The knock came at 5am; but no matter, I had been wrestling the sheets all night in a fitful sleep. Tired to the back of my eyeballs.
"OK, gracias."
I pulled the door open to let señor Luis know I was up. It was goddamned 2am my time; I hadn't adjusted in my three nights in Panama.And I was trying to wean myself from the calming pills the doctor prescribed for my anxieties, and the pain pills to ease my aching back. If it weren't for that idiot high school coach I might be in better shape now that middle-age was solidly upon me.
I flicked on the light and began to gather my things for the trip to Kuna Yala - the San Blas Islands of Panama, a stunning tropical archipelago off the northern coast. Hundreds of clusters of these pocket islands--some so small they only have one tree; others where stunted Kuna villagers live that take all of five minutes to encircle on foot. Only about 10% of the islands are inhabited, but the Kuna tribe owns them all, and every single coconut tree is owned by a tribesman.
"POW!!"
An explosion rocked the Panama City barrio and multicolored sparks shot from a transformer across the street, while the whole block went black. "Holy shit!"
Between the strobe-like flashes of lighter fire I one-handedly gathered my things. If only I'd been packed and ready to go! Why didn't I do that last night? I knew I had to check out early. Dumb traveler.
On the front balcony, señor Luis lay half-awake on the couch, his shapely teenage niece on the other, looking like an angelic Latina maiden.
Well, where the hell is my ride? "A que hora es?"
"Cinco y medio."
It could be another half-hour, so I rolled out my yoga mat and began some limbering poses.
Just then a horn blared - my ride!
I stowed one backpack behind the desk, grabbed the other and swirled down the stairs. Just as I reached the SUV the horn went off again. I pounded on the side window and the door opened. A large Caribbean-mix driver said in perfect English, "Get in front." Perfect. Maybe I could nap on the 2 1/2 hour drive to the coast.
We drove for about 15 minutes and picked up an Argentine couple, who climbed into the back seat. We made a few more stops, honked the horn and soon the seats were full.
We arrived at a large grocery store on the edge of town, and the group of us got out and some more SUVs unloaded and everyone was led into an office to select the island we wanted to go to, and to reserve a spot in a rustic cabana.
Franklin Island sounded good--I always liked ol' Ben--but most people were signing up for other islands. I wasn't sure, so I looked up from the honey-blonde chica's cleavage to ask.
'This your first time?"
"Yes." I felt virginile.
"Senidup for you."
I made the entry and paid, and went down to the grocery to prepare for Paradise. I was starving--no dinner last night which proved to be a mistake when I shattered my cocktail glass of dark rum on the floor in front of a small group of travelers, which I took as a Sign for the Universe to get my ass to bed.
Bananas, water, Gatorade, peanuts, and peanut M & M's would do it. After all, three meals a day were included.
A group of Argentinians were stocking up near me. "Hey, where'd you get the flashlights?"
"Over there," Juan replied, pointing out the aisle.
I was set. It had been a rough year, a tough couple of years, really, and the stress was pulling me apart. I'd gained weight, increased my drinking to a daily afternoon habit, washing down some pills later on, then rising before sunrise to work on that damn tech book that I was contractually bound to write, and had already spent the advance money several times over. If the editors had made the ground rules clear early on, it would have saved me a lot of re-writing and headaches. I had to toil through that monster four times in six months.
* * * * *
After driving a while we stopped at a roadside fruit stand and I picked up some oranges, fresh strawberries and a ripe pineapple. I needed cleansing.
The highway wasn't bad until we wound into the lush mountains where whole chunks of road were washed out. I quizzed the driver about Panama as he maneuvered.
"So what do Panamanians think of Noreiga coming back to go to jail here this week?"
"Some like him, some do not."
"You know the U.S. CIA was in business selling drugs with him, but then I guess he got crossways with them so they turned around and had him arrest for drug trafficking."
"His mistake was he tried to play both sides and the U.S. did not like that. He was in with the Communists so they took him out. What can he do now? His is an 83 year-old man."
"He can do nothing."
"Probably. But he still has some power. he knows the secrets of many government officials."
* * * * *
Pulling into a clearing we parked alongside the other vehicles, emptied the SUV and approached the small band of pint-sized copper-skinned men in fishing boats.
We piled into the boats. I took a front seat, guided by the Kuna boatmen. This one had a cover overhead for shade, and it was getting hot.
We cruised slowly through the marshes. A half hour of this would be easy. Paradise was just around the corner.
When we hit the open water they opened up the throttle to wild cheers.
"Yee! Wo-hoo! Aghh! Aye! Olé!"
We careened off the waves, with sprays of salty water wetting some passengers. We bounced and jumbled and the seawater blasts grew until everyone in the boat was soaked but me and the man next to me. I nudged him, "Driest spot in the boat!" A few more bounces and sprays and we were drenched too.
"Driest spot, eh?" He wiped his long face.
There was an upside. Through her wet bikini top, I caught a glimpse of the hard nipple of a Panamanian beauty sitting nearby. Her boyfriend noticed me noticing her. So I turned around and noticed a few more attentive nipples. But the Panamanian girl's were the most outstanding, so I peeked a few more times until she moved slightly and blocked my view.
Then her boyfriend told me she had to move to the edge of the boat, and I should move over unless I wanted to get puked on. It was a pretty rough ride.
Finally, the island was coming into sight.
There it was: Paradise! Like a postcard, picture-perfect palms waving from the tiny island.
The engine stalled.
The boatmen tried their level best to re-start it, but it sputtered and stopped each time until it was dead.
I'm thinking I'm going to be stuck on Gilligan's Isle.
Paradise, almost close enough to swim to (I nixed that thought after recalling my near drowning a few months earlier in cold Pacific waters.)
We drifted for about an hour. I made some conversation.
"You know I just read this Mark Twain story about these sailors whose ship burned at sea, and they had three lifeboats, and 10 days of provisions. After 43 days they were down to eating their boot leather."
"Didn't they catch any fish?"
"They caught one dolphin and a bird, but at the end the crew was plotting to eat the captain first, saying it was his fault they were in that predicament. But the ones in his lifeboat were the only ones to make it back to shore."
"Well, we have food."
"I'm sure we'll be OK."
I was ushered to a bamboo slat cabana along with two ostrich-like German blondes, and an attractive Australian couple.
"This is weird," I said.
'What?"
"All of us in one cabana? I thought we were getting our own."
"Well, I suppose you should have reserved your own private little cabana," one of the Germans snapped.
'Fuck you,' I thought. I simply wanted some time to write.
I did some quick calculations about the cost of a private one, but decided to just roll with it. 20 bucks a day with three squares was a steal! I just wasn't crazy about the three women hearing my snoring and farting. That's more of a wifey thing.
* * * * *
The long-faced man, David, and his sister, Sarah, peeled off of the buzzing group to the other side of the island, (which is about a one-minute walk). Then they were back.
"Where'd you go?" I asked.
"I've been coming here every year for eight years. I like to stay on the other side to chill, and hang on your side for partying."
"I'm on the right side for me then. Hey--what's with the fence?" I pointed out the chainlink fence that split the island in two.
"Oh, there's some dispute over the land and profits between two families. So they cut it in half."
"Families are the same everywhere, I suppose."
* * * * *
I walked slowly around the islands' white sandy edge, which took all of five minutes. I tried to slow. This break had been a long time coming -- what with my brother's cancer and incessant need for attention, and the changing demands of the publishing house. I had gotten so discombobulated that I could barely function. I wasn't me. I felt as if worms were eating my brain. The booze and pills had dulled my memory and dried up my creative juices. I hadn't written a damn creative sentence in a year, and my body was drooping in places where only old women should droop.I had to get out. So once my brother finished his rounds of radiation and chemo,and the tumor had shrunk and was projected to go away, I was off to warmer climes.
* * * * *
I walked barefoot across the sands, found a basketball and shot at the makeshift island hoop nailed to a palm tree. Terrible shot. Again. Missed by a mile. I couldn't hit a thing. What happened to that agile athletic young man I once was? I kept at it until I sunk one. Then another. A few more misses and another Argentinian traveler strolled up.
"Want to play 21?"
"Sure," I replied.
We were still warming up, and I was starting to hit some shots as the tropical sun filtered through the palm leaves overhead. A small Kuna teen walked up. We were getting the rules down when another athletic traveler came up and joined in. He was very pale, so I just called him Whitey. It was me and Whitey against Kuna boy and the Argentinian.
The Kuna boy was on his home court and he was good, and damn fast. At 7-7 I was panting and beet red, thinking I might have a heart attack. I felt almost as tired as I did after my near-drowning. It felt invigorating but I wanted it to be over.
On the next possession I drove for the basket and tossed it in. Next, I dribbled a few steps and hit a short jump shot.
Bring the ambulance. I can't keep this up!
I dished to Whitey and he finished them off. I staggered victorious to the ocean and stumbled over some coral and plopped in. After about 20 minutes of floating I had caught my breath. Time for a cold beer.
The beers were warmish but no matter. I sat in a plastic chair as my legs tightened and watched others play ball.
Eventually, I made my way back over to the beach area, where three Argentinians were passing a bottle of sun-heated dark rum. I plunked down and Andrés handed me the bottle. I took a pull.
"Mas!"
I took another. But they were way ahead of me.
We spoke in broken English and broken Spanish the best we could. Soon a few more people showed up and later the Aussie couple joined us, and the siblings showed up too.
The sun was high in the Caribbean sky on this New Year's Eve afternoon. It was perfect.
* * * * *
Someone got the idea to grab a boat to Pero Island to go snorkeling around a sunken ship. I was in. Sure - I wanted to see everything.
After a bumpy 20-minute ride, we hopped out, rented some snorkeling gear and swam out a short distance to the underwater ship.
It didn't seem very large at first since not much of it stuck out above the water. A large, rusted wench and gears jutted out, and below the surface, vividly-colored blue and yellow fish floated and darted about. One small pretty one was in front of me, and I playfully tried to catch him -- nope, he was lightning fast. But he didn't swim off, he came back and we had a little game of 'catch-me-if-you-can' and each time my little buddy returned. I gave up trying to hold him, and just marveled at his magnificent, perfect beauty. He had a bright turquoise-blue head, followed by a black stripe, and another band of turquoise followed by another black stripe, a greenish-blue body and a blue-black tail.
I floated and admired that little fish as time stood still.
He was a joy.
The the Aussie Goddess swam by like a mermaid who'd just gotten her legs - long, sleek, beautiful legs floating from her womanly body. Her long hair waved in slow motion when she ascended to the surface.
When we came to the surface and tried to stand on the slippery, plankton- and coral-covered ship deck, the ocean's current made us slide and slip about which resulted in a few minor cuts and scrapes. After about an hour the clouds were moving in so we swam ashore.
I grabbed a six-pak of beer from the cabana store just before we shoved off to head back. You would have thought I'd discovered fire for the group:
"Gracias!"
"Aye, Papi!"
"The Godfather! Thank you!"
The beer was much colder than on our island; it was as refreshing as it could be, the salty water spraying our faces as we bounced across the waves back.
Back at the beach the party was in full swing. It's gotten more crowded and drunken since we had left. The sun started to set over the crystal-blue waters.
A small boat eased to shore and the Kuna men unloaded huge sacks of lobsters, still flicking with resistance. They dumped the sacks on shore and pulled the langostas up by their tenacles. I picked a couple up, and then we went back to the bottle of rum and beers.
Soon the conch horn sounded across the island meaning our all-you-can-eat lobster dinner was ready. The meat was tender and delicious, with only some salt to quell the fishiness - no butter no garlic, au natural. The freshest lobster I've ever eaten. I ate four and staggered over to my cabana for a siesta.
At nightfall a bonfire was lit, and a party crowd gathered around. Guido was probably the drunkest man, and he spent the end of the night with the drunkest woman, a smelly Irish gal who had been on the island a week.
And a good time was had by all!
* * * * *
"I think I lost my t-shirt and my dignity last night," Guido deadpanned.
Rising out of the clear Caribbean waters, I replied, "Did you have the Luck of the Irish?"
"Ha haa. Not so lucky. I have to recover. But that was a hell of a party!" Guido flopped down and floated on his back. "Sometimes this is the best medicine. The ocean's waters. Water."
* * * * *
