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Update 1 | Update 2
Update 3 | Update 4
Update 6 | Update 7
Update 8 | Update 9
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Update 4 - September 23, 1999
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Once again, it has be a long time since the last
update and much water has passed under the keel. This
is a tome, so lock the office door, adjust the monitor
and drift off to the tropics with Condesa.
In this edition:
-The last two months
-The most disgusting thing of my life
-Jim Smith proven wrong in blood!!!!.....Blood!!!
When I last wrote I was in Quepos, sort of trying to
decide if I was going to hang around there and work
for a few months. Of course I decided against any
semblance of work. I began my last update with
glowing hubris about my new computer. I retract it.
That email was about the last thing it did before
becoming permanently and irrecoverably broken. It is
now in Indiana being repaired.
After Quepos I decided the boat needed a bit of TLC,
and the place you work on boats in Costa Rica is
Puntarenas. Only I didn't initially go to Puntarenas,
but to Playa Naranjo, a much more beautiful place,
about six miles from Putarenas for about two weeks of
hard labor. I fixed leaks, rebuilt stuff, got real
dirty and sweaty, cussed, scraped my knuckles a lot on
rough things and got dizzy from breathing poisonous
fumes. But I also met some great cruisers, a theme
that would carry through the summer.
With the glut of visitors I have had since leaving
California, I had not really made any close friends
within the cruising community. This changed in Playa
Naranjo while sharing meals and boat supplies with the
likes of Macnab, a 28 footer on which a family of four
has been cruising for two years and Joss, with a
couple that bounces back and forth between cruising
and working on television productions like the World
Cup and Olympics.
After running out of boat supplies it was time to move
to Puntarenas; a dirty port city where the only things
that don't come floating down the estuary are human
bodies. Prostitution is rampant. I got my wallet,
phone book, watch, and a bunch of other things stolen.
But Puntarenas started to grow on me after a while.
When I first pulled into port I ran into Vern Koepsel,
thus beginning a beautiful friendship. Vern is 84
years old, going on 22; living the cruising dream with
gusto. I had actually met him briefly up in Mexico,
but we didn't get to know each other. Vern helped me
pick up a moring and then said, "How about coming over
for a libation?" After about a dozen rum and cokes on
the fantail of his Celestial 48, Pacific Star, we got
to talking about outfitting our boats. I let on that
I got great deals on everything because my dad owned a
fuel dock in Newport Beach. He asked, "Oh, which
one." I answered, "Well, the 76 dock on Balboa Island
by the ferry." "Not Joe Beek's dock?" "Yeah, Joe Beek
was my grandfather." It turned out that Vern knew my
grandfather, made trips with him to the Channel
Islands on the old Vamos, and knew about a million
other people from home and a ton of local history. We
were inseparable for the next two weeks. Dinner plans
were a matter of "Your boat or mine? I'll bring
dessert."
Vern is an inspiration. To say that he is agile, spry
or active or any of those words people use to describe
older people who are not on their death beds is an
insult. Vern is downright hip. He's got a pony tail,
is up on the latest trends and can drink with the best
of them. We always quibble about who is a worse
influence on whom.
But here is another side to old age.
Vern had told be about a guy around the dock in
Puntarenas, an American guy, who lived on and old
demasted derelict and had horrible wounds on his legs
from ulcerated sores followed by burns from a propane
stove explosion on his boat. I didn't think much of
it until I met him ashore and almost lost my lunch
with a look at his legs.
A few days later I was walking back the the dock after
a fruitless day of trying to recover my stolen butt
back and its contents, when I saw old Bob making very
slow progress down the sidewalk with a bag of
groceries. My first though was "Don't get involved.
You've just had $200, all your cards, wallet, watch,
address book of 15 years, the nice butt pack that Matt
and Christie gave you and a bunch of other stuff
stolen. You've got your own problems"......."but then
again, you can at least carry his groceries for him."
I said, "Hello Sir, how are you doing?"
"Weeeeeelll, not tooooo gooooood."
He wore the mask of death. This was a seriously sick
man, also 84 years old, who looked like he could go at
any moment. He had no one.
Carrying the groceries turned into helping him into
his dinghy, which turned into towing him out to his
boat and helping him aboard. It became obvious that
he could have performed none of these tasks without
outside assistance. It also became obvious that one
wrong step in any of these operations, were he alone,
would mean the end of him.
I was now involved and would become more involved than
I ever wanted to be with this sick, filthy, infected,
cantankerous, stubborn old hermit.
I planned my attack. I would go to his boat in the
morning with a thermos of coffee, make small talk, and
tactfully raise the subject of him moving off the boat
for a while, just until his wounds healed. I would
pay a month's rent on an apartment.
*******Warning...Warning.....this gets pretty
disgusting and I recount the events in detail. The
events were so disgusting that they made me
spontaneously vomit. If you are not prepared, do not
read the next paragraphs. You have been
warned!********
What I saw when I boarded his derelict scow was
shocking. The decks were strewn with the detritus of
a lifetime of ratpacking. When I looked down the
companionway I witnessed the worst conditions in which
I have ever seen another human being live. The first
thing I noticed was cockroaches everywhere, living
unfettered. The next thing I noticed was junk
everywhere: Balls of string, leaking, rusty cans of
paint, lengths of rusty chain, coils of rotten line.
This guy was like those shut-ins you read about who
are found in eighth floor New York City apartments
with 40 years worth of delivered food wrappers and 40
years worth of the New York Times in piles.
The living space of this 40 foot boat had been reduced
to the size of a cockpit of a 25 footer. A filthy,
open-cell foam matt, half of it a mountain of greasy
rags was his bed. At arms length from the bed was the
propane stove, the very one that had recently
exploded, giving him several square feet of second and
third degree burns on his legs. Squalor.
I offered the coffee and made some chit chat, trying
not to let my face reveal my horror. After a minute
or two he said, "Well come on down here and have a
seat. I can't let you sit out there and bake in the
sun" as he made room on the side of the "bed" father
from the companionway. Since I figured this apartment
idea was going to take some convincing, I thought I
should accept his attempt at hospitality, so I went in
and sat next to him. I will always look back on this
as one of the more stupid things I have ever done in
my life. When someone offers you a seat on a urine
and cockroach dropping invested open-cell foam mat
next to a filthy man with oozing septic wounds, you
say "no."
But hindsight is always 20/20. I was about as relaxed
as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. The
festering wounds were literally inches from my skin.
The smell was indescribable: Human filth, rotten
bilgewater and another nasty old boat smell that I've
never been able to identify. Roaches of all sizes
everywhere; inches away on all sides. I do not like
roaches. In fact you could say it is my one phobia
(well, now I have another that I'll get to later), the
one thing that will make me winnie like a schoolgirl.
About this time I noticed that he had a bit of
Parkinson's and was spilling a bit of his coffee as
his hands shook. Some of the coffee was running down
his legs and through the wounds. I was feeling a
surreal type of revulsion, like where your hearing
sort of fades in and out.
The next event was the appearance of a particularly
large cockroach on the stove, mere inches from my
legs. It was making a leisurely tour of the stovetop,
then perched itself right in the middle of the spoon
that Bob was just using to stir his coffee. I still
was trying to maintain some tact in preparation for
broaching the apartment subject, so I thought, "Don't
say anything. He's old and probably doesn't see too
well. He probably hasn't noticed it." I was wrong.
With a catlike lunge, Bob pinioned the roach to the
top of the stove with his hand. Only he didn't have
the strength to crush it with his bare hand. I think
he was saying things like, "I'll get you, you bastard"
but I'm not sure. With his other hand he fetched the
mechanical advantage he needed in the form of a nearby
putty knife. He slide the putty knife under his
fingers and slowly crushed the chitonous shell,
sending white cockroach guts squirting up to a foot
over the top of the stove. I let out, "Oh God!" He
said, "What, did it squirt on you?" I looked down,
averting my eyes from the carnage, only to notice that
he wasn't spilling coffee down his legs, it was coffee
with cream-colored drainage from an abscess on his
leg, now in full flow.
I somehow got over him, vaulted up the companionway,
made it to the rail and well, you know.
Tact was no longer a priority. "Bob, I've been
thinking. I'm worried about you coming and going from
your boat with those wounds. One slip over the rail
and you could really open them up. I think you should
move ashore, just for a month, until your legs heal
up." To my surprise, he said he's consider it. I
just had to come check on his boat every day and bail
the water out, a task for which I imposed on Vern to
come along each time for moral support.
I looked at apartments that day and rented a suitably
clean ground-floor room. He moved in that night.
But things didn't end there. I was always bringing
him food, took him to the doctor, doing all his
bidding because he didn't speak a word of Spanish
after living in Latin America for at least six years.
To make a long story short, I initialy thought Bob was
someone who maybe was in better form in better days,
but old age and some tough hits had put him in a bad
way. After getting to know him I realized that he was
probably and ignorant, stubborn prick of a young man
and now was an ignorant, stubborn prick of an old
coot.
To highlight a particularly rediculous episode:
Doctor (in Spanish): He must bathe, every day. And
he must have a nurse clean those wounds every day
using sterile water. And if he doesn't start taking
antibiotics immediately he could lose the right leg
and the left isn't far behind.
Me: Translate the above in English to Bob.
Bob: Where the hell am I supposed to get this sterile
water. I'm not made of goddamn money you know.
Me: Bob, you just boil regular water and it becomes
sterile water.
Bob: And another thing. I haven't bathed in years!
It's a myth that you have to bath regularly. The
Eskimos perform great feats of physical prowess and
they never bathe their entire lives.
Me: That's because if you get wet in the arctic you'll
die, Bob. And germs grow faster in the tropics than
they do in the arctic.
Doctor (in English): You must bathe. Each day. Es
bery importand. Bery importand!
Bob: Well if he says I have to do it to get better I
will, but it's a bunch of hogwash.
Bob had had me whisk him off the the doctor when I
hadn't eaten all day. I insisted on eating something,
then I would go buy his antibiotics. By the time I
got done eating Bob had decided that that goddamned
young doctor didn't know what the hell he was talking
about and I didn't either and decided he wasn't going
to take the antibiotics.
Within a day or two he moved back onto his boat when
the nice clean apartment was sitting there empty and
paid for.
I gave up on him and was pretty sure he was dead, but
the old bastard was ashore a few days later, wearing
the same infected clothes he had been wearing for
months and giving me that "I know I kicked you in the
teeth but everyone else hates me too much to help me"
look. He was on his own. I neglected to mention that
Bob barraged me with insults the whole time I was
around him and would say thank you for about one out
of ten favors I did for him. I knew it would be a
thankless job when I took it.
So for the whole old age thing, let's hope we all end
up Verns and not Bobs.
In a few days my stint with the geriatric set would
end with visits from some friends my own age. Karl
and Jessica were in San Jose for a few days and
treated me to a five star meal, a great bottle of
tequila and the latest gossip from Mexico City.
Thanks!
Shortly thereafter Brian Sherman arrived for a two
week stint. We hightailed it out of Puntarenas because
of a rampant epidemic of Dengue Fever. Several people
I knew already had it and they were spraying the whole
town down with DDT.
Vern soloed his boat over to an island with us for the
first night and then Brian and I headed south.
Unfortunately I got horribly sick. It wasn't the
dreaded Dengue, but a nasty flu that had me down for
the count for about ten days. Poor Brian, I was sick
for most of the time he was here. The whole trip from
northern to southern Costa Rica was a blur. I stayed
in bed for whole days at a time. Brian is a capable
captain and piloted Condesa while taking good care of
me. Once were were in the Golfo Dulce, I started
feeling better and we did some fun stuff, the coolest
of which was going by truck to Cabo Matopalo and
staying at Bosque del Cabo, a resort belonging to my
friends Kim and Phil. Monkeys, poison dart frogs,
scarlet Macaws, the whole rainforest experience.
I made several more trips to Bosque del Cabo, one by
mountain bike, and will be making a few more.
About two weeks ago I brought the boat into Golfito
and was reunited with Vern, now with his son Ed. Vern
and Ed had secured accommodations on shore at the
Golfito home of one Ray Landrum, originally of San
Diego.
Golfito is a particularly crime-rampant place. If you
are not on your boat by dark, there is a 100% chance
it will be robbed. I know of three boats that have
been robbed, most recently Vern's boat, right in front
of Ray's place.
So this penchant for crime in Golfito makes security a
prime concern. I sleep with a flare gun, numchucks
and mace next to my bunk. Ray, to guard his place,
has a trained attack dog named Blackie.....nice dog,
Blackie. As I was hanging out with Vern and Ed each
night, I had to make peace with Blackie. The first
two times on the property the caretaker held the
snarling beast at bay on a chain as I passed into the
house.
One night we went through the ritual that Vern and Ed
went though to be accepted by the dog. With the
caretaker, Vern and Ed close at hand I fed the dog
meat and chicken and was actually petting it. Nobody
feels quite comfortable around this dog. It had just
sent some woman who was passing by on the street to
the emergency room a month before. Vern felt that the
dog tolerated him but didn't quite accept him.
Blackie is your basic junkyard dog: 50-60 pounds, not
that big, really, markings and head of a Rottweiler,
build of a Pit Bull.
The next day I tied my dingy up at the bulkhead and
came onto the property. I wasn't entirely
comfortable, but I felt that the previous day's ritual
would allow me to pass Blackie unmolested. As I
crossed the grounds I was petting the other dogs, the
non-attack dog mutts, then approached Blackie. I
spoke gently, "Hello Blackie, good dog." He came up
to me for an inspection, not growling or anything. I
extended my right hand for him to smell it. He
smelled it, growled, then bit into it. The attack was
on. I was instantly engaged in mortal combat with a
trained attack dog.
I could not keep him off me. It was all I could to to
keep him away from my face and neck. I was poorly
clothed for the event, wearing flip-flops and a
raincoat. He tore into both hands, got ahold of the
tendon on the back of my right knee for a while and
took apiece of my right ankle. The attack
intensified. My left hand was bleeding profusely and
he had a mouth full 'o blood. I think the taste of
blood made him crazier.
Let me describe my emotions at the time: Pure
unbridled terror. Being engaged in such combat (well,
more like him combating, me yelling for help a lot)
with an animal is terrifying in the basest way. You
cannot negotiate, you cannot give him the money and
make him stop. He is going to attack until one of you
is dead.
I knew someone was in earshot, so I yelled for help
like I have never yelled in my life. I believe it was
something like, "No Blackie!
Helphelphelphelphelphelp!!! Heeeeelp!!Help! Heeelp!
Heeeeeelp! You get the idea. The caretaker was on
the scene after a while. It seemed like an eternity
but was probably only twenty seconds.
The dog attack was much different than I had
envisioned before. I had heard that you try to
sacrifice one arm, that the dog will latch onto it,
freeing your other arm to poke its eyes out or
something. This dog was biting a new part of me
several times per second; each time going all the way
to the bone. By the time I had the first inkling of
some sort of offensive or defensive action, the dog
was on me from an entirely different angle. Again,
protect the face and neck and in the name of God,
don't fall down...stay on the feet!
If I were to say the best thing to have in a dog
attack (well, a baseball bat, a gun, some mace and a
shark cage would be nice) it would be leather gloves.
We humans use our hands to do just about everything
and that includes fighting. When every time a hand is
extended the dog bites it to the bone, it makes them
kind of useless in their natural state.
Vern, Ed and the caretaker found me standing in a pool
of blood with a rather hurt look on my face. I fed
you carne asada! Et tu, Blackie! Shortly thereafter
I went into shock; not from loss of blood or anything
but from the horror of the whole thing. I was lying
on the floor, white as a ghost, sweating profusely. I
couldn't understand anything anyone was saying to me,
especially the caretaker, who was speaking Spanish and
had no front teeth.
After I was looking human again and Blackie was
securely chained, we boarded a cab for the emergency
room. The Golfito ER was clean, efficient and cheap
($31 for the whole thing, including prescriptions.
Vern paid because he felt guily, the sweetheart). But
Doctora Dominatrix and her staff were the next stage
in my trauma. The scrubbing of the wounds with various
solutions, brushes and probes was a foregone
conclusion and quite painful, yes. But then the
Doctora came to stitch me up and informed me there
would be no anesthesia. She said that because dog
bites were so infectious, she risked driving the
infection in deeper if she injected me with Xylocaine.
She said it wouldn't hurt too much. She would use the
smallest size needle and thread. She was somewhat
right and I was feeling very tough and brave as she
was stitching up my wrists. But stitches in the palm
of the hand, no anesthesia, eh gads. I think the hand
she was stitching was the only part of my body that
was not in some contorted grimace of pain. You can
imagine that my hands are somewhat calloused (shut up,
Rosskopf) from sailing, so she had to drive the needle
through all that callous, then guess where the living
skin started. IMHO, she guessed a little too deep.
They bandaged my hands up like a couple of oven mitts
and I was released into the care of Vern and Ed. The
legs just required a good scrubbing.
It was rather scary returning to the scene of the
crime and seeing all the blood and Blackie on his
chain, but there was no way I could make it out to the
boat in my condition. Vern and Ed treated the pain
with and old Koepsel family recipe; copious quantities
of cheap rum.
Having both hands bandaged enabled me to commiserate
in a small way with my friend Jamie Kiskis during his
dual broken arm misadventure. You can't do a lot for
yourself.
Jim Smith and I have had a long-running debate about
the odds of a match between a grown man and a Doberman
with Jim always contending that if a grown man were
prepared for the initial charge he could subdue the
beast by kicking it or breaking on of its legs. No
way man! You wouldn't stand a chance without some
kind of weapon. They are lightning-fast killing
machines. A fully-grown Doberman would have about 20
pounds on the dog that attacked me. You might get a
kick in, but this wouldn't phase a dog that is trained
to attack to the death. As far as grabbing one of its
legs to break it: You would pull back a bloody stump
and it would get to your face in the process. They're
just too slippery. I give you zero chance against a
Doberman. The fight would be long, bloody and
terrifying until it got you on the ground, then it
would be short, gruesome and over. Ah, the joy of
being right at whatever cost.
I'm pretty well healed up now. I took the stitches
out a few days ago. I think the canine's canine got
to the tendon in my right wrist, so it's still a
little tender.
Understandably, I've got dogaphobia now. I think
twice every time I'm approached by a dog. I've
started my dog therapy with a 14 year-old cocker
spaniel and I'm working my way up.
Unfortunately, the day after the attack my dad and
Rick Othmer were to arrive for our long-planned trip
to Isla Del Coco. I met them at the airport with my
oven mitts on and broke the news that if we were going
to go to Isla Del Coco, they'd have to do all the
work. My dad and Rick decided that the risk of
infection from a dog bite in the tropics was reason
enough to stay closer to shore. I acquiesced and we
used the time for a trip to Drake's Bay, Isla del Cano
and extended cruising and hiking in the Golfo Dulce.
My mom arrives tonight for about ten days. Bill
Hoffman is somewhere in this country right now and we
should be hooking up in the next few days. Bill will
be joining Condesa for several months, perhaps as far
as Tahiti. The immediate future will be more surfing
in the Golfo Dulce, home of Pavones, the longest left
wave in the world and then on to the islands of
Panama.
Congratulations to Jeff and Princess on the birth of
Jake and congratulations to Eddie and Michelle, who
rumor has it were recently married in Jamaica.
Until next time, wear gloves when fighting dogs.
-Clark
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