A Costa Rican Adventure

In 1994 I was to develop a land acquired by a despicable little man, a Montreal orthodontist named Paul Yu. The land was on Playa Grande, the best beach in Costa Rica. I flew there with his wife, himself and my set of building plans, first staying in a San Jose hotel where to my great horror he stole all the towels from his room . Then we drove 100 miles to the site and I walked and surveyed it, savoring its unique features. One one side, an immense sandy beach, on the other a river snaking through mangroves with tiny monkeys and large parrots perching on its branches. That river curiously makes its way south in parallel to the beach , and after one kilometer cuts abruptly right to flow into the ocean at the height of Tamarindo, a popular tourist place. Two very different ecosystems with almost no human presence are to be found here. Except for a quaint hotel owned by an American , Louis Wilson. This ex-surfer and his Costarican wife spearheaded the movement to protect the turtles from egg poachers, convincing authorities to turn it into a state park. They gave him a grandfather clause for his hotel, excluding all other construction, his movement mandated to protect the turtles hatching ground. That detail got me wondering about the Yu property.
Later we found out that the land deed was bogus; he had been swindled , the site having no clear title and a protected squatter right in the middle of the three turtle-shaped clusters of beach condos I had designed ( see 'turtles' in picture at left).

So Mr Yu left Costa Rica in a huff on the next plane, his pride and wallet seriously hurt. I heard that he was later jailed for murdering his charming wife, but that's another story. The fact is I decided to buy a tent, an air mattress and a sleeping bag and just vacation there, right in the midlle of the giant sea turtle hatching beach, a November to March ritual going on for several hundred million years.
The first night the turtles came and I could barely see them. There was no moon over the pup tent where I was holding my breath, crouched at the edge of the beach and surrounded on three sides by heavy bushes. I could hear their laborious breathing and the sound of wet sand when they dug. Then the plop-plop of the dozens of large eggs falling in the cavity. Then the pat-pat when they covered the hole with sand and slowly dragged their half-ton bulk back to sea. I later learned that they mostly eat jellyfishes. You can't run fast on that diet, as with us if we ate only Jello.
The insects, the black night and those noises mysteriously moved and excited me so that I barely slept that night. In the morning as I walked 1 mike south towards the estuary, counting 30 deep furrows made in the sand during the night and only partially washed by the recent high tide. The turtles return where they were born a while ago, guided by scent and stars. Then I reached the estuary and crossed it easily (It is not wide, but has enough current to threaten poor swimmers) There I had a most wonderful breakfast at the French Pastry Shop.
The next night had a moon and groups of people with walkie-talkies and flashlights covered with red handkerchiefs to not spook the turtles. These sightings are organized by the conservationists and never have more than 15 people at a time, all coached to whisper and tiptoe around these huge mothers in labor. I made myself invisible since it was probably forbidden to camp in that park. I slept like a log and woke up with a great idea: why walk the entire beach for a croissant when I can go there in grand style? I took my air mattress to the river and for the next half-hour drifted on my back, under flowered branches with colorful squawking birds , meandering in the lazy flow until I reached the estuary. There I hopped on the sandy point where all the shops were staring at me, happy to sell me a newspaper and another great breakfast, my vinyl excursion boat slowly deflating in the shade. Of course I had to walk back up to my camping ground later. I needed to count the turtle tracks anyway...and run away from tourists, those tiresome critters with loud voices and bad manners, totally unaware of the magical ritual occuring nightly just a mile up the coast, unchanged for eons. Then I saw a tiny lost hatchling making a run for the sea under the gaze of several hungry seagulls hovering above. I waved my own flippers (swim fins actually) wildly around him and the youngster made it to water. That night and the rest of the week I spent at Tortugas hotel, Wilson's creation with all the windows facing away from the beach so as no to confuse the baby turtles aiming for the sea. A window with a light source could be taken for the moon over the sea. Someone I met at the bar told me that my baby turtle was probably quickly eaten by a fish as only one in a thousand will live long enough to make it back to Playa Grande. Depressing thought that I chased away by making many more floating pilgrimage on the river behind the mangrove swamp. I remember doing it with glasses and a birdwatcher's book, getting caught in the mangrove, doing it with my motorized Nikon F-1 in a plastic bag, catching the wave of the 'ecotourism' party barge, it's occupants laughing at my flimsy riggings...me flat on my back looking up and swirling down under the dry forest canopy...

I was born in Winnipeg in 1943 and never went back there to lay an egg or anything of value. One thing I do know, however, is that I might make it back to Playa Grande one day, God willing and financial flippers helping!