The One Rule
A day on Isla Gitana, Costa Rica
The following stories and associated articles were originally published in 2023-2024. I re-edited them for new subscribers. From March 31st to May 9th, I will release these stories twice a week while I’m in Malaysia and China. If you want to support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your interactions with these stories and articles will help me deliver the type of writing you want based on my experiences in China.
Each story stands alone but holds more weight for those who start from the beginning.
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?”
I watched the young women skipping their way towards Bill's cabin.
“No, I am not a feminist, John. I’m nothing that ends with ‘ist.’”
John laughed and watched Lucas playing with Captain Whiskers, the famous sea cat who got landsick after an hour or so.
“Luca, I am going to see Jacques. Do you mind if I take the dinghy?”
“Go ahead. Tell Jacques we have to talk about the day trips, lunch, and so on. We’ve got some clients to show around.”
It was a short trip with the dinghy to the mainland, where Jacques, a Belgian friend of ours, was building a boutique hotel encircling a tropical-creek-inspired swimming pool.
I pulled the dinghy onto the little beach beside the dock and walked up towards the hotel. Iguanas and butterflies gave colour to the verdant landscape. And there Jacques was, wiping away the drops of sweat on his bald head. Luca called him the bulldozer with a golden heart, as he was literally moving mountains to make his dream hotel come true.
“Hello Jacques, do you have some time for a woman escaping the madness of Isla Gitana?”
“Caty! You’re the best excuse to take a break,” he said, wiping his hands on his dirty shorts before giving me three kisses. “Let’s have a drink at the bar.”
As a proper Belgian, he ensured the hotel's most important part was ready. The bar was made of a pebble mosaic with an abstract design of wind and waves. The Bar’s terrace gave ample room for the several tables that overlooked the swimming pool and jungle encroaching on the hotel’s perimeter.
“So, what’s up? Is the old man going crazy?”
“Hello, Caty, I made you a Pina Colada. I remember you liked it a lot,” interjected Johan, a young German guy who helped Jacques with the hotel.
“Thanks, Johan.”
I turned to Jacques and told him about the snake, the one and only rule, the dia de la caza and Captain Whiskers.
“Caty, you’re living on an inhabited island in a shack where all your belongings fit in a tiny suitcase. Don’t you miss the university in Belgium? Why did you drop out three months before the finish line, love?”
You’ve asked me the same things, Nolan. And my answer was the same back then. I told him I didn’t know. That perhaps it was love. I also felt trapped in Belgium. My parents were going through an ugly divorce; my father looked down on my studies, and my mom had no interest. I always felt like an outsider. And yes, I also told Jacques that your father drove me crazy, but at least I connected with him. Like you, I needed his free spirit.
“That’s what I like about you both, Caty. You’re both hungry for knowledge and finding a kind of truth in the real world. I know that feeling. Do you know what’s helpful? The realization that ninety percent of the people are sheep. The ten percent who can think for themselves are difficult to find because they don’t belong to clubs, political parties, churches, or all the trulalla of society. So you better enjoy your total freedom as long as it lasts because one day, believe me, Caty, you will deal with tax returns, house insurance, and school meetings, and then you’ll think about the one and only rule of Isla Gitana.”
Then, like now, the vision of Isla Gitana unfolds before me in all its splendour: the dense jungle, the palm trees, the sailing vessels and our Corsario gracefully moored alongside the dock.
The jungle stirs to life as the chorus of howler monkeys reverberates through the air, signalling the onset of 5.00 pm. Much like the reliability of Big Ben, their timely performance can be counted on without fail.
Emerging from the jungle's depths, three young women materialize, their joy evident as they run, laugh and giggle towards the cabin. Bill follows suit, his arms waving in an unbridled display, creating a scene that is nothing short of picture-perfect.
I row the dinghy alongside the Corsario, and the tantalizing aroma of fish sizzling on the barbecue makes me very hungry. I hear Bob Dylan singing; she’s got everything she needs, she is an artist/she don’t look back/she can take the dark out of the nighttime and paint the daytime black.
“Here, catch Caty.” John gently throws a can of beer towards me.
“How was your afternoon, love?” asks your father, but I can’t answer. There are no words. I walk to Lucas and embrace him until we dissolve into each other, our beings intermingling like whispering wind in a dance of shared breath.