50 cent beers and my mancrush

After meeting up with a hairy Iranian and a small brunette girl who I've been told slightly resembles my good-looking self in the overly tourist saturated Costa Rican town of Tamarindo, we continued our journey to the Costa Rican capital of San Jose. After checking into a place that slightly resembled the dorms of a large D-1 university Johnny and Brown went to the casino. Then they went to another, and another. It seems these people love to play the slots and most are yet to discover any sort of cardgames. I think it is for the free A/C. I went for the free beer. Although I wasn't playing they had no problems bringing me drinks...one of the perks of being a gringo I think. Brown, with pockets swollen from an under-the-table Subaru sale and Johnny, with pockets swollen from oil I think, sat down at what might have been San Jose's only blackjack table. After a while I left them to play. Their night ended with Brown about even and Johnny up 600 bucks. The next day we said good-bye to Brown and made our to the Carribean Coast.
The town of Puerto Viejo was pretty uneventful. I slept walked some more and fell from a head-height balcony before stumbling out the door to piss in the hallway....as told by Kerri Foss, I remember nothing. After two nights we headed south to Bocas del Toro, Panama.
Bocas del Toro could definitely be considered a highlight of the trip. After checking into a private room with a mirror on the ceiling above the bed at the Mondo Taitu hostel we drank a few 50 cent beers at the bar. After eating some street chicken we went to a bar playing some classic rock.....just kidding, more bullshit reggaeton. The bar was called the ship wreck and it became apparent why when looking off their dock into the crystal clear water one could see a few sunken banana boats. Like most nights it ended with a hangover.
You can tell a lot by a person about where he meets his man-crush. We all got them and you'd be a fag to deny that. Where someone like Chuck may find their crush in a 400lb Latino bar bouncer and Tim may experience love at first site with a tall, dark, handsome and of course well-dressed young professional, I found mine in a Belgian spear fisherman. He lived on the deserted backside of the island and spent his time fighting hang overs and shooting fish that routinely weighed over 100 lbs. In addition to the fact he ate fresh fish every night and dove to depths of 80ft on a single breath, he was just a straight bad ass. I asked him about sharks because anyone who has read something by the great Skip Hellen or Terry Mass knows that the spasms and blood from a speared fish, especially in tropical waters, immediately attracts sharks. What he said next was the activation energy that started the chemical reaction of my heart. In a thick Belgian accent he said, "I see sharks everyday, I hate sharks....and I shoot them." This mad man didn't stumble upon fights in the water world he really didn't belong in, he went looking for them. When you spear a large fish or shark, if you fail to immediately paralyze them by hitting the small spot along their spine of cartilage, their immediate reaction is to head for the deep. As this happens you most often let the spear line run out until it sees resistance from the two or three connected floats almost identical to the ones used by lifeguards. The reason I say most often is because the true man men use no float and simply fight to swim to the surface all on that same single breath. If you can't make it your options are die or sacrifice the large fish and expensive equipment. The Belgian rogue used floats of no sort.
I pried him further for technique but my interest in the large predators off the shore got the best of me. He said their were reef, bull, and feared most of all tiger sharks. It was turtle nesting season on the white sands of Panama and the tiger sharks were following the migration of their favorite foods. This nutcase who stole my heart routinely swam with those ruthless killing machines. As the conversation continued we began to open up. I asked him if he ever lost a friend. He told me he was lucky, but others on the island could not utter that same simple word. He began to tell me the story of three local fisherman, black guys who lived on the island all their lives. About a year ago the three went fishing for giant sea turtles in a long dug-out canoe. Catching one of the slow moving animals in a net they attempted to haul the the 300lb+ animal on board. Failing to do so from above one man jumped in and attempted to help by lifting from below. As the story goes he was seized instantly by a large tiger shark before the animal attempted to drag the man to his deep watery grave. In a last ditch effort the man was able to grab the rim of the canoe. The tiger shark, which can grow up to 20 ft long, continued to pull the man and quickly cap-sized the unstable fishing canoe. There were now three men in those crystal Caribbean waters. The shark turned, what must've been out of a killer instinct, to attack the other men. A one-sided struggle ensued eventually leaving the two other men dead. The man first attacked by the animal of instinctual killing managed to climb aboard the capsized canoe barely saving his life. This man, plagued by his past and the events resulting from his attempt to save his own life, still lives on the island of Colon in that beautiful little archipelago with the handicap of crutches and a missing limb to constantly remind him of that fearful day.
There was a somber mood in the air as he finished his story and I knew this man would be lucky to see the age of 50. I could see in his eyes, a light shade of pink from the local sugar cane moonshine of the night before, that he would see his end from these creatures he routinely hunts. One can win numerous battles over long periods of time but a war cannot go on forever. He was a warrior and he and I both knew that the only death fit for a man of his recklessness would involve no coffin, no cremation, no urn. It would be a true warrior's death with his body retuning to the sea the only way he knew.
We left with a solid handshake and the nod of a head. I never knew his name and I never told him mine. We thought it best as it would only lead to tears down the road.
His former job was a tenured butterfly researcher of a foreign university, receiving modest grants to study the beautiful and peaceful creatures.

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