The Alumni of Costa Rica

(A Personal Essay)

    

The constant dull ache reminds me of my stupidity. Any sudden movement escalates the pain from a two to a seven in milliseconds, forcing me to pause, take slow deep breaths and absorb the throbbing until it dissipates until the next movement. I move with bated breath. Each action taking far longer than normal. Dressing, showering, and sleeping now activities of agony. Yet the pretense for others about my well-being even harder to maintain because shame courses through me for my reckless actions. No one to blame except myself, making it harder to bear the looks of concerns from loved ones.

     How long can the charade continue before the façade crumbles, and I give in to the relief of admission? Something inside me won’t let me give up on the idea. Won’t break down. Won’t allow the shame’s redness crawl up my face and become a permanent mark.

     You are fine. Stop being a whining baby. It’s a simple injury.

     Yet what got me there not as straightforward. My hubris took over as always while my stoicism becomes my shield. Neither serve me with prolonged use yet for some reason they are still the tools I use automatically. My mom gave me the gift of introspection along with the quiet or maybe that is something inhaled by me over the year, burying my voice deep as not to express myself, to not stand out, to not complain, to take it all in with a grimace and hold firm.

     Hold steady.

     As usual, solitude surrounds me at this hour. Early morning where it seems even the sun is not ready to open its eyes. My witching time because the dark offers some solace, but my mind, like the sun slowly awakens as to what is truly happening. The road ahead looms, the recovery long, the mistake overwhelms me as it hits how much got thrown away in just a matter of seconds. Months, no! years of fitness left to wither away as I heal. Recovery more important than progress. Back to the beginning. Pain my new friend or maybe an old one back again in a different way. Something to be never shared in the present but later far away when I no longer feel its affects.

     The coffee cold but still goes down easy. The dog not tired of pacing or waiting for her walk. The pressure to stop mounts. Something must give, and it’s usually me. Swallow it in. Suck it up. Pretend all is well.

     Ain’t got time for this shit. Get up! Shut up! Move!

     My fingers tremble along with my heart. Thoughts swirl inside me, emotions attempt to break free, to finally be free of this prison inside me, yet after a moment, everything still holds firm, and the writing continues. Each word slams onto the page as replacement for feeling, for past pain, for old hurtful memories, for things done by others onto or to me. Yet fear does not allow me to speak of old trauma. Dangerous territory like in the movie Raiders of the Lost Ark, hidden weapons that can kill or destroy others, or worse, me. The show must go on.

     What fucking show? That’s all you got now? Cliches?

Another flare up but this time: inside me. I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the images coming through. A bed. Me pretending to be asleep as someone makes me, no! Enough! Not going there. Nothing to see here folks. Move along. Chop, chop, chop. All is well. Breathe!  Breathe it out, the bad stuff, the things that no one needs to know, the ones I pretend not to know or remember, things that set me on my path, or did it? Did I spread that toxic behavior onto others? What’s that saying? Hurt people hurt people.

     That’s for damn sure.

     Then relief. Real pain to snap me back to reality. This torture wheel I can’t seem to get off. Patience reader, there is a point. I think there is at least. Or maybe this is it, you are on this ride with me, and you are stuck unless you just get off by stopping. An urge to stop comes to me. To shake it off, get up, walk the pacing dog, bury everything else deep inside me and start another day pretending the pain doesn’t exist. But why? What’s the pay off? Ignorance even thought I know or just hiding. That’s it. Perhaps if I pretend long enough, I can forget? Is that even possible? Enough! Give some story.

     “Sorry Gentlemen, we can’t go boating, nothing available,” the lithe concierge informed us. Her large, polarized sunglasses covered most of her face, making her smile look even larger. Her pockmarked forehead showed wear from too much make up or perhaps sun. We all sat around the ceramic countertop, the sun lighting up its surface as if it was a mirror. My eyes watered as I fumbled to put on my sunglasses to get protection and hide my disappointment. “Things are crazy busy this week, and once you cancelled, that boat got taken up quick.” The concierge reminding us that this was our fault. A trip for eight to Costa Rica cut down to four people. 

     Fucking Covid, the gift that keeps on giving.

     “What are our other options?” I blurted out without thinking. The need to do something strong even though all our time had been full of laughter, intimate conversations, and contented peaceful quiet. The urge for action sudden, as if the activity showed the reason for the trip, made it easy to explain why we came when the real reason was conversation and spending time with my boys. Boys. Interesting term. Men more like it. Each of them successful in their varying fields, and the common denominator our decades long friendship. We all had a come a long way not just for the trip but in life. We kept our friendship going even as our lives changed in ways none of us imagined. Each time we hung out, we got more stories, more things to laugh about in the future more reasons to keep being around each other.

     One of things that filled me with gratitude is my cousin, the closest thing to a little brother. He made the trip just as he’d been there when I decided to drive cross country before 9/11 to process my divorce. Without complaint, he got into my green Honda coupe which we loaded up with music, snacks and clothes and drove to Canada to all the way to Florida over a three week period. The one who stood outside my parties, collecting payment, managing the lines, and never ever complaining. The one who took the brunt of my frustrations as if I was merely whispering sweet nothings to him. Our dynamic duo always firm, clear to anyone who saw us. So of course, he had to be the one to pick me up when the ATV flipped over, the one who fretted at the clinic, or kept asking if I needed anything. He’d been present for a lot of my pain. The one I could rest on without fear or embarrassment.

     The concierge scanned her phone, and for a moment we stood with bated breath for her pronouncement. Scroll, scroll, a small shake of the head as if what she saw didn’t meet her approval or couldn’t be up to our standard. A screech from an unknown bird did not break her concentration or ours. Costa Rica breathed in a way that soothed everyone, its sun blanketed the entire house. After a few moments, she had an answer.

     “After lunch, I can take you ATVing where you drive up to see a beautiful waterfall, it’s a half day excursion so we have to hurry and book now.”  I didn’t hear her say the word up, but as soon as she said ATV I nodded vigorously.

     “Yes, lets do it.”

     I imagined sand dunes no matter that we were in a area surrounded by forests and mountains, no matter that the beach I had seen reminded me of Hawaii with a flat sandy area that went on for miles, I had a picture from my mind and that was enough. The adventure more important than the details. The social media posts already imagined and posted in my mind. The willingness to share so openly always there no thought paid to the actual experience. It was all about the likes and the comments. Okay, maybe not all. I’d tempered myself quite a bit from the time I used to post my feelings on Facebook daily, made it my megaphone to shout out one way to the world anything that crossed my mind. Now I just posted picture my world through images, showing off all my sides, from Crossfit to drinking to family time, becoming a quiet narrator wanting the world to see how well I was. 

Look at me! I exist. I matter.

“Okay guys, that doesn’t give us a lot of time to do lunch and get ready and get out” warned the organizer of this trip. He’d put it together without complaint, herding the group towards consensus on payment, activities, the place, and the flights. All made to happen because I mentioned I wanted to do this trip.  He was my friend who I met through another friend twenty years ago where there was an instant connection. A New York native who moved to California for his wife, they were the first couple we hung out with a lot during my first marriage. And then he hit me with the news that he no longer wanted to be married to the mutual friend even though they had two children together. He admitted the kids were the reason he had stayed as long as he had, but it was time. The silence between us stretched for a few moments and then we drew into each other for a tight hug. In that moment, a lifelong friendship cemented. It took his ex-wife years before she forgave me.

     I got you. You are safe.

     And with little fanfare our friendship continued to my current life, flourished even as the years flew, to the point that my wife lights up each time she sees he has called. A good person lasts no matter how introduced, what their and my past was because the feelings and action they exude show anyone that they are good to be around, to have as a companion, someone to share moments with like this trip. Being around him always meant smiling or sharing amazing food thanks to his gourmet cooking skills or finding amazing things to eat. That was another thing that bonded: our love for food. The chef arrived early and began preparations for what he called a simple meal. Eggs over last night’s seafood paella.

     The room reeked of gas and musty machines.

     “It’s simple, keep your helmet on the entire time and you will be fine. Also, the brake is next to your foot and the accelerator next to you so you can go as fast or slow as you want.” And with those words, our guide completed our training. We got into a single file.

     “Hey, I will go behind you just in case” my New York brother explained, somehow sensing my discomfort. Even as we got into a single file, I kept trying to move the ATV like a motorcycle, trying to accelerate by try9ing to ren the handles until my friend reminded me to use the accelerator next to my thumb as the person had just explained five minutes before. As soon as I pressed the lever in, the ATV jolted forward, and my heart hammered. We all began moving forward onto the road.

     This isn’t too bad. I can do this.

     A soft breeze cooled me as the sun blazed, and dust made my eyes water, making my glad I had my glasses on as my hard contacts were the only reason I could see. We shared the road as cars whizzed by, making my heart beat a bit faster as I felt the breeze from their closeness. After a few minutes, my forearms ached from holding the handlebars so right.

     When is this over?

     And then the real ride began as we turn onto a man-made dirt track going up a hill.

     Uh oh.   

     My fourth friend close behind the guide followed by my cousin then my and lastly my back up New York. Now I remembered the concierge’s words: waterfall and lunch.

     Oh we gotta go up a hill to get to the food and drink.

     Suddenly grateful I’d only had one beer while most of the time in Costa Rica we began breakfast with drinks and continued throughout the day since we were all on vacation mode. Yet my heart sank as we sped up the hills, me and my friend far behind from other guys as they whooped and shouted and went up the steep hills while my heart hammered and my forearms ached from my tight death knell grip. Each incline made my heart rate go faster as I accelerated and then slowed right away as I made it just over to the next phase.

     I can do this. You got this. This is fun. You are going to remember.

     “Sanjay, you ok bro? You are accelerating too fast onto the hill, keep it steady. I can see you are not keeping steady control of the ATV so just take it slowly.” New York advised me in one breath, concern all over this face. I smiled emptily and put up a thumbs up sign to indicate I got it but I didn’t get it.  Nervousness flooded me as I struggle to control the machine and my fear.

     It’s not that bad. I got this. I can do it. When is this fucking thing over?

     Another steep incline. I gaped and revved up my ATV to get over the hill as fast as I could. The ATV responded immediately, and we ran up the hill. I gripped the handle tighter as the dirt road made it harder to control, and then suddenly I veered to the left a bit and hit an mud embankment, and things slowed down as the ATV hitched forward, and tilted nearly ninety degrees.

     Oh, shit I am about to fall out.  

     But it kept going and as I flipped over, the ATV fell on top of me. Right away, I knew something bad had happened. My mind flashed to my wife, and I wondered how I would explain this, but also mourned the loss of Crossfit and other activities for a while if I had broken a bone. Leave it to me to come to Costa Rica to hurt myself, far away from modern medicine, and my home and family.

     “Sanjay, are you okay?” New York screamed as he got off the ATV off me, while gesturing wildly to the others to stop, to make it all stop, to make this pain go away that permeated my soul. I took large breaths to slow my heart down to no effect. The pain radiated, and I knew something was terribly wrong. I lay face down.

     “Don’t touch me. I think its broken.” Not my soul or my drive just my body. Something I had managed to avoid for fifty years now here in my life as my new reality.  

     What is she going to say? What am I going to do?

     The fourth friend ran back, the one who had been in the lead the entire time, racing up the mountain as if was nothing. I envied his enthusiasm. Our friendship over two decades long, grown comfortable, sharing a lot of the same interests, pride always emanating when I heard about his successes, and a shared story about the time he brought by his new Ferrari for me to experience and I ended up throwing up in it. I would never live that down. The guy who vomited in a Ferrari. My wife never understood my eagerness to tell that story without shame because my friend never gave me grief about it, not once, not ever,

     Now he looked at me with concern, fear in his voice as all three gathered around me, their stares burrowing into me like my pain. Slowly I tried to turn, but shooting pain in my should made me pause, but finally I sat up, and the shoulder felt all wrong yet I could move my arm. Relief. But not much. Just enough to know probably nothing broken, but the shoulder off. It felt disconnected, and the term dislocated came to me right away.

     Great. Just great. Came to Costa Rica to dislocate body parts.

     The guide quickly put on a makeshift sling onto me.

     “We have to get him down the hill.”

     Shit, we have riding up for at least thirty minutes.

     “He can ride on my ATV as long as he holds me.”

     No disagreement from the guys, as my heart sank at the journey, the pain filling up my world.

     Just get me down. Get me to the doctor. Make it stop.

     Slowly, the guys helped me onto the balding mans ATV. Gingerly holding him while anchoring myself with the other hand, we began. The fear of falling off great inside me, I breathed slowly to slow my fear and pain. The journey appeared endless as we rode down, me barely hanging on, the sun on my back, baking into my shoulder. It felt each bounce reverberated inside while through my closed eyes, I begged the pain to stop, to just get there. The ride felt slower and slower as the pain increased and then we were there. The other three helped me off the ATV gingerly and took me inside to the clinic.

     A bed. I half sat up as the pain too great to lie down, but suddenly a nurse appeared, putting in an IV. It took him forever to find the vein so much, so I wanted to help him as I got blood drawn monthly for my Warfarin dosage check.

     He doesn’t know how to do an IV? What kind of place am I in?

     Then he was in, and medicine pumped into me. The pain subsided enough for me to be able to focus at my environment. A drawn curtain separated me from the others. My gaze fell on my friends, concern the main emotion on their face, and quiet. Not much to say since this was my fault. I needed to reassure them.

     “Guys this was my fault. I should have been more careful or told you I couldn’t hang anymore.” The words came out in a torrent of feeling and explanation. The guys nodded, and New York then made my freeze up when he spoke up.

     “Bro, you were fifteen feet away from the cliff, if that embankment hadn’t broken your fall, you would have gone down the mountain.” Fear and concern covered his face as it hit us how close I came to my own end at my own boys trip for my fiftieth .

     Time to restart, to change it up. To not do stupid things or not as many.

     The trip ended on a bit of my own whimper, but the bonds grew stronger, more permanent between the ones who made this trip with me. The vacation that became a story to tell others, minimizing the danger, but not the pain, the reality of starting over at the gym, of the lessons learned. But now we created a new bond, the alumni of Costa Rica. Fuck the pain, tell the story!