Advisory: This entry is going to be short. In addition to this stop being shorter than most—only three days in comparison to the more common week—things are slowing down. School is over and we have reached the final port. With no more field trips to attend, papers to write…now that we may do nothing and suffer no consequences…I have one word for you: inertia.
We have reached the final frontier. Last call, Costa Rica. I arrive to this country with a dithering heart, at once, excited, but forlorn, also. At least Costa Rica is a good choice of final port; it is a place for the young and adventurous, but also provides nice coastal views and breezes for those who prefer to lounge outside. Not that any of us have the energy left to be too adventurous—or at least I don’t—but it’s still nice to know I have options. Also, Costa Rica is just foreign enough, with alien sights and people, while still being accommodating, as everyone speaks English. More or less, it invites laziness. And the scenery is lush and un-American enough so that we will arrive in Florida feeling as if we’re just returning from a vacation. Which, now that I think about it, is about right.
Because school is over, everyone is completely and totally free. To celebrate this, everyone gets as far away from the ship as possible, as quickly as possible.
Our shuttle picks us up at the port two hours after we arrive. After picking it out of a crowd of others, we get situated by putting popular American rap in the stereo and demanding it be turned up high. The driver worries me with how consensual he is of it all, the noise, the stop at the liquor store, etc. I’m sure he is accustomed to dealing with people like us, or like the people we happen to be with, and knows that the more heartily he agrees, the happier we are.
A note on that last comment, the specification of “people like us.” Our coterie, consisting of Kristin, Drew, Chris, Scott, Eilis, Jen, Emily and myself, are not enough to fill an entire beach house reservation, especially after Scott decided to extract himself from the party. So, we are now a joint unit, the other group consisting of some not-so-close friends who also needed additional members for a house. They are a crazy bunch, much rowdier than us, which is good in a way, as I have become, perhaps, too comfortable with my friends. But then again, they are crazy, which often translates to messy, and sometimes unbearable.
The house, or as we learn when we arrive, the three houses, are amazing. They are clean, roomy, tropically decorated, fully furnished, and they surround a pool that is still only steps away from the beach. It is all too much, too good. The other group—to whom I will refer from now on as the others, just to keep it simple—starts drinking without wasting any time. They drink in the pool, on the beach, in beer pong games. They are wild.
We—we being the aforementioned coterie—spend the first few hours at the house napping and swimming with the others, admiring the beach, and talking with the owner of the houses who is an altogether jolly and bountiful man. He helps us order dinner from a restaurant across the sweet—Mexican-type food like burritos and quesadillas, mostly—then delivers it to us later, while we’re still in the pool. What a nice vacation.
Later that night, we have our driver—yes! We have a driver!—take us into town to explore. We go to a couple of bars on the main street but stick with a place called Le Loft that has somehow heard of our arrival and is offering specials to SAS students. Ergo, bar is packed with SAS students. It’s upsetting in one way, like I mentioned earlier, but I also think that, because it's the last port, I should let myself enjoy it. It is impossible to avoid, and it is fun.
After a treacherous ride back to the houses down a dark, dark winding road, we are safe and gathered around the pool. Somehow, a couple of stray SAS kids end up here, having gotten a bit too confident with all the alcohol and senses of desperate finality. It is a bizarre night; the sky is the darkest a sky can be, and the various light sources are scattered to look like lightning bugs hiding in the grass. The light inside the central house is on, illuminating the backsides of everyone, and the energy levels of everyone here are as contrasting as drunk and sober. The randoms who found their ways here have ostracized themselves on one corner of the pool, considering their options. My mind blanks as I watch an orange ping pong ball’s journey from one hand to the table to a red cup. When I check on the randoms, they are gone.
At that point, we all decide to sleep. The others stay up for a bit longer to lick up the last drops of beer.
The next morning, we, and the others, clean. After cleaning, we walk across the street to the restaurant and eat plates of tropical fruit. When we return, we clean as we pass by the central house to the beach where I share a kayak with Eilis. Once we reach the opposite bank, we turn back and retire in our lawn chairs to read, or pretend to read, as we close our eyes.
Well rested, we take the van into town for lunch and for gift buying. Few gifts are to be found, but I do find a flattering pair of red heels to wear to the Ambassador’s Ball (a few days from now) with my black dress from Vietnam. What a well-traveled girl, am I. Drew and Emily split after lunch to rent motorbikes so that they may travel the Costa Rican coast; the rest of us return to the house for naps and various things.
That night consists of the same activities as the prior evening, though to a lesser extent. We rack up a hefty bill at a sushi restaurant, for which Kristin is somehow stuck paying, then we return to Le Loft, much reduced from the night before. It is empty save for a couple of kids (clearly SAS, though I've never seen them before) who clearly don’t know where else to go, so we leave for a place across the street which turns out to be tonight’s hot spot. The music is American hits from the 80s and 90s, and the drinks are cheap, so everyone is happy to stay until the night is over. Kristin and I are exhausted; in between external conversations, we discuss our respective fatigue and slap each other’s faces to stay awake.
The next day—also the final port day, which I would rather not think about—is the day we have all been looking forward to: The Canopy Zipline Adventure! We swing between trees one by one, gloves accumulating heat as they slide down the wire, harnesses sliding farther and farther up as we use them for support. It’s easy to see the whole adventure as a symbol of our entire voyage, if it isn’t too cheesy to say.
The first run is fast and shaky, and a little scary; the narrow vista is bright on all sides as we glide by. The next hones our recently acquired skills; we can go a bit faster and know how to break before flying off the other end. Those following are less distinct; we know the ropes, but there are still standouts. The second to last slide provides a surprise: a view of the ocean we have forgotten is so close and so vast. And the last ride is bittersweet; it feels a bit too long at first, but too short after it's over. And when I look up at the whole course from the bottom of it all, only the trees between each zip line are visible. The countries still stand as they are, but the voyage lives on only in memory.
I’m making myself uncomfortable now, so I’m going to move on.
But sadly, moving on is impossible, because this is the end…
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