Memories from Puerto Viejo

Skinny dipping

Immediately I knew, with my top off stumbling along the coral, that we had made a mistake. We were on the wrong side of the beach for skinny dipping. We carefully crawled along the coral, looking like girls walking on water, until finally settling and sitting down we let the waves crash over our chest.

Lightening lit the horizon, and the sky rumbled. Rain.

I cut my feet on the way back to shore, falling over. I reach the log we place our clothes on first and find it empty.

Fuck.

I look around - nothing. The beach is empty.

Double fuck.

Someone’s taken our stuff! Thoughts overwhelm me. How will I get back to our hotel? People are going to see me. Could I cover myself with a leaf? We’re going to have to walk back naked. We’re going to have to run. How busy is it if it’s raining? Maybe no one will see us. This is a small town

As my mind races, the local homeless man happens to pass (he often spends nights along the beach). He’s high as a kite and completely oblivious to us, barely even noticing us. Unsettled I ask for a drag of his joint and I immediately feel better. A wave of calm runs over my body. I’m fine. It’s fine.

I start to search for our clothes, sticking my hands into bushes, unafraid. I step on an ants nest and look down to find hundreds of red ants crawling up my legs. I swipe at them and they start to bite me. I rush to the water and wash them off before walking back upshore.

As I’m pacing along the beach I come across a towel, bikini bottoms, a cover-up. Strewn across the sand - a treasure hunt. The homeless man finds my camera on the roof of a rusty hut. My bikini top is still missing, but I don’t care. I hope it makes a nice souvenir somewhere.

Covered now, and mellowed, we sit on the beach. I think of how weird this must look from an outsider perspective. Two young girls and a homeless man sitting in silence, smoking, looking out into the darkness that is the sky and the sea.

Rain

Everyday it rained, and every day I was out in the rain.

Everywhere else in Costa Rica when it rains I stay inside. Rain was a daily annoyance. But in Puerto Viejo, I viewed everything through a honey-coloured lens. Every day it rained, and every day I was out in the rain. The heavy fat drops that kiss you. Your top become thin and press against your skin. Your shorts become heavy and pull down from your waist. The trickle of water down your face from your hairline. Your feet slip in your shoes. And the wild adrenaline, that sense of aliveness when you feel the power of Mother Nature.

I see gringos in bikinis and swim shorts on bikes get caught in the rain. Their shiny skin, their slick tangled hair streaming behind them. They scream and they laugh and they weave through the water.

It’s night time and I couldn’t even hear the heavy downpour through the beating bass of music. Everyone is moving, pulsating, exclaiming. The rain slicks our skin, makes it even smoother to move. We’re out here, pure hedonists, dancing in the rain.

At 3am, rounding the end of our night, we start on a quiet walk home. Tired and ready for bed. It begins gently at first. A drop here, a splash there. Our pace quickens. And soon it turns into steady heavy rain. We start to run. Looking up towards the dark sky, seeing nothing but feeling the water beat down. My shirt is soaked through and clinging to my skin, stuck to my heaving chest, my beating heart. Laughing.