| |
|
 |
 |
 |
A Dance on the gulf |
 |
Carate Eco Lodge |
An immaculate gust of wind catches the main sale above me with a hearty clap, the svelte yacht gliding through the afternoon splendor of the Golfo Dulce. There are a few towering clouds that have built throughout the day on the Osa Peninsula sky-line to starboard, all clear to port where the heavens drip the mid-afternoon pastel blue down down to the rugged green coastline as it plunges into the serene waters of the gulf. The sun bathes my skin, the wind and motion dancing with my loose hair, spray from the falling hull raising glittering rainbows all around. As soon as I am quite sure that it could never get better, our yacht is suddenly enveloped with more dolphins than I have ever imagined. . .
I boarded the Walden at 9:30 for a day of sailing on the Golfo Dulce, not knowing what to expect, preferring to expect nothing than to build hopes. My captain, Bill Dawson, smiled a greeting upon my arrival. Silver-haired and demure, Captain Bill clearly had an air of sophisticated refinement, cloaked though it was by the effects of thousands of miles of open-ocean sailing on his wizened visage. We motored away from the Crocodile Bay pier a few minutes, and I watched as Captain Bill raised the sails, secured the rigging and got us underway. Soon we were racing across the smooth surface of the gulf, a tropical drink in my hand, Captain Bill pointing out the landmarks surrounding us: Puerto Jiménez aft, Golfito ahead, Matapalo off to starboard, Mogos to port, Panama to the southwest. I drank it all in all at once, and suddenly I couldn’t believe where I was, filled momentarily with an incomparable sense of being.
As a giant leatherback turtle surfaced and contemplated our silent cleft through the water, a transcendental composition rose through the air, a contemporary operatic melody delivered by an angelic voice in Portuguese. “I’ve GOT to have this CD,” I announce to Captain Bill upon his return. Turns out he is a classically-trained virtuoso musician, French horn his instrument of choice, his CD collection vast.
By the third drink, the vertical eastern shoreline of the gulf towered above us, and Captain Bill headed northwest, along the coast. The jungle dripped from the mountain-side, plunging right down to the water, no space for a beach on the rocky promontories jutting into the water. Punctuating the line of bluffs, small coves and bays opened inland, revealing deserted white-sand beaches and coconut palms.
We anchored in Bill’s favorite inlet for lunch, and I dove from the side of the Walden into the soothing turquoise bath. I frolicked in the still water, luxuriating in its coolness of the water against my sun-warmed skin. As I was about to return to the boat, a shimmering noise drew my attention to my right, and there, in perfect slow motion, a group of dolphins performed an aquatic ballet in perfect synchronicity. They rose from the water as one, moving so slowly that it was almost not possible, their bodies undulating in the exact same manner with effortless grace. “Slow-moving dolphins,” explained Captain Bill, gesturing toward the spread of culinary elegance prepared in advance at Crocodile Bay Lodge. “Beaujolais,” I smiled my approval. “Mmm; grilled rosemary chicken. Too good!” The palmito salad had big chunks of avocado, vine-ripened roma tomatoes, olives, feta cheese. The veggie crunch was too refreshing, olive oil running down my cheek. I dabbed at it with one of the fresh sourdough rolls, which melted in my mouth. Too Good, was all I could think. I couldn’t eat fast enough..
We continued north, passed the Esquinas River, skirted the bulbous islets of Mogos and struck a south-southeast bearing in mid-afternoon, swilling more boat drinks, winding our way through a litany of transcendental tunes. And just when it couldn’t get any better, the water surrounding us came alive with dolphins. In every direction for as far as the eye could see, they cavorted, dancing to funk, punk, jazz, tango, samba, salsa, hip-hop and the blues, everything. Spinners, leapers, chasers, divers, every one with his own personality. Hundreds upon hundreds of porpoises peopled the waters, chirping in their complex language, tittering for our benefit as they leapt in front of the boat, teasing us with their quintessential elegance.
These sirens of yore stayed with us and their games for a quarter of an hour, and I was left speechless, jaw gaping, unable to process the still unfolding totality of the day’s experience. The Crocodile Bay pier rose from the still waters as the tired sun dropped beneath the forested mountain sky-line to the west, and the golden afternoon yellows drifted down the spectrum into the purple hues of the blushing twilight.
Captain Bill seemed to understand my stupor and walked me up to the lodge without talking much. Inside Pelón threw a plate of yellowfin tuna sashimi in front of us, and Giovanni produced a bottle of chilled Chardonnay, my glowing reflection dancing back from the rose-hued, long-stemmed wine glass in front of me.
Article courtesy of Gitanna, Courtesy of El Sol de Osa The Osa Peninsula’s Newspaper |
|
|
|
