UNDER THE MACAW'S EYE
We walk on a ribbon of white sand undulating between Pacific blue Ocean and jungle green vegetation. Six scarlet macaws fly by above the trees. They call out. I think they say, "You're in a wild and wonderful place." The flight here, in an eight passenger plane, to the remote Osa peninsula from San Jose, the two hours of rutted dirt roads in the back of a four-wheel-drive pick-up, and, now, the thirty minute walk to our final destination, the Corcovado tent camp - all worth it for that one fly-by.
Gene and I want to find a spot where we can observe and photograph the big birds. We hope to discover a truly deserted beach with all the romantic and lusty possibilities that implies. Because of its isolated location, Corcovado doesn't have many visitors, even along it's perimeter. Fewer still intrude on the interior. We plan to hike six miles further in from camp before turning back.
I wanted to look good for our hike, in case we do find Lovers Beach, our name for that sandy love nest. Looking good in the wilderness is always a challenge to a woman, but when you're old enough to celebrate your 25th wedding anniversary, as I am in Costa Rica, it may be an impossibility. My body has reached that stage where clothes are my best friends. I don't look good in short shorts anymore. Long shorts are worse, like putting a spotlight on my knees. My bustline isn't bad - in a bra. The muscles in my stomach are tight, but the skin isn't. Forget two piece bathing suits and the cropped tops that are currently in style. Even my feet are no longer attractive in the buff because of bunions. Looking at my naked body in a full length mirror is like a scavenger hunt for treasure. All I find is my shoulders. They are still quite pleasing. I consider wearing a long, strapless sundress on the hike. I can picture myself walking barefoot along water's edge, dark hair and full flowered skirt billowing out in the breeze. It's a romantic sight, something you'd see in a fashion magazine or an advertisement for tampons. But it's hot, and I want to swim.
I end up in functional sports sandals, a sunhat, a bathing suit with a large chiffon scarf tied at the waist like a see-through skirt, and my favorite earrings, gold hoops set with small round opals. They sway and twirl gracefully.
As we leave our tent at sunrise for the big trek, I reach for Gene's hand. "Maybe this is the day we'll finally see a jaguar in the wild," I say. A travel brochure for the area shows a jaguar and her cub on the beach.
"I wouldn't count on it," he says.
Jaguars, macaws, Lovers Beach, colorful fish, and who knows what other wildlife or adventures await us. I feel exhilarated at the possibilities. I certainly don't feel fear. There's no danger of getting lost - just walk along the beach. The early departure and return by sundown are timed to the tides, so high tide won't force us back into the jungle behind the beach and strand us there after dark. We have plenty of food, water, and sun screen. We have each other.
Twenty minutes from camp we wade across the Rio Madrigal. The river is as far into the back country as anyone else from camp is going that day. Two hours later, Gene says, "I need to get in the water. If the surf's not too rough, I'll let you know."
He returns quickly, looking like a handsome, blue-eyed Neptune, water sliding off his smooth, muscular upper body. I love the way he looks when his hair is wet and slicked back from his face.
He says, "I didn't see much, and there's a strong surge. Did I miss anything here?"
"Jaguars came creeping out of the jungle as soon as your back was turned."
He smiles at my fanciful story and asks, "Were you frightened here alone?"
"Not at all."
"You always worry about bears when we're backpacking in California."
"That's because I've seen so many bears. I've never seen a jaguar in the wild. He's more like a mythological creature than a threat."
"Maybe he's waiting for us further on," says Gene.
We set off again and walk into a wilderness dream come true. Rising ten feet above the surrounding palms is a tree ablaze with the vivid primary colors of a dozen scarlet macaws. We stand speechless and motionless for fear they'll fly away. Slowly, slowly, Gene brings his camera up and snaps four shots in rapid succession. Two birds fly off like winged rainbows, but the rest of the rowdy crew parties on. I watch them through binoculars, trying to figure out what they're doing. They aren't eating. Maybe they really are just socializing, talking about where they should go for dinner later. Researchers think they do communicate. With life spans of 30 to 45 years in the wild, they have time to teach and learn skills.
The two fly aways return. Or is it a new pair? They all look alike: scarlet heads, shoulders, chests and tails with brilliant yellow separating their red shoulders and dark blue wings. Their tails are as long as their bodies. Their wings span almost three feet. Another couple take off. We move to a shady spot, which doesn't spook the macaws. Birds continue to fly in and out of the tree, always in pairs. Are we witnessing a mating ritual?
The birds appear oblivious to our presence except for one who seems to watch us with a small, round black eye in the middle of a large white patch. Although males and females look alike, I think of the watch bird as a male. I say, "You know how macaws mate for life? Some of these couples may have been together as long as we have."
"Maybe they're having an anniversary party up there," says Gene. He lies down beside me. "We should have one down here. This is Lovers Beach." He pushes the bathing suit strap off my right shoulder, down my arm, over my hand, until it's free.
"This could be a well known spot for observing macaws," I object, suddenly self conscious. "What if someone else shows up and ...."
"No one's showing up," he says firmly and slips the other strap off my shoulder.
"We haven't seen a single soul since we left camp." He pulls my suit down to my waist and gives me a soft, slow, salty kiss.
I like salt. And slow. And soft. I lift my hips, so he can take the suit all the way off. I lay on my back in the warm sand, wearing only opal and gold earrings. I 'm ready. Twenty-five years is enough foreplay. I surrender to a symphony of surf. Love never felt as wild as under the macaw's eye.
Afterward, we lie in a tangle of hot, sweaty limbs. Neither of us wants to extinguish the afterglow, but finally Gene asks, "Are you game to do a little snorkeling?"
"Sure," I say. I feel too close to him to accept a separation. I feel too much the wild woman to have him scout the situation for me again. Besides, I need to rinse off. We put our flippers on at a wavy line of foamy bubbles and side step our way into the ocean. We get our masks wet, pull them on, and lay into the water, face down, eyes open. The water is murky. I swim a little closer to a small outcropping of rocks where we have our best chance of seeing fish. Still, I see only dirty water. A shark could be two feet from me, and I wouldn't see it. I lift my head from the water to see where Gene is, to tell him I'm getting out. His bright pink snorkel sticks out of the water eight feet from me. I swim toward him but don't get any closer. I know immediately that I'm in trouble.
The tide brings him closer to me. I say, "I'm trying to go in and not getting anywhere."
"We're in a rip tide," he says.
The tide isn't trying to suck us out to sea or pull us under, but it's trying to throw us onto the rocks. I'm afraid of them, of what they might do to me. They might cut me up for shark bait. I've been cut by less ominous outcrops before, and I could see what predators my blood attracted and move in the direction of my choice. Now I can do neither. I know we should swim parallel to shore, but the rocks are in our way. "Let's try and get around the rocks," I say.
We try, repeatedly. It isn't a great distance, but it's a distance that never diminishes. We're on nature's own treadmill. I get tired. I decide to take a break. I let myself bob like a cork.
"You aren't trying!" Gene shouts. He takes my hands and tries to pull me through the water.
"I'm just resting," I say. "I'm not giving up." I'm not panicked, but I know nobody will come to our rescue. We have to save ourselves. I realize if I continue to fight the ocean, I will lose. I know Gene has the physical strength to make it, but I also know he won't return to shore without me. If he drowns, it'll be my fault. That was no way to end such a beautiful day, such a great trip, such a wonderful life. I knew what to do, had known from the beginning, but I'd let my fear of the rocks distract me from salvation.
I let the current take me to the rocks. I crawl onto them. They are soft and mossy, not sharp and spiny as I'd feared. Gene follows. There's barely room for both of us. I catch my breath before a wave crashes over us. I know the next one might sweep me away. I say, "I'm going off the other side and swim parallel to shore until I can get in."
"I'll be right with you," says Gene.
Now we're going with the flow. It's no longer a battle, but I look longingly toward land. I imagine us swimming parallel to shore all the way to Panama.
"Let's try and catch the next wave," says Gene. We watch the water bunching up and moving toward us. "Get ready," he warns. "Go! Go, go, go!"
I paddle and stroke, paddle and stroke, until my fingers finally dig into sand, and still I keep clawing my way up onto the beach. I lay on my stomach, half in, half out of the shallow water, exhausted.
"Are you okay, baby?" asks Gene, beside me.
I roll onto my back and pull my mask off. He kisses me and holds me. We don't look like the lovers on the beach in "From Here To Eternity." I have on bright yellow flippers. He has on huge black ones. I'm sure an outline of the dive mask remains, like a fresh scar, across my forehead, down the sides of my face, and under my nose, but who cares? Life is beautiful, and we are alive.
I raise my hands to my ear lobes. I still have both earrings. We didn't come to this beach to love and then die under the macaw's eye. The ocean didn't even claim a sacrificial earring. Anyone that lucky might still see the elusive jaguar.
**************************************
The ocean finally claimed one of Mary Gaffney's earrings at Hanalua Bay in Hawaii. Mary thought of it as deferred payment and stopped wearing earrings while snorkeling. Unfortunately, that left only her wedding ring, which rough surf took at Cabo San Lucas recently. Perhaps costume jewelry is the answer for this writer whose work has been featured in numerous Travelers' Tales and other anthologies.
This bio appeared with “Under the Macaw’s Eye” when it was first published in TINY LIGHTS – A Journal of Personal Essay, Jan. 2000.
.
We walk on a ribbon of white sand undulating between Pacific blue Ocean and jungle green vegetation. Six scarlet macaws fly by above the trees. They call out. I think they say, "You're in a wild and wonderful place." The flight here, in an eight passenger plane, to the remote Osa peninsula from San Jose, the two hours of rutted dirt roads in the back of a four-wheel-drive pick-up, and, now, the thirty minute walk to our final destination, the Corcovado tent camp - all worth it for that one fly-by.
Gene and I want to find a spot where we can observe and photograph the big birds. We hope to discover a truly deserted beach with all the romantic and lusty possibilities that implies. Because of its isolated location, Corcovado doesn't have many visitors, even along it's perimeter. Fewer still intrude on the interior. We plan to hike six miles further in from camp before turning back.
I wanted to look good for our hike, in case we do find Lovers Beach, our name for that sandy love nest. Looking good in the wilderness is always a challenge to a woman, but when you're old enough to celebrate your 25th wedding anniversary, as I am in Costa Rica, it may be an impossibility. My body has reached that stage where clothes are my best friends. I don't look good in short shorts anymore. Long shorts are worse, like putting a spotlight on my knees. My bustline isn't bad - in a bra. The muscles in my stomach are tight, but the skin isn't. Forget two piece bathing suits and the cropped tops that are currently in style. Even my feet are no longer attractive in the buff because of bunions. Looking at my naked body in a full length mirror is like a scavenger hunt for treasure. All I find is my shoulders. They are still quite pleasing. I consider wearing a long, strapless sundress on the hike. I can picture myself walking barefoot along water's edge, dark hair and full flowered skirt billowing out in the breeze. It's a romantic sight, something you'd see in a fashion magazine or an advertisement for tampons. But it's hot, and I want to swim.
I end up in functional sports sandals, a sunhat, a bathing suit with a large chiffon scarf tied at the waist like a see-through skirt, and my favorite earrings, gold hoops set with small round opals. They sway and twirl gracefully.
As we leave our tent at sunrise for the big trek, I reach for Gene's hand. "Maybe this is the day we'll finally see a jaguar in the wild," I say. A travel brochure for the area shows a jaguar and her cub on the beach.
"I wouldn't count on it," he says.
Jaguars, macaws, Lovers Beach, colorful fish, and who knows what other wildlife or adventures await us. I feel exhilarated at the possibilities. I certainly don't feel fear. There's no danger of getting lost - just walk along the beach. The early departure and return by sundown are timed to the tides, so high tide won't force us back into the jungle behind the beach and strand us there after dark. We have plenty of food, water, and sun screen. We have each other.
Twenty minutes from camp we wade across the Rio Madrigal. The river is as far into the back country as anyone else from camp is going that day. Two hours later, Gene says, "I need to get in the water. If the surf's not too rough, I'll let you know."
He returns quickly, looking like a handsome, blue-eyed Neptune, water sliding off his smooth, muscular upper body. I love the way he looks when his hair is wet and slicked back from his face.
He says, "I didn't see much, and there's a strong surge. Did I miss anything here?"
"Jaguars came creeping out of the jungle as soon as your back was turned."
He smiles at my fanciful story and asks, "Were you frightened here alone?"
"Not at all."
"You always worry about bears when we're backpacking in California."
"That's because I've seen so many bears. I've never seen a jaguar in the wild. He's more like a mythological creature than a threat."
"Maybe he's waiting for us further on," says Gene.
We set off again and walk into a wilderness dream come true. Rising ten feet above the surrounding palms is a tree ablaze with the vivid primary colors of a dozen scarlet macaws. We stand speechless and motionless for fear they'll fly away. Slowly, slowly, Gene brings his camera up and snaps four shots in rapid succession. Two birds fly off like winged rainbows, but the rest of the rowdy crew parties on. I watch them through binoculars, trying to figure out what they're doing. They aren't eating. Maybe they really are just socializing, talking about where they should go for dinner later. Researchers think they do communicate. With life spans of 30 to 45 years in the wild, they have time to teach and learn skills.
The two fly aways return. Or is it a new pair? They all look alike: scarlet heads, shoulders, chests and tails with brilliant yellow separating their red shoulders and dark blue wings. Their tails are as long as their bodies. Their wings span almost three feet. Another couple take off. We move to a shady spot, which doesn't spook the macaws. Birds continue to fly in and out of the tree, always in pairs. Are we witnessing a mating ritual?
The birds appear oblivious to our presence except for one who seems to watch us with a small, round black eye in the middle of a large white patch. Although males and females look alike, I think of the watch bird as a male. I say, "You know how macaws mate for life? Some of these couples may have been together as long as we have."
"Maybe they're having an anniversary party up there," says Gene. He lies down beside me. "We should have one down here. This is Lovers Beach." He pushes the bathing suit strap off my right shoulder, down my arm, over my hand, until it's free.
"This could be a well known spot for observing macaws," I object, suddenly self conscious. "What if someone else shows up and ...."
"No one's showing up," he says firmly and slips the other strap off my shoulder.
"We haven't seen a single soul since we left camp." He pulls my suit down to my waist and gives me a soft, slow, salty kiss.
I like salt. And slow. And soft. I lift my hips, so he can take the suit all the way off. I lay on my back in the warm sand, wearing only opal and gold earrings. I 'm ready. Twenty-five years is enough foreplay. I surrender to a symphony of surf. Love never felt as wild as under the macaw's eye.
Afterward, we lie in a tangle of hot, sweaty limbs. Neither of us wants to extinguish the afterglow, but finally Gene asks, "Are you game to do a little snorkeling?"
"Sure," I say. I feel too close to him to accept a separation. I feel too much the wild woman to have him scout the situation for me again. Besides, I need to rinse off. We put our flippers on at a wavy line of foamy bubbles and side step our way into the ocean. We get our masks wet, pull them on, and lay into the water, face down, eyes open. The water is murky. I swim a little closer to a small outcropping of rocks where we have our best chance of seeing fish. Still, I see only dirty water. A shark could be two feet from me, and I wouldn't see it. I lift my head from the water to see where Gene is, to tell him I'm getting out. His bright pink snorkel sticks out of the water eight feet from me. I swim toward him but don't get any closer. I know immediately that I'm in trouble.
The tide brings him closer to me. I say, "I'm trying to go in and not getting anywhere."
"We're in a rip tide," he says.
The tide isn't trying to suck us out to sea or pull us under, but it's trying to throw us onto the rocks. I'm afraid of them, of what they might do to me. They might cut me up for shark bait. I've been cut by less ominous outcrops before, and I could see what predators my blood attracted and move in the direction of my choice. Now I can do neither. I know we should swim parallel to shore, but the rocks are in our way. "Let's try and get around the rocks," I say.
We try, repeatedly. It isn't a great distance, but it's a distance that never diminishes. We're on nature's own treadmill. I get tired. I decide to take a break. I let myself bob like a cork.
"You aren't trying!" Gene shouts. He takes my hands and tries to pull me through the water.
"I'm just resting," I say. "I'm not giving up." I'm not panicked, but I know nobody will come to our rescue. We have to save ourselves. I realize if I continue to fight the ocean, I will lose. I know Gene has the physical strength to make it, but I also know he won't return to shore without me. If he drowns, it'll be my fault. That was no way to end such a beautiful day, such a great trip, such a wonderful life. I knew what to do, had known from the beginning, but I'd let my fear of the rocks distract me from salvation.
I let the current take me to the rocks. I crawl onto them. They are soft and mossy, not sharp and spiny as I'd feared. Gene follows. There's barely room for both of us. I catch my breath before a wave crashes over us. I know the next one might sweep me away. I say, "I'm going off the other side and swim parallel to shore until I can get in."
"I'll be right with you," says Gene.
Now we're going with the flow. It's no longer a battle, but I look longingly toward land. I imagine us swimming parallel to shore all the way to Panama.
"Let's try and catch the next wave," says Gene. We watch the water bunching up and moving toward us. "Get ready," he warns. "Go! Go, go, go!"
I paddle and stroke, paddle and stroke, until my fingers finally dig into sand, and still I keep clawing my way up onto the beach. I lay on my stomach, half in, half out of the shallow water, exhausted.
"Are you okay, baby?" asks Gene, beside me.
I roll onto my back and pull my mask off. He kisses me and holds me. We don't look like the lovers on the beach in "From Here To Eternity." I have on bright yellow flippers. He has on huge black ones. I'm sure an outline of the dive mask remains, like a fresh scar, across my forehead, down the sides of my face, and under my nose, but who cares? Life is beautiful, and we are alive.
I raise my hands to my ear lobes. I still have both earrings. We didn't come to this beach to love and then die under the macaw's eye. The ocean didn't even claim a sacrificial earring. Anyone that lucky might still see the elusive jaguar.
**************************************
The ocean finally claimed one of Mary Gaffney's earrings at Hanalua Bay in Hawaii. Mary thought of it as deferred payment and stopped wearing earrings while snorkeling. Unfortunately, that left only her wedding ring, which rough surf took at Cabo San Lucas recently. Perhaps costume jewelry is the answer for this writer whose work has been featured in numerous Travelers' Tales and other anthologies.
This bio appeared with “Under the Macaw’s Eye” when it was first published in TINY LIGHTS – A Journal of Personal Essay, Jan. 2000.
.
