Catalina.
Isla Gitana was a place forgotten by time, a hidden gem in the vast expanse of the Golfo El Nicoya, untouched by the frantic pace of the outside world. Here, among the whispering palms and the salt-kissed breeze, stood a solitary cabin and a little shack your father and I called home.
A path from the cabin meandered through an avenue of full-grown palm trees. Their fronds, broad and verdant, filtered the sunlight into a gentle, dappled dance of shadows on the ground. The dock awaited at the end of this path, its time-worn planks weathered by the salty sea spray.
A grand sailing vessel had been at the dock, a majestic two-master stretching a proud 60 feet in length. This old two-master had a storied past whispered secrets of a bygone era. During the tumultuous days of the Korean War, it had been involved in a covert operation, smuggling weapons and supplies to far-off shores, all in the pursuit of the mighty dollar.
This daring endeavour had been masterminded by a man called Willy or Bill, depending on his mood, who had amassed considerable wealth at the age of 72. A free-spirited American with an unwavering belief in the power of commerce had parlayed his wartime exploits into a comfortable estate in the heart of California. His house, nestled in the opulent surroundings of L.A., boasted six bedrooms and an equal number of bathrooms, offering his wife an exuberant life close to the city.
Yet, Bill himself remained a man of simple tastes. He preferred the comfort of his humble cabin on the inhabited island, where he lived in perpetual leisure, donning swimming shorts and a T-shirt as his daily uniform. Free as a bird, living without rules.
Well, there was one rule on the Island.
One.
Here, amid the emerald palms and the harmonious chorus of the Howler monkeys, he tended a small garden devoted to cultivating beets. Each morning, he transformed these earthy roots into a rejuvenating beet juice, sipping its vibrant elixir with a contented smile.
“Morning, beautiful. How’d ya sleep?” he asked as I trudged towards him.
“Not so good, Bill. The first thing I saw was an enormous scorpion on that narrow beam above the bed.”
“And it kept you up?”
“No, a snake did. It was at least three feet long, curled up in that opening above the door.”
“Did he kill it?”
“With what? His bare hands? He’s not afraid of snakes, but it looks like a Bushmaster.”
“Those are great for sleep, Caty.”
“What?”
“Eternal sleep, that is.”
“Exactly. I’ll sleep on the Corsario until I know the shack is snake-free.”
I squatted down to level myself with Bill, who had his hands in the soil.
“By the way, Bill, yesterday I took two beers. Next time we go to Puntarenas, I’ll get you back.”
“All good, Caty. You want me to make some beet juice? You know, if you want to stay young and beautiful, you better start drinking beet juice.”
“I know, Bill,” I said, wondering how many more times he would prescribe me his beets—turned out to be many more.
“Where’s Luc?”
“He’s collecting coconuts for breakfast.”
“My coconuts?”
“Well, they grow here naturally—”
Bill jumps up, his face redder than his beloved beets.
I heard him yelling and cursing as he charged towards our shack. Keeping a safe distance, I speed-walked behind him.
“Let go of my damn coconuts, you son of a gun!”
Your father dropped the coconuts. I believe one landed on his foot, but he was too focused on Bill to notice.
“If you want to stay on this island, do not—DO NOT—touch my coconuts.”
“Are you serious, Bill?” he asked, gesturing towards hundreds of coconuts hanging from the abundance of palm trees. “Is this a Bible joke, or what? Expel Adam and Eve from paradise.”
“So, you don’t get it. DON’T TOUCH MY COCONUTS! I don’t give a damn that you get drunk, smoke weed, or make love on the dock, but take your hands off my coconuts. Comprende?”
He turned around, and as he stormed past me, he quickly said, “One fucking rule, Caty. And even that’s too much.”
It took all my willpower to keep from laughing at the red beet juice squeezing out between his front teeth like a vegan Dracula.
Unsure what to do with the coconuts and sensing it wasn’t the right time to ask for beets, the approaching sailing vessel came as a blessing. We ran towards the dock, waving enthusiastically and hoping for food.
At the bow, a fearless cat with its fur ruffled by the wind, stood proudly—a symbol of John’s return from Panama.
“Hey, Catalina. Mr. Luca.”
John threw the bow line and your father swiftly tied it around the dock’s cleat.
“Man, am I ever happy to be back. How’s Bill doing?”
John jumped on the dock and fastened the spring line around another cleat closest to the stern. “This baby isn’t going anywhere.”
“Well, John, Bill’s pretty upset with Luca. But you won’t guess why.”
John stroked his long blond hair with both hands, looked me straight, inhaled deeply, and said, “Coconuts. Yes?”
“How did you know?
“Well, a couple of years ago, I collected a bunch of coconuts for my trip to California, and when Bill found out, that old bastard almost killed me. And he’s my best friend.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “So now you know about the only rule of the island. But no worries. He’s forgiving. And I have a nice surprise for him.”
John bent over the stern rail, turned his head towards the cabin, and yelled: “Senoritas, estamos en paradiso.”
And out come three young women with big smiles and tiny bikinis.
“Every year, the old man organizes El Dia de Caza. A kind of hide-and-seek for adults in the jungle. A lovely tradition that feminists hate.”
His deep blue eyes shimmered like the ocean on a clear sunny day, a reflection of a life spent sailing the ocean and riding the waves, evoking the unmistakable essence of the Californian beach boy.
“Are you a feminist, Catalina?”
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