Sea State of Mind

As I sit here in my ski clothes after a morning of skiing, thinking about how surfing and skiing bring me similar feelings of happiness, I realize that nothing can be compared to how special my time in Panama was.

Bobbing up and down in the bathtub temperature water off the pacific coast of panama I marveled at the beauty of the coastline. As if out of a children’s pop-up book the green layers of jungle covering the coastal hills make up the horizon line. I reveled in the perfect temperature of the air and water. The salty air and water encompassed my body and it was wonderful to be a part of something so much bigger than me. Next a glassy wall of water rolled forward like a large flag being blown open after being tangled around a flagpole. Nervous excitement filled me as I realized I just might be in the right spot to catch the wave. This being my first wave of the trip, and first in several months, the pressured increased. I paddled, felt the wave pull me, popped up, dropped in, almost lost my balance, and yet managed to stay upright. Then looking around in awe that I was riding a wave. As I dropped in, the wall of water rose up like someone lifting a sheet and letting it hang in the air slow motion for a few magical seconds before letting it crumple down. As the wave crumpled behind me as I speed forward.

I arrived to Panama a few days before the rest of our group. I was desperate for a change from the small, frigid, mountain town I had been living in: Gunnison, Colorado. So my few days wandering the large humid metropolis of Panama City were welcomed. Spending my time admiring the historic buildings in Casco Viejo, the old part of Panama City, and practicing my Spanish with anyone that would bare to talk to me. After three days of doing that alone, the time had come to meet up with my group of fellow college students about to participate in a Surfer Journalism class, organized by The Sea State.

I arrived at the hostel just as they were checking in; I joined the chaos of moving suitcases and surfboard bags. Just like that I was apart of this varied group. Three students from my home university, two from CU Boulder, one from North Carolina, and one from California. Our leaders, founders of Sea State, were Sarah the ‘cool’ mom, Leon surf enthusiast with a Ph.D in Energy and Environmental policy; Sam George former editor of Surfer mag, pro-surfer, ice cream connoisseur, with a passion for the many wonders of life, would be our Professor for the next week.

Like a herd of turtles we made our way to view the Panama Canal. Our friendly driver Guerimo, a local Panamanian, told us about the history of the city. The Mira Flores Locke of the Panama Canal looked small and simple at first. But as the Giant ‘No smoking’ sign on the petroleum supertanker passed slowly through the canal, I realized how much was at stake during this slow, high consequence operation. The boat barely fitting into the canal gradually moved down as the water was drained out enough for the gates to open and for the original ‘mules,’ steel carts, pulled the tanker through. As the boat moved forward, Asian workers stared back at us and took pictures as the millions of gallons of water was rearranged in the man made locks. Ingenuity at its finest. Our equal amazement at human power was mirrored at us as we stared at each other.

Starving we all loaded back into the van, heading back to Casco Viejo, the old part of Panama City. Without hesitation the driver pulled away from the flow of traffic and into a parking spot, which would have been labeled impossibly too small by your average soccer mom. Our group of ten stepped out of the car, instantly blasted with humidity and all the smells that come along with a fish market on the coast. After a few confused conversations with aggressive waiters, our group was sitting down to eat. Even though many people in our group had just met and had only been in Panama for a short few hours, it seemed like we had known each other for much longer. Maybe we connected so well because of our similar motives of being here, to surf and to learn in a more experiential way. Slowly the rounds of cervezas and ceviche arrived and we happily devoured them. Cats, a man dressed as gorilla, a man trying to sell us anatomy posters tried to join our group with little success. But our group stayed together as we ran back across the roundabout back to the hostel.

We started our journey down the river of pavement leaving the city and moving through the countryside. Herds of Brecha cows, their African style horns sticking out, we scattered all over the brown grass lands. Finally after cramped hours in the ice box of a bus, due to the blasting air conditioning, we gained a hill and had our first view of the coast. We knew this coast would be different from the one that surrounded Panama City consisting of low tide smells, fish, and gasoline. We knew this coast would be good. Excitement filled the bus and leaked out the windows to join the dense air, until the bus driver yelled at us to close them. Passing the small town of Mariato, and continuing on a dirt road until we took a sharp right turn into the parking lot of Surfer’s Garden where we came to a stop.

The comfortable bunk rooms, curved bar, couch, surf board rack that made up the Surfer’s Garden were of little interest to us at the moment as we ran to see what we had come for. Pushing aside the sliding glass door, we now stood on top of a cliff, with a safety web of slack lines and hammocks connected to palm trees at the edge of it. A perfect reef break was before us, high tide covering all rocks, and a perfect wave peaking then breaking, allowing one to choose if they wanted to go left or right. The next few minutes were full of wax being put on boards, sunscreen being put on bodies, rash guards being pulled out of suitcases and talk of who would be first to get barreled.

After our first surf session our afternoon was filled with classic post surf activities, juggling, slack lining, hammock sessions, and attempts at playing the guitar. The owners of this paradise were a main addition to the positive atmosphere. Dustin, raised in southern California, complete with flip flops, tank top, short dirty blonde hair, and a tattoo of a tropical scene on his bicep, quietly welcomed us to his dream creation, a sustainable surf resort. Steve, loudly yet kindly explaining how things worked here in his Australian accent, with his long hair and his side-kick ‘Reef’ the dog following close behind him, also welcomed us. Even as someone born and raised in the mountains, I was at home. Before dinner we gathered in the living room to have our first lecture. Sam began speaking and with his mixture of life insight, philosophy, wild stories, and helpful hints on descriptive writing, I was hooked, listening to every word careful not to miss anything. I was so happy to be receiving part of my college education in this full immersion style. Throughout this trip I found myself thinking, this is how education should be. I knew this would not be a normal class.

The next morning I rose from the sanctuary of my bed, with a fan positioned to blast my whole body with cold air. At 6:20am I quickly walked out and saw the waves, with our leader Leon already catching them. I completed the routine of covering myself in sunscreen, then walked down to the beach. Navigating through the patches of black sand and rock, to get to a point where I knew it would be a little easier to avoid the waves as I paddled out. Inching my way across the painful pebbles, and trying not to get too close to the water’s edge yet, where croquet sized rocks came flying in with every wave, ready to crack an unsuspecting ankle. The noise of the pebbles being thrown up and down the beach with each wave was comforting in a way as well; it was nice to have that as a backdrop for our week, at Surfer’s Garden. Pausing to attach my leash to my ankle, timing my entry just right, I ran into the water. Then I was paddling out into the golden water, with the morning light slowly growing stronger.

An hour and half later, we headed in for a tasty desyaño of eggs and rice. Dustin and Steve loaded up their truck. I remembered the night before, Steve saying in his heavy Aussie accent, between cigarettes “before running Surfer’s Garden, I worked as a mechanic for diesel machines and my only positive influence on the greater world was saying no to work.” So now we were going out to give back to the community that Steve and Dustin have lived in much longer than any gringo, in this special place. That was obviously special to Steve and Dustin, you could see in the way they looked at the waves and talked about the local community with pride. When first meeting Dustin, his stern stare and quiet demeanor hid his inner passionate feelings of service and sustainability.

As we arrived at the school there was a little awkwardness as ten gringos stood outside the local elementary/middle school. Eventually we were let in through the locked fence. Still awaiting directions and an introduction with the principal, we stood there, in the clean, simple gravel courtyard. Our language barrier became very obvious at this point to some of my fellow students. Myself having a little background with Spanish attempted to start a few conversations, with some of the local kids. Many of which went like: Me: “Como estas?” Small Panamanian child dressed in clean white and blue uniform: “Bien”, then they would scatter off. Our professor with his youthful energy had a little more success interacting with the kids. Commandeering one of the kid’s bikes he broke the social barrier. Soon the principal came out with a microphone and introduced us. Certain grades lined up, we positioned ourselves and handed out notebooks and pens as the conveyer belt of neatly dressed children moved by us. Their smiles lightened the mood.

Before leaving we invited the kids to join us at the park later, as we began to walk to the local park. I seized this moment, to escape from the heat and jumped into the truck full of our supplies and enjoyed the air conditioning with Steve as we headed over there. We scoped out the park, from our artificial sanctuary of course; trash rolled in the wind, paint chips surrounded the shade shelter, two of the three swings hung by only one chain, and the fifty degree slide ended in a mess of rusted metal, resembling a cheese grater. It was obvious it was dry season, as the grass was far from green, more of sandstone red. Even in this dismally described state, several children scrambled up and down the slide and made what they could of the single chained swings. Steve passionately stated, we would not eliminate the slide, as that was part of our original plan, since the image of a 50 degree slide to a jagged finish was so hard for our first world selves to comprehend. The slide was obviously a part of the children’s daily play routine.

The rest of the group slowly meandered in after a pit stop to balance their internal temperatures at the shaved ice stand. Flavored ice was a nice reboot here in the tropics. If you didn’t like ice cream before coming to the tropics, you craved it now. Hydration was not only cool but also essential. We began our efforts of refurbishing the park. Some digging holes through the dusty sand-like dirt for the plants we had picked out to brighten up the park. I went to get rocks to place around the plants for style and protection, the rocks burned my hands as I returned. As a result of them roasting on the side of the road all day, it was the most serious game of hot potato I had ever played. As more children gathered to join our efforts, we quickly ran out of paintbrushes. Without hesitation, bare hands soon replaced brushes and one by one the benches in the park transformed from plain cement blocks to blue and orange seats. One kid, took serious ownership of painting the shade shelter. He balanced atop the ladder we had, to paint the ceiling of it. This eleven-year-old boy didn’t stop for anything, perched up there with his paint roller and paint tray, leaning back to reach all corners. While the rest of us would make the occasional trip to hydrate or observe the North Carolina ex-pat welding a new smooth piece of metal to the bottom of the slide, from the safety of the shade, he continued to paint. Sam George gave our dedicated friend a cup of shaved ice, to keep him fueled. Soon the swings swung back and forth as they were meant to with new orange wooden seat covers. All of us, paint covered, dirt covered, sweaty, could hear the ocean calling us loud and clear. Looking back at the colorful, cleaner park, with a new trashcan, I felt happy about the work we had done. Even though it may have seemed like a bit of a classic conquistador action, of a bunch of white people arriving to a town and deciding things needed to be changed, that hadn’t been changed for years. But I think the community judged us minimally and our intentions were true and it did look better. It was nice to work with the community as well; I think events like this make me feel like more of a traveler than a tourist. I wonder what the locals label us as, travelers, tourists, conquistadors? I try to be a traveler, in my journeys. Trying to immerse myself in the community, leaving time for spontaneous adventures.

Back at Surfer’s Garden we quickly went out to the ocean to cleanse ourselves and catch a few waves. While the others continued to surf, I headed back up to the awesome outdoor shower of Surfer’s Garden, since I had already surfed at dawn. After rinsing off the salt water, I put my zoom lens on my camera. From the cliff’s edge I had a perfect view of everyone catching the waves; this was almost as enjoyable as catching them my self. Capturing people dropping in and zooming down the face of moving water, with palm branches in the foreground it was inspiring and entertaining to watch. Steve went into the water to show us his mastery of his smaller, “right” wave. While this was impressive, what was even more priceless was the look on Steve’s face, that was so exaggerated it could be seen from shore, as Sam paddled out on his stand up paddle boards in a black speedo. Steve’s comic expression of shock and wishing he wasn’t sitting below the pro-surfer as he paddled out into the orange water, was hilarious to see, as the sun began to slowly set, and Steve slowly back paddled.

That night as we sat around, post dinner with the omnipresent sound of waves crashing down, we could see the waves too. While the moon had been quite full, this was not why we could see them in the black of the night. As the waves crashed down upon the reef they lit up electric blue. Blue like the exotic fish we would see snorkeling, blue like Luke Skywalker’s first light-saber, blue like I have never seen before. Nature’s evening entertainment of phosphorescent fireworks. I sat attempting to capture this phenomenon with my camera, as a few friends, went to as they described, “paddling through [literally] a sea of glowing stars.”

We rose early the next morning, walking down the dirt road to the river mouth, a few minutes away. We loaded our boards into the ponga boats that were waiting for us. Sleepily loading ourselves, then slowly cruising out of the river mouth, past the breaking waves, into the open water. The golden sun rose above the water, through the interrupting palm branches just as it had set the night before. As we bumped out, some were lulled back to sleep. I was reminded of childhood boat rides in Mexico and of how I enjoyed the feeling of skimming across the water, and how I loved the open water. As we grew closer to Isla Cebaco, the tropic coast was revealed, clear blue water smashing against rocks, splashing up violently, exploding up, like a whale’s blowhole being released, and making a similar sound if you can imagine that. The sharp jet-black rocks protected the white sandy beaches that served as a front door for the dense green jungle that covered the inland of the Island. The boats pulled up to a break in the rocks, and anchored in the calm water away from the shore. Soon surf boards were being thrown out of the boats, followed by bodies, headed to check out the sandy beach break waves. Feeling like a true surfer after jumping out of a boat after my surfboard, I caught a few waves. Also I found myself getting sucked into the washing machine of a few waves, with steep faces of these small, fast beach break waves, if you hesitate on your pop-up it is not uncommon to find yourself and your board getting sucked into a rapid circular dive. After getting my fill of this, I swam back to the boat to get my GoPro. Swimming back I enjoyed how the salt water made this swim so easy. Then I positioned myself to capture the barrel of the waves.

Once everyone got their fill of the waves, we continued on via boat, shooting the gap of this isla and a smaller one attached to it. We waded ashore a pristine looking beach. The rest of the afternoon was filled with snorkeling, naps, Frisbee games, cooking some of the fish we caught over an open fire, and even a class lecture. Finishing up our time here, we filled several large trash bags with plastic bottles and styrofoam that had found its way to rest on this beautiful beach. Motoring on, we stopped on one more island before returning home. Isla Gobernador, was simple, small, and had several large piles of empty beer cans on the ground awaiting our arrival. A local woman was cooking soup over an open fire, with her children playing with toys in the dirt at her feet. As others went to the little store to get cold drinks, I asked her how long she had lived here. The lady was born and raised on the small island. I wondered if she had ever been to Panama City, if she had a TV, if she had ever seen a map of her Island? Motoring away I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about the lady’s situation; her way of life just seemed very different from ours. But maybe it wasn’t, maybe she owned a boat, and was very familiar with the town of Mariato and the surrounding countryside. Maybe not.

As the trip went on, you could tell no one wanted to admit it was almost over. We made the most of it though, surfing as much as we could, dreaming of more travel, and experiencing the nightlife of Panama City until the last possible hour.

“When you travel you leave a little bit of yourself in each place you go,” Sam told us on the last day. I hope I left a little bit of my positivity in this area. I definitely took away positive energy from this area, along with an increased sense that traveling in Latin America will continue to be a part of my life. After seeing the boy paint his park and Steve and Dustin be so passionate about it, I realized how important and special this place is.

As I walked through the Dallas airport, seeing the same people working at the bagel stand I went to 10 days earlier, I realized truly how special Playa Reina is. I realized the importance of place and how I had found a sense of belonging and wanting to preserve the experience, during my short time in that place. The importance of our time on the Veraguas peninsula, reminded me about how special it was that I was able to experience that spot, as it was, pure, undeveloped. Just as it should be. Play Reina por siempre.