2016 10 07 Friday
I have often wondered if the people who live in rain forests have a hundred different words for rain. Much like in the movie Forest Gump where Tom Hanks goes on about all the rain he experiences I don’t think it has rained the same way twice here in the last three days. The barometer has been bouncing like a yo-yo.
The first day we pulled in the sun was out and it was hot in the way only the tropics can be; deep blue sky, towering billowing clouds, and one hundred percent humidity without a stir of wind. Within an hour the sun had been blotted out completely and the air couldn’t decide between rain and mist. Those titanic clouds had avalanched down upon us in slow motion and crashed over the beginnings of mountains that surrounded the little bay we’re moored up in. They run right to the water’s edge and give the illusion of being in a flooded gully.
The bottom layer of clouds completely covered the highest points of those steep foothills. Long wispy tendrils snaked down and through the tipple canopy jungles that grow right up to the beaches. The near equatorial days end quickly and by 1600 the low-lying clouds have taken on a distinct peachy glow as they settled into an impenetrable overcast. It was about that time that liberty for the off-duty crew was granted, and I found out that since I was on duty, I’d be participating in an ATFP (Anti Terrorism Force Protection) drill.
Ten minutes later I was fully kitted out in armor, gun belt, booney hat, and orange non-gun. I had been briefed on the tactical scenario and was to be on the lookout for “anything.” Between the sweat and the half rain half mist I was fairly drenched after two walking rounds of the exterior decks. The drill ended eventually with myself and my partner being directed to respond to an active shooter on the bridge. It would have been more exciting with Simunition or paintball markers, but since we didn’t want to alarm the locals we settled for the tried and true method of shouting “BANG BANG” while waving hard rubber guns. Since the non-guns are weighted to simulate a fully loaded side arm, I briefly contemplated sneaking up behind the simulated terrorist and pistol whipping him on the back of the head. However, knocking out our only corpsman might have been frowned upon by the command. Also, said corpsman was a 6’6” Polish man who was once a competitive body builder, who resembled a photogenic shaved bear. He’d have fed me the non-gun along with all my teeth.
I had to settle for “shooting” him in the back. To those you thinking of honor and chivalry and fair fights… I am not in this to be fair. I am in this to win. As we stood down from the drill the overcast thinned in a late afternoon breeze and white rays of sunlight played across the jungle around us. Ten thousand shades of green reflected back.
An hour later the sun set behind the western peak at the north end of the bay. With the active volcano sending up plumes of ash only a few hundred miles to the north I was expecting riotous colors but instead it was washed out silver white that quickly faded to sullen purple. Full dark settled in by 1830 and a thunderstorm was building. As I had to wake up and check message traffic every four hours I went to bed shortly thereafter. At the 0400 check dawn was already fast approaching, though the low mountain ridge on the eastern shore of the bay was going to hold off direct sunlight until well into morning. If it weren’t for the torpid heat, and the coconut trees, and the general tropic-ness of everything… this place could pass for an Appalachian valley in late winter or early spring.
Even though the four-hour sleep interval meant I had the privilege of late sleepers I stayed awake after the 0800 check in. The sun was already high and hot enough to qualify as noon everywhere else north of here. One of guys who had never been here before was amazed that it could rain twice between sunup and lunch. I just laughed and said “give it a minute”. Thunder punctuated my words ominously.
Day two passed without incident and I spent it at a bar next to a pool drifting from one table of shipmates to another as we all took turns griping about work and wandering off to make phone calls to family and sweethearts. We bought buckets of beer for one another and watched our collection of back packs while others swam. You might wonder why we took our ease at a pool side bar instead of wandering the jungles. At that point we were just grateful to have ground that didn’t move and water that didn’t taste like bromine. I wish I had stories of alcohol fueled hilarity but low key seemed to be the order of the port call; which was fine by me. A slow soaking heavy rain set in and never let up until the wee hours of the morning. I’m fairly certain I dozed off once or twice under my umbrella to that white noise drone.
Day three was much the same as the previous. I spent it at a little marina called “Banana Bay.” They have THE best milkshakes in Central America, period. Also, when in Costa Rica do not order a hamburgesa (hamburger) “roja” (pronounced ro-ha) style. I thought he meant red peppers, when in fact he meant red meat. It was damn near raw. I quickly followed it with a lot of water and a lot more tequila in an attempt to kill whatever the very brief skillet time didn’t.
The rains came and went over and over. Window shaking peels of thunder without a twitch of lightning rattled the flatware on the tables. Shipmates drifted in and out of the bar while I sat at my corner table and discussed favorite authors, old girlfriends, and writing techniques with a friend. The clouds drifted overhead raking the jungles with their fingers again, dragging behind them curtains of mist followed by sheets of rain. Pangas lazily buzzed across the bay ferrying people from one end or side to the other leaving foaming white trails as they went. It was exactly the kind of boring lazy afternoon I needed. The only way it could have been more perfect is if I had spent it in a hammock with the knowledge that I had the entirety of the next week off.
I’d have loved to go wandering through the town and poked my head into all the little back roads and shops outside of the Tourismo Market, but we’re on a strict three-man buddy rule here and no one else was inclined to stray far from their WiFi connections. Most of the stuff sold there was the typical Central American tourist fare; wood carvings, flimsy hammocks, and shot glasses with cheap touristy scenes or nude women painted on them. Funnily enough a lot of it was imported from other countries, Taiwan included.
The local economy must have been taking an upturn because there was evidence of new construction and new repairs being made. Riding to and from the pier in the vans I could see men and women hard at work painting, fitting doors, and repairing the broad wood siding favored down here. Part of me itched to join them in their efforts and pick up a hammer. Every roof is made from heavy corrugated tin and each one is painted a different color. The only bit of architecture that stands out here are the bars on every window. At some point it seems to have progressed from a security measure to something that is done more out of habit and style. Like decorative iron work to keep the larger pests and stray cats out than would be burglars. On the whole it is like any small fishing village you’ve ever been to. It clings to the edge of the jungle balancing between not encroaching on or being swallowed by it. If I can find a way to make money with a large seaplane I may end up retiring here.
Mid-morning of day four I was standing on the flight deck. My ODUs were soaked clean through and they clung to me uncomfortably. The rain was different from the previous ones. As though to add one last bit of variety to the display of precipitation, jungle dumped a miniature monsoon on us. Shortly after sunup I could see the mouth of the bay to Golfo Dulce (Candy or Sweet Gulf, or fresh water depending on who you ask). By 0800 I could barely see a thousand yards and visibility was dropping. The odd part was that there was almost no wind. Nothing is driving this rain like a summer storm. It was falling in heavier and heavier walls. We were supposed to be getting underway well before noon and I could barely see the far end of the pier. Preparations to depart continued though and I slogged back and forth on deck and inside the skin of the ship moving equipment and stowing gear.
0900 rolled around and we broke lines. It was no longer raining it was a vertical river. Waterfalls wish they could dump this much liquid. The bridge immediately set the low visibility bill and I kept a very close eye on our digital charts. Every two minutes the ship’s horn sounded an eight-second-long blast. The mouth of the bay was narrow even at high tide and we were halfway to ebb at that point. Departing with the tide like that means the current would be pushing us, which means we’ll be going faster and have less control. I reviewed flooding damage control procedures in the back of my head while I counted off every thirty seconds between each three-minute position fix. Not that I needed to worry, it was too shallow for us to sink even at high tide. We’d just become a temporary American outpost while DHS accountants collectively ruined their pants as their budgets went “poof”.
Our visual bearing takers on the bridge had been secured because they couldn’t see the navigation makers along our route. They could barely see fifty yards. The half hour transit to sea passed without incident and I offered up another prayer of thanks. Suddenly, like walking through a curtain, the rain just stopped. From the outer bay it looked like an opaque gray wall.
I found myself on the bridge wings splitting my time between spotting anchored fishing boats, baby whales playing in the low waves, and watching the mist veiled tropical coast fade behind us. The wind driven sea was piling up in the gulf and I could already feel the rough water they’d predicted. With any luck we would get clear and west of the incoming weather.
For all the relaxing in paradise I could have done I admit that I was eager to return to sea.
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K.C. Aud has made a career of being lucky and has managed to find something positive in nearly every poor decision he’s ever made, even if it was only a new perspective on how not to do something.
Enlisting in the U.S. Coast Guard in 2010 he became an Operations Specialist (radio and navigation) and did his first tour in Georgia guarding submarines from drunk fishermen. In 2014, tired of the heat and the bugs he transferred to a 210-foot medium endurance cutter in Washington state. The cutter then regularly deployed to the hot and buggy west coast of Central America to hunt down drug runners. Aboard USCGC Active he traveled 94,194 miles and personally handled enough cocaine to keep a small country high for a decade. Somewhere in there, he learned to write, if not spell.
Three years later, daunted by the prospect of spending the rest of his career in a windowless command center, he separated from active duty. After 13 different jobs ranging from beer brewer to dairy farmhand, to machinist, to Navy civilian contractor, he reenlisted in 2020 as a Coast Guard reservist, changing rates to Maritime Law Enforcement Specialist. When not helping the Navy assets in the Puget Sound troubleshoot radios, he’s on drill in Seattle doing water cop stuff and or flailing away at his keyboard. Though married and now a father, he misses the mission.
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