Each day in Golfito, Costa Rica, had had one predictable element: it rained cats and dogs (as well as several other small species of fish and fowl). The diluvium would begin like clockwork at half past two in the afternoon. We powered out of the harbor under the leading edge of the cumulonimbus rolling into town for the daily ablution, watching as the lightening illuminated the mountainous terrain in our wake. On the way out we passed the small cargo ship that had made its anchorage in the bay the previous day. It was loaded with boats. On board, no kidding, were no less than seven pleasure boats � including a two masted sailboat!! � all bigger than Faith. Several had been hoisted onto the water for a run at the local fisheries. Now, I can understand the utility of packing up a bunch of fishing boats and running them around the world to do some competition angling. But dragging a sailboat around that way? Well, let's examine: For one, there's a difference between the mentality of power boaters and sailboaters, mostly having to do with weather preference and the purpose of excursions onto the water. Also, there are considerations of fuel usage. So we were somewhat incredulous at the prospect that some owner of a sailboat had put it on a cargo ship and was driving around with it. I suppose whomever it was should be commended for including a sailboat in the mix....but then again, it strikes me as fundamentally odd not to just take and sail the thing instead of wasting a bunch of time goofing off on the rest of the stinkpots. Hey, I admit to my biases. We did a little private jeering at the masts sticking impotently skyward. And then they were lost to sight as we swung the bow west, exiting the V-shaped canyon of the harbor entrance and headed out onto the deep blue.
Behind us curtains of rain swept across the darkened landscape, closing the act in our saga that had been the amicable Costa Rican port. Ahead the clouds parted to spotlight the journey before us in azure tones of light, life, love, luck and liberty. Triumphantly breaching the mouth of Golfo Dulce we set the sails, let the brassy reverberation of the engine fade, breathed the saline bouquet of open ocean � that splendid aroma of a journey yet fulfilled � and were instantly becalmed. Faced with a 420 mile trek we were extremely reluctant to reignite the iron jenny and so it was that we began what would become a ritual: bouncing back and forth, to and fro, "corkscrewing" as it is known, we'd each pray fervently to the wind demons to release us from our draftless bondage. Each of the crew has his own preferred method of invocation. Brian's seems to be recalling the souls of our forebears, incanting the wisdom of the ages passed down from one swarthy generation to the next. "Make money on the puffs," he'll intone, "just like Bill [Morgan, the original owner of Faith] used to say." Or perhaps, "In the early days this is when sailors would kill and eat their horses, that's how the Horse Latitudes got their name....it could be worse, it could be raining." (This, inevitably, would be accompanied by the CRACK! BOOM! of an approaching thunderstorm.) Eric's procedure is more along the anti-martyric vein. "WHY?" he would shout, fingers rigid and open at his temples, wide eyes seeking the heavens for an answer not to come, "EVERY TIME! EVERY TIME! ALL I ASK IS FOR A LITTLE WIND A LITTLE WIND BUT DO I GET ANY? NO!" Brian and I would slide inconspicuously closer to the mast, feeling that if lightening were to strike it'd be more likely to singe the second mate than the metal pole projecting toward the firmament.... My own imprecations consist of dropping sail and assuming a Zen state of tranquility, "We are not rocking...there are no waves...there is no boat...there is no future only the moment...damn it that was my coffee spilling...ow that really hurt.... you know what there is is no freaking wind...whoa! Christ! That's it, I've had it..." and subsequently I'd assume a much more Zenly state of tranquil inner peace with the engine running for half an hour or so.
Interspersed between these periods of jostling, psychosis inducing calm were some actual stretches of time when the wind would come up. Any guess which direction it would prevail from? Yep: the one we were headed in. Which would mean tacking...directly into the path of a rainstorm. Often the wind would quit, leaving us corkscrewing and soaked. But I don't want to make it sound as if it was all hellish � there were some major bright sides. One was the current pushing us in exactly the right direction, even going so far as to wind around the coast as we made our turns. It steadily drew us north and westward at a knot and a half, sometimes even two. Thus even when seeming not to move on the water we'd still be covering ground, so to speak. When a favorable wind did spring up (not, I should point out, during Eric's tiller shifts) we could add that current to whatever hull speed the boat might register. Also, dolphins and turtles had become an experience we'd be treated to multiple times per day. Pods of dolphins would come racing through the sea, surrounding Faith and often entertaining us with jumps, soundings, tail whackings on the surface, and belches of mist as they breached for air. Other than the jumping full-bodied out of the water, my favorite is the breathing. The sound they generate is exactly like that of a large dog paddling with a stick in its mouth and coughing as water strikes its gullet. It's an inadvertently happy sound that puts me in mind of unqualified joy. Dolphins usually seem to be enjoying themselves, which is contagious when you watch them at their main occupation (which seems to be playing with passing boats, if our observations carry any scientific weight). The turtles on the Pacific are much less shy than those we encountered on the Caribbean. We've actually had to steer around some of the brutes who refuse to be bothered to dive at the sound of a crashing bow wave. Several have passed close enough for us to touch. Luckily they've been as aggressive as cement pylons and we still have all of our digits.
In the midst of this leg of the journey, right about the knee area, we crossed the ill-famed Gulf of Papagayo � scourge of seafarers, conjuror of cyclones, its wreck strewn waters the product of vicious, unpredictable storms. Just one extract from our traverse of the treacherous cove explains the situation entire:
Brian: "I expected bad weather here, but this..."
Eric: "I take back what I said before, just get us out of this!"
Sean: "I'm afraid we've used the engine too much � we're just going to have to endure as long as we can."