At the Costa Rican border I was picked up by a friend. He asked me exactly what it was I wanted. Again I fussed over options, volcanoes, cloud forests, the things the guidebook says I must see and do. But this time I found my way a little quicker than before to choosing space and silence.
And so he dropped me here, a place too small to justify more than a dirt road. A few buildings clustering in a narrow gap backing mangroves and beach.
Ten dollars a night buys me a room at a dusty surf hostel, miles of beach to wander alone and countless waves to dance, steps foaming beneath my skipping feet, yesterdays washed clean and clear.
I’ve spent my day playing, napping, muse-mulling; finding insights rising easy free – joy balloons bidden ‘up’ by the expanses of open air.
Here change feels easy. I am asking what is possible and the sky speaks. What else should I do but listen?
The sea tumbles in falling glass mountains. It wilfully shifts the horizon, defying my eye to hold any point certain.
The air steams with spray, clouds, fire flicker.
In just a moment the three elements seem to unite in defiance of what is likely, probable, predictable, rebelling against the solid pragmatism of earth and sand.
Waves leap hope-high as if to spark the blood bloom of sky with the sting of salt. The sun’s pent passion sets light to the waters. They glisten gold, tumbling in flame and froth, a mighty glory inexplicably fuming up from flat nothing, from just ordinary in seconds.
On wet sand the sky is doubled, triumphant reflected in a blue infinity. It is an open arc of possibilities, another path of brightness.
There is no more gravity, no surety of what will be, only freedom and flight.
I laugh and leap the waves; think how many sunsets we squander in our little box buildings and feel something almost like shame. I wet sky sand dance, dizzy with wonder even as the weight of dark thickens.
I am like a child, chasing possible impossibles through the clumping cloud fall.