singleness is an involuntary (and therefore justifiable) act of selfishness, I could hog both sets of towels, both sides of the bed, both wicker chairs, and every square inch of tile. But I didn’t. I kept my husband’s side intact. I’m not sure why. Is it possible to miss someone you’ve never met?

I was getting dressed for a run when I heard commotion in the room next to mine. I couldn’t tell if the voices were Spanish-speaking or English-speaking, but they were certainly drunk. I felt a pang of FOMO, a feeling all-too familiar.

After my run, I showered and got dressed for dinner. My plan was to get drunk and do some writing. I nodded at myself in the full-length mirror. This will be a suitable night one. As I started towards the elevator, I noticed a young man, roughly my age, holding it open. He was waiting for a woman who had dropped her wallet. He was slender and had a beaked nose. His skin was a stubborn shade of lobster red. It was quite the sunburn. I guessed he was American.

The American looked sidelong at his companion. “How do you say in Spanish should we wait for you?” he asked. I was right. He was American.

His friend was stocky and slightly taller than me. Unlike the American, he did not have a sunburn. He was perfectly tanned, so I guessed he was a local. His moustache was the rare kind because, actually, it looked good. I've been confronted by some ugly moustaches in my life. Oftentimes, I imagine ripping them off like a bandaid. The local opened his mouth to respond, but the woman waved her hand to say go ahead. This delay meant that I could dart into the elevator just in time. The elevator doors rumbled shut behind me.

I was alone with the American and his friend. They looked at me. I looked at them. For a moment, we didn’t say anything. We just grinned at each other. Until, the American, named Kaleb, cleared his throat. “Where are you from?” he asked me.

“Canada,” I croaked. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in hours and my throat was surprisingly dry. “What about you?”

“Kansas City.”

I looked at his friend who was named Cris. “I’m from here,” he said.

“What are you doing tonight?” Kaleb asked.

“I was gonna get dinner,” I replied. “What about you guys?”

“We’re gonna get drinks by the pool if you wanna come," Cris said.

I'm not sure why, but I felt like I had known Kaleb and Cris my whole life.

“Yeah,” I smiled. “Sounds good.”

***

There were no lights beyond the lobby. It was so dark by the pool that the lip of the infinity pool disappeared into the jungle below. I had a hard time telling my newfound friends apart. Kaleb and Cris had gone to the bar to order something. Gabriel and Janfred, a couple, were cuddling some fifteen feet away. Luis and Pauline, to the right of them, were conversing in Spanish. Pauline was the only female here besides me.

It occurred to me that these were the voices I had overheard in the hotel room next to mine. Pauline had to go, so Luis took me under his wing. Though English wasn't his first language, he made every effort to get to know me. Kaleb and Cris returned with a plastic cup full of clear liquid. Luis took a gulp then offered it to me. I obliged him and it burned in all the right ways. “Cacique,” Luis explained. “It’s like Costa Rican vodka.” 

I inspected the cup as if it were about to change colour. I mean, it was clear liquid. That’s all. But I took genuine curiosity in the substance, the way any prissy foreigner would. "What do you think?" Luis asked.

“In Canada,” I began, “a bartender could never serve you twelve ounces of hard liquor in a plastic cup. This would be illegal.”

Luis laughed. “Pura vida,” he said.

“What does that even mean?” I asked as I took another gulp. My stomach reminded me that I hadn't eaten a morsel since I landed.

“Like…” Luis looked skyward. I could see the gears turning in his head for a moment. “Life is good,” he explained. “You should enjoy what you have, you know?”

I took a long drag of Kaleb’s vape, which was almost dead.

I learned that Luis, Cris, Gabriel, Janfred and Pauline were locals. They bumped into Kaleb on the beach that afternoon. Kaleb, who was staying at the hotel with his friend, had invited them to the pool for drinks.

“I could tell they were gay,” Kaleb laughed. “See, we all attract each other.”

“This is true,” Luis added. "Gaydar."

Someone had placed a pair of sunglasses over my eyes, so I was as blind as a bat. Although I felt as if I had crawled into some dark wet hole, my newfound friends made a good impression. I couldn’t have dreamt of better company. Cris tapped my shoulder. “Everyone has to take a picture in the sunglasses.” I pulled my knees into my chest and bit down on my fingernail. There was a flash of light.

A kid, who I had mistaken for someone's younger brother, was floating around us. When I learned that he was on his own, I was a bit concerned.

"Where's mum and dad?" I asked him.

He spat out a spout of water. "I don't have a dad," he blurted out.

"Okay. Where's mum?"

The kid pointed. Fifty feet away, and quietly drinking on a sun lounger, was the silhouette of a woman. "She's right there," he said.

That was almost good enough for me. "Okay," I said. "Would she mind that you're hanging out with us? We're not exactly good role models."

"I don't care," he said. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-three." I gestured to the vape before sticking it between my teeth and huffing on it. "By the way, don't go anywhere near this crap."

The kid floated around me and the men for fifteen minutes or so before, much to my relief, leaving with his mom.

I don’t know how long I chatted with Kaleb, Cris, Gabriel, Janfred, and Luis. Twenty minutes? Two hours? Whatever it was, I managed to finish a double rum and coke during that timespan. There was a language barrier, but these men took good care of me, trying their damn hardest to speak English instead of Spanish. Even so, I found it easier to talk to them than anyone from my hometown. We Canadians champion our politeness but cling to exclusivity. We are more interested in keeping up appearances than being real.

Eventually, Kaleb suggested that we go into town.

I stood upright so fast that white blotches flashed across my vision. It was the mother of all headrushes. “I want to go downtown!” I cried.

Everyone dried off within seconds and reached for their clothes. I found this amphibious display quite daunting, for I would have to run upstairs to get changed. I didn't want to hold up the group, so I told Kaleb that I would take only five minutes. We agreed to meet in the lobby.

I threw myself in the elevator, slamming the button to the seventh floor with such verve that the whole thing shook.

I darted across the landing to open my hotel room door. As I was fussing with the key card, something struck my leg. It felt like someone had whipped a flip-flop at my calf. 

I looked down and felt my entire body tense up with horror. A cricket, the size of my hand, had appeared. Its eyes, like black tapioca pearls, stared up at me. Then, one of its friends, a flash of emerald green, flew out of the darkness. Then another. And another. And another. And another. And another.

I screamed and fled to safety, slamming the door shut behind me. Kaleb had warned me about the langosta crickets, but I didn’t think they’d be that enormous.

Getting changed was a full-body workout. I was drunk, remember, and had nothing in my stomach except cacique, rum, and sugar-free coke. I tore off my bikini bottoms and kicked them across the floor. They disappeared into a shadowy corner of my room. I decided that grabbing a towel would be too inefficient, so I dried myself by jumping on my bed and rolling around like a dog. I put on my favourite blouse (which was quite fiddly because I had to tie the straps myself) and paired that with a set of paper bag shorts.

I braved the platoon of langosta crickets to reach the elevator. Once inside, I could see my chest rising and falling in the fluorescent blue of its interior. I was pleased with myself. The events of this evening, so far, were powerful enough to overcome solo travel inertia.

But when the elevator door slid open, the lobby was empty.

I stopped in my tracks, slightly embarrassed. I looked around for Josue. Maybe he knew where my friends went? But the concierge desk was momentarily vacant.

My stomach sank. Did they leave without me?

I checked the pool but nobody was there.

Eventually, I got a hold of Cris through Instagram. Pauline picked up and told me to meet them outside. Fortunately, they had been waiting for me. By the looks of their dry hair, I had been much longer than five minutes. Feeling sheepish, I thanked them all for waiting. Pauline took my hands. She was heading home, but assured me that Cris, Luis, Gabriel, and Janfred were good men.

"They will take care of you," she said, and kissed me on the cheek.

Moments later, we stuffed ourselves into Gabriel’s hatchback to hit the vibrant streets of Tamarindo. In the backseat, I was pinned between Cris, Kaleb and Luis. Kaleb was using the car console to keep his vape charged. The cord was small, so, like folding chairs, we had to bend ourselves in half to hit it. That cup of cacique seemed to magically replenish itself because it was filled to the brim once again. Janfred wasted no time connecting to the car’s speakers and was bumping something marvelous.

We reached the top of that hill, the one beside my hotel. Peering over the edge, I could see the main strip of Tamarindo twinkling some eight hundred meters away.

What causes culture shock? Well, try locking yourself in a moving vehicle, with five grown men who you’ve never met before, and disappear into an unfamiliar town where you don’t speak the language.

See what happens.

As we bounced along the dirt roads, the panic I had experienced in the airport eatery had come back with an army.

I went silent and pressed my fingernails into my stomach. Oh fuck. Was I in danger? My mind went ahead of me, down dark alleyways and behind sharp banks, to foresee deranged men and the ways in which they seek out their prey. I had a vision of a blade puncturing my delicate skin — my own blood splattering against multi-coloured concrete. More deranged men would be drawn to it, gathering like sharks — it would be a frenzy! If I lived to tell the tale, I probably wouldn’t want to talk about it.

Then it occurred to me that the threat may not be out there. 

It may be in the car with me. 

Could I trust these men? Or did they routinely meet young girls in lonesome elevators?

Fuck! Shit! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

What if we were on-route to some secluded clearing where I would be stuffed into a black SUV and fall off the face of the earth?

Oh, hell no!

The men wanted to make a pit stop at a convenience store to pick up some vino blanco. There, a stranger latched onto us with such verve that I initially thought that knew the men I was with. She had a spaced-out smile, dilated pupils, and pin straight hair extensions that resisted the humidity. She told me she was from Nicaragua.

“Where are you from?” she asked me.

“Uh. Canada,” I told her.

“Canada!” she exclaimed. Her mouth fell open. It was as if I told her she had just won the lottery. She wrapped her arms around me. It felt less like a hug and more like a chokehold. “I love Canada!” she told me.

I blinked, not sure if I believed her. She talked incessantly, reminding me of some of the customers I used to serve back in the day. When she got bored of me, she bugged Cris for a few minutes. That meant I could peruse the convenience store, but I did not recognize any of the brands on display. Fortunately, Luis pulled me aside to look at sunglasses. He handed me a pair of Hello Kitty frames and I tried them on.

“Do you know that girl?” I asked him.

“No,” he said. He leaned down to whisper in my ear. “She’s um, how do you say it?”

“A stranger?”

“Yes. That. But she said she was a ... prostituta? Or prostituto. I'm not sure."

Where was this night going? I watched the Nicaraguan prostitute for a moment. She was standing by the drinks fridge and, much to Janfred’s chagrin, was fastened to Gabriel’s bicep like a sea lamprey.

“Should we tell her to leave?” I whispered.

“No,” Luis said. “Don't make a big deal.”

We stood outside. As soon as Kaleb opened his box of vino blanco, the Nicaraguan prostitute was all over him. He agreed to let her take a sip. She opened her mouth in such.a way that I could see the back of her tongue. It was covered in a blanket of white fuzz – a lot like fungi. Kaleb must have noticed it too.

"Keep it," he said.

The Nicaraguan prostitute frowned as if to say 'what's wrong?' She offered him his vino blanco back, but Kaleb wouldn't accept it. "It's a gift," he explained, and turned to go back into the convenience store to buy a second box.

***

I was relieved that the hatchback could barely fit six of us – there was no room for the Nicaraguan. It was, therefore, easy for us to give her the slip. Back in the backseat, I looked at Kaleb. He was finally enjoying his vino blanco.

 “Is there Uber in Costa Rica?” I asked him.

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Is it good?”

“It’s cheap! Like three dollars from the beach to the hotel.”

I hummed — good to know.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” I began. “I’m just a bit shocked.”

“Tell me about it. Three dollars is an absolute steal.”

“This is all just so crazy," I rasped.

At that moment, Janfred turned to look at me from the passenger’s seat. With his wiry frame and amber eyes, he reminded me of a ring-tailed lemur. His lips parted with revelation. “She’s in shock!” he announced, as if he had spotted a tarantula on my head.

“Culture shock!” Luis exclaimed.

Cris piped in. “Play Shakira for her! Shakira!”

Janfred hit play on a Shakira song. Gabriel cranked up the volume.

Whenever. Wherever. We're meant to be together.

I felt one percent better. Surely, kidnappers don’t listen to Shakira,

We soared past a little strip mall. I needed to get out of this car – at least for a moment.

Everything was foreign to me except for one establishment – Subway. Shaking, I lifted my finger to point at it. “Do you think their bathroom will be handy?”

The men looked at each other, confused.

Luis figured it out. “She needs to pee!” he said.

I stumbled out the car. I wasn’t lying – I really had to pee. I walked across the parking lot and into the Subway. I was relieved to find that this particular Subway was identical to any other Subway on the planet. Some things are just the same. “May I use your bathroom?” I asked the clerk. He motioned for me to go ahead.

***

When I returned to the hatchback, I felt much better. Kidnappers wouldn't let me walk freely into a fast food joint. The men were munching on their convenience store snacks and my culture shock, as quickly as it had appeared, subsided.

“Better?” Kaleb asked.

“Yes,” I stammered. I took a sip of his vino blanco. “I’m just getting used to everything.”

Janfred, who was still peering at me like a lemur, offered me a sympathetic smile. “You have your friends at the hotel?”

I shook my head, no. “It’s just me,” I said.

Cris's calm demeanour evaporated, and he showed emotion for the first time that night. “You’re travelling alone?”

“Yeah.”

His smile was as wild and free as the country he was born in. “You’re crazy, girl! You’re the craziest girl I’ve ever met!”

***

Kaleb claimed that the best place to drink vino blanco was the beach. While the Costa Ricans rolled out a picnic blanket, he and I drifted towards the shoreline and watched the waves. It was almost a display of violence – the way they piled on top of each other, one after the other, like a horde of bodies dropping from machine gun spray.

“You see that?” He said. “Where the waves merge?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“That causes a rip current,” Kaleb said. “It’s dangerous. It will suck you in and hold you below the water.” He demonstrated by making some hand gestures. They weren’t overly scientific, I surmised, but they were spectacular. “See?” He said. “Like this!” His hands abandoned their roles as waves and shot outward, toward the ocean. I imagined myself, pinned beneath a wave, and sucked out into the sea.

“I’m going surfing,” I said. “I better watch out for those."

“Yes," he said. “Watch out for rip currents.”

We sat under an almond tree. With the exception of one homeless man, who was looking for cigarettes, we were totally alone. Our only source of light was a bottle of bright green liquid sitting atop a flashlight. Janfred was playing “Porcelain” by Moby and it couldn’t have been more perfect. 

After the beach, we went dancing at La Berrakera, a local bar. Like my hotel, it was undressed and exposed to the elements.

“You’re wearing the perfect shirt,” Luis told me.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Well, it’s like a mini version of our dresses,” he explained. “The layers of fabric. It's the kind of dress that Costa Ricans use for dancing.”

I asked Luis to teach me how to dance and he obliged.

***

Later that night, the Costa Ricans drove us back to the hotel. I was in the backseat of Gabriel's hatchback for the final time that evening. Kaleb and Luis had struck up a bit of a romance and they were making out to my right. I rested my head on Cris’s shoulder, for he was to my left. He watched as I played Tablero de Gemometría.

“Come to Toronto,” I said to him. “You can all visit me next."

I hated saying goodbye.

Especially because those were the only men I have ever met who have made me feel truly beautiful. Most men aren’t interested in my personhood. They’re only interested in what I was willing to put my body through.

Once I was back in my room, and alone again, I stripped down and showered.

I thought about Kaleb and Luis’s goodbye kiss. They reminded me of the boy I had back home. He was a good catch – tall and funny. My feelings for him had been standing in the rain a while, but it was time to dismiss them. In his presence, I felt gawked at, like a monkey behind bars. He’s never made me feel sexy.

Growing up, I was told that I was “too grungy,” “too moody,” and “too chubby” to “get attention from guys.” In the summer before university, I became a stick with a smile slapped on it. I hoped that would remedy my past mistakes. But alas, I was “too agreeable.”

“I bet that every guy you meet thinks he has a chance with you,” someone told me.

I came from a culture that was all wound up in whether or not I’m skinny enough, smart enough, or if I can impress the right people with the right degree and the right career. A woman thinks that her value depends on what men think of her. It’s only when she’s totally alone, on some foreign shore with a stomach full of cacique, that she discovers how beautiful she truly is.

We like to say that ‘men do stupid things,’ but women do them too. When I told my friends about my travels when I got home, most of them disapproved. And so, I’ve given up on explaining my behaviour to others. It’s no use. They have no idea what it’s like to be besotted with danger – for danger to be the pair of arms that hold me oh-so-tight when I lay my head.  "Tu es la force qui va contre moi," he tells me.

After my shower, I went to bed, happy to be alive. 

Happy to be alive.

A few minutes later, I could hear someone outside. It must’ve been a new arrival, for their suitcase could be heard roaring behind them. Suddenly, they stopped outside my door. Out of nowhere, they screamed like a pig.

I smiled to myself beneath my covers.  Nothing can prepare you for those langosta crickets.

***

I will never forget when I caught my first wave at Witch’s Rock Surf Camp.

Sol, my instructor, was the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen, despite the salt-induced hemorrhage in her left eye. She didn’t bother explaining it to me and the other beginners, so it probably wasn’t a big deal. She and I were thirty feet from shore. She pointed my board toward the horizon and patted it twice. That was my cue. I held onto my bathing suit bottoms, for they were prone to slipping off, and flopped aboard. I put my hands either side of my chest, not yet used to the waves.

“Strong strokes!” Sol reminded me. 

“Sounds good,” I mumbled. With my head up, I waited as Sol spun my board around. When she let go, I clawed at the water like a mad dog, one hand at a time.

“Paddle, paddle, paddle!” Sol cried. Her voice got fainter and fainter as the wave got closer and closer. After a beat, I heard her one more time.

“Up!”

I popped up.

The wave, like some great fiery tongue, launched me forward. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I rolled my right foot back and plopped my left foot forward, but standing up was easier than I thought it would be. As soon as I dismounted my board, I looked back at Sol. She shot me a smile and I, the awkward westerner, gave her a thumbs up.

I spent the next few days surfing. And, except for the few men who paddled over to chat me up, I did it alone.

During an afternoon session, a steep wave got the better of me. I wasn’t able to leap over it and I wasn’t confident in my duck diving abilities, so I just accepted what was about to happen. Held under the water by the rip current, I wasn’t quite sure what was up and what was down, but my board found my languished body. It collided with my head in an act of self-lobotomy.

I got out of the water and left to go sit on the beach. I sat on my board, dazed.

After a few minutes, the sun popped out. I stared at my shadow. It was the rainy season, so it was the first time I had seen it in days.

"Hello," I said to my shadow.

It would last only a moment and would be gone so soon without a trace.

I touched my head where a lump was starting to form. I wondered if I had a concussion, but didn't feel like worrying about it. With any hope, I damaged the part of my dome that gives too many fucks.

That evening, I noticed that my hip, thighs and shins had exploded into patches of hematoma. The colours reminded me of splodges of paint on watercolour paper. Shades like dark currant, atomic olive, and mako gray. If I had a boyfriend, then they’d probably stir up concern in onlookers. A premonition clung to my thoughts, the way warm toffee sticks to one’s teeth: I could be alone my whole life.

And I would be okay with that.

A seagull spins in circles. A howler monkey rocks the branch it’s sitting on. A langosta cricket hits the wall. Blood roars in my ears. I think I have diarrhea. My life has been beautiful. I can take the pain. The sound of music floats down a dark street.

I hate to say it, but I’m proud of myself.

Fin.