I heaved my luggage, a hefty carry-on bag and a backpack, into the taxi that was parked there in the gravel lot. I immediately followed it, sliding rear first inside. I knew the cost of the ride was going to take a big chunk out of my spending money, but it was the only way to get to my destination. I also knew that, even if I felt so inclined, there was no turning back. The last ferry of the night was the one from which I had just disembarked.
It was dark now. The last signs of daylight had retreated from me during the boat ride, the churning of which had left me feeling a bit queasy. I uttered a few words in Spanish to the driver, and we were on our way. The crackling sounds and the rumbling of the stones beneath us quickly gave way to the smoothness and droning hum of the pavement. This relaxed me a bit as did the knowledge that things were no longer in my control. Surrendering to fate was a comforting, if transient, relinquishing of responsibility. I sat back and closed my eyes.
I was still wearing my work clothes sans the tie that I had pulled off and shoved into my bag on my way out of San Jose. It was a simple wardrobe consisting of a short-sleeved button-up shirt made of cotton and dyed a mustard yellow accompanied by a gray pair of khakis and some long black socks. Until then, I hadn't really had time to think about the taxing journey from the Ministerio to the bus station, to the port, and finally, across the bay. I tried to relax. I was on vacation after all.
Out the windows I could see only darkness, save for the twisting conveyor belt of road and dashes of yellow paint up ahead illuminated by the car's headlamps. Other than the occasional motorcycle, there was hardly any traffic at all and no specks of light or landmarks that would indicate the presence of civilization. I could feel the torsion pulling me from side to side as we wound through the hilly countryside. I closed my eyes and imagined a space capsule hurtling through the turbulence of solar winds in an inky void.
Thirty minutes or more had past when we pulled into town. I told the driver to drop me off anywhere he saw fit. I paid him, thanked him and with luggage in hand was on my way--to where, it was as yet uncertain. A few fellow students from the exchange program had gone ahead of me and were supposed to have arrived earlier. I decided to do a half-hearted search for them while exploring the town.
It wasn't much, just a coastal strip and the short road leading up to it. There were bars, restaurants, a camera shop and a couple of nightclubs from what I could glean, but no sign of my university acquaintances. I was beginning to feel the burden of my bag, which having taken turns from one hand to the other, had made red grooves in each along the folds of my fingers. When I decided to give up the search, I had found myself in a rather loud and crowded bar. Although I felt uncomfortable and out of place, I also felt it to be a spot where no one would notice I was alone. I could be a ghost there. It would be less awkward. I ordered a beer.
The din was dying down and the crowds thinning. I decided I was going to sleep on the beach--or was that my plan all along? Henrik and Alice, a few friends I had made back in the city, would be arriving at some time the following day. I would meet up with them, at which time we could collectively make plans for lodging. It was cheaper to share rooms, and there was a lot that I wanted to see and do.
I gained access to the beach by walking back to the start of the strip and around the first bar with its well-lit patio. The businesses on that side of the road were oceanfront, but Costa Rican law ensured that all beaches were to be public, and therefore, access and use could not be restricted in any way. I stepped over a narrow, shallow trench, through which the waste water from the bar ran into the ocean. It was just a few feet away from this stream that I decided to set myself up for the night. The patio lights were still on and from there emanated an audible and lingering mirth. I figured that it would be safer and that I'd have less chance of being robbed if I stayed close to tourist activity. I unbuttoned and removed my dress shirt and kept my undershirt on. I laid out a towel and placed my bag at the end of it. Laying down on the towel, I rested my head against the bag. My feet stuck out and laid upon the cool sand.
It wasn't the most comfortable of arrangements, but then again, comfort was never the main factor governing the quality of my sleep. Despite my vulnerability in the open air, I felt free and at ease. I had little choice but to face the ocean since any other arrangement might have resulted in a steady slide down the sandy slope to where it met the waves. With belongings stowed safely beneath my head, I began to nod off. I embraced the willful surrender to darkness, as we all do, and placed myself in its arms. The world around me became muffled. I recall hearing transient voices and the shuffling sounds of people passing behind and above me. I was already more than half asleep and unwilling to open my eyes or break the paralysis that had overtaken me.
*****
The shutters opened--the lenses blurry for a moment. Shivering, I jolted upwards. I reached into my bag to grab a sweatshirt. It seemed I could not put the garment on fast enough. I pulled out a hoodie as well and draped it over myself as I laid down. To satisfy my curiosity, I struggled to read my watch in the moonlight. It was around 4 A.M.--a sign that I wasn't dreaming. Apart from the gentle lapping of waves before me, all was still and quiet. The shutters closed. The sound of ocean faded.
