Where's Lizzy: Episode 7

“So, you drank from a plastic bag yesterday,” he said with his thick French accent.

“What?” I winced, confused and not quite ready for conversation.

“Did you drink something from a bag yesterday?” he repeated more softly after observing my fragile condition. “I found an empty bag in the car.” I then remembered the bags of cold coconut milk that Jerry had brought out when they’d stashed their bikes. I’d slurped mine down and thought nothing of it. “I think that’s why you got sick. You never know if the people washed their hands or what,” he reported. Somehow I felt better having an idea of where I may have contracted the nasty bug. No matter how thirsty, I have been quick to pass on the cold bags of liquid since.

It took me a whole day to recover, but soon I was cracking away again at turning Swell back into a home. The day before my dad left, we’d turned on the refrigeration system to hear the compressor make a feeble groan and then die. After a series of troubleshooting steps and long-distance calls to technical support, Glacier Bay, Inc. insisted upon sending me a new unit immediately. Despite their timely shipment of the package, ‘immediately’ in this part of the world was a gray term, so I conceded once again to the idea that Swell wouldn’t be leaving Puntarenas for a while.

On the morning I expected the new unit to arrive, Timoteo came by to tell me I had a message waiting at reception. I was disappointed to see that it was the miserable receptionist behind the glass window when I arrived. In my best Spanish possible I asked her for the message. She rolled her eyes and showed me a paper that read “DHL, Aduana” and phone number, while muttering an unintelligible explanation. She dialed the number and sent me to the other side of the window to pick up the ‘guest phone’. The guest phone looked like the kind from the 80s with the curly cord that you wrapped around your finger. I could barely hear the voice on the other end of the line. I did okay speaking Spanish in person, but over the phone—without hand gestures and facial expressions—my understanding was drastically reduced. When I set the old phone back in its cradle, I understood only that the package was stuck in customs and would not arrive that day, nor the next, nor ever for all I knew. The evil receptionist thrust the bill for the phone call at me. I signed and glared as I gave it back. There was no alternative. I needed a translator…I had to go to the principal’s office.

I knocked sheepishly on the heavy wooden door and patted down an unruly sprig of hair in my reflection in the dark tinting of his office windows. I heard the buzzer that unlocks the door and pushed it open. The cold air inside matched his chilling presence. I sat down nervously. Just as I opened my mouth to speak he looked at me in exasperation. “Look, Liz, I was in a meeting for seven hours last night. I didn’t get home until three in the morning. I’m tired and I don’t have the energy to deal with you today, so make it quick. What do you want?” He demanded. That was enough to send me over the edge.

…I’m stuck in his worthless excuse for a marina…paying to be here…no one else speaks English and without a translator my refrigerator will never arrive…I’ll grow old and die right here in Puntarenas…I thought dramatically to myself. I burst into uncontrollable tears.

“You’re always so mean to me…What did I ever do to make you hate me?...I don’t care how many hours your meeting was or how tired you are, you shouldn’t treat people like you treat me…I’m not your child…I just need a little help…This is your job!” The words spilled out between loud sobs. He sat there looking startled and when I finally finished his tone changed.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m really tired and I think I’m going to quit.”

“You should,” I sniffled. “You don’t seem happy.”

Although slightly embarrassing, my emotional outburst earned me some translation time and Carlos dialed the number on the paper. I fell back into quiet sobs as he argued with the woman on the phone. When he hung up he reported the news. “They have to send paperwork for me to sign to release the package to you because it was addressed to the ‘Costa Rica Yacht Club’ to your attention, instead of just to you. That will take a few days and then you’re going to have to take the papers up to San Jose and pay taxes to get the package out of customs.” My heart sunk. I wiped my eyes and thanked him as I left the office.

I crawled back into bed and closed my eyes, hoping to fall back to sleep restart my day. “Another week in Puntarenas…I can’t do it…I’ve got to get out of here”, I brewed to myself in a tortured half-slumber. I remembered Kat and Jenny, the girls from California who had invited me to come down and surf with them in Playa Hermosa. I’d given up on meeting up with them since I’d expected the new refrigerator to arrive that day. With that thought, I got out of bed and stuffed my favorite 5’9” in a bag, grabbed a fistful of clothes and bathing suits and made Swell ready for my absence. I went barreling out of Puntarenas on a bus that afternoon. I only slightly knew Kat from years before and had briefly met Jenny once, but I knew they had to be more fun than Carlos Chinchilla and my dock-mate who barbecued in his tighty-whities. The bus was packed with commuters. With stops that seemed to come every 50 feet it took over two and a half hours to make the usually 40 minute drive. “Hermosa!” called the driver finally, and I stumbled down the steps to grab my board from underneath the bus. As it pulled away, I squinted down at the words on the scrap of paper in my pocket. It read, “Cabinas Las Arenas”. I started down the road in the dark. I hadn’t gone 100 yards when “Cabinas Las Arenas” appeared on a lighted sign ahead.

The girls welcomed me that night and showed me to my own room, compliments of the owner upon hearing about my adventure. All night I could hear the waves thundering onto the sand and every few hours I’d open my eyes hoping to see morning light. When I finally did, Dan Jenkins, their photographer, showed up in his rental car and drove us into Jacó for an early session while we waited for the tide to fill in. I was like a hyperactive kid without Ritalin, paddling up and down the beach. I managed to connect a few open faces to the inside despite my maniacal surf buzz. Back at Hermosa, the wave was a bit more serious. It reminded me of Puerto Escondido with slightly less shape—a short paddle through a treacherous impact zone, thick lips sucking up over sand, one or two open tubes per set, and a very culturally diverse line-up. I remembered surfing there eight years prior, but both my surfing and the town had evolved dramatically. Once the tide got too low, I sat with the girls and a few locals on the beach.

They teased me about a ridiculous attempt I’d made at a late drop on one big set wave. It had come straight to me and I couldn’t help but try even though I was undergunned on my 5’ 9”. I thought I could make it, but at the last minute it had shifted left, and pitched me out with the lip into an airborne cartwheel. When I had surfaced, giggling, the line-up was hooting and throwing shakas. As long as my board wasn’t broken, I didn’t care…after being stuck up that river I was fiending wave energy any way I could get it.

 

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