She watched the waves until the light came and the tide dropped, then strode across through waist deep water. She had a look around. Another perfect morning in the works. She spotted several clusters of people in the distance: turtle watchers or surfers.
As she approached the first group, she could see frigate birds hovering, then swooping and diving. Newly-hatched baby turtles emerged from the sand and rushed seawards, in a death-defying race to get safely into the water a hundred feet away before a frigate could swoop down to snag them. A trio of tourists aided the turtles by flapping their arms and hooting to scare off the birds; but the turtles were emerging from the sand quickly, one after another, and spreading out as they scrambled for the sea, making it impossible to protect them all from the fast-moving frigates, whose instinct for hunting was so powerful the arm-flapping tourists scarcely fazed them. Instead the birds did battle with the tourists in their eagerness to get at the turtles.
Lucy watched for a moment, then threw down her pack and joined in, chasing away one frigate a few seconds too late as it wheeled triumphantly skywards, a tiny turtle dangling from its beak. By the time she reached the surfing break just south of Larry Walker and Alberta Gomez’s Hotel Tortuga, she’d saved a dozen baby turtles.
Lucy sat on a log for a good long look. This was serious surf, five to seven feet high, breaking a hundred yards out, offshore wind shaping the waves into hollow tubes. A couple of dozen wave jockeys fought for position in a small area where the waves broke most consistently. The scene looked competitive and not at all friendly. This would not be an easy place to ride.
Meanwhile she had work to do. Turning her back on the ocean, she trudged over a small sand dune, through a wooden gate, out onto the dead end of a dirt road. On her right, surf-mobiles crowded a small parking area. On her left, bougainvillea arched over the gated entrance to the Hotel Tortuga. Lucy entered through the main gate and climbed a wide wooden staircase to an open air check-in counter on the upper level.
“In case you’re wondering, we planted that green wall to shelter the beach from the hotel lights, so that the turtles don’t get disoriented when they come in to lay eggs.” Emerging from the kitchen, she looked about forty, slightly plump, fair and freckled—a light-skinned Tica woman with a welcoming smile. She spoke flawless English with a faint hint of an accent. “Hi. I’m Alberta Gomez. Larry’s out surfing.”
“Lucy Ripken. From Grunwald’s Get Going. That’s quite a sacrifice, cutting off the view.”
“Right. But the turtles were here first, and most of our guests are here for the turtles, so they understand. So how do you like Playa Grande?”
“It’s beautiful. I saw some baby turtles this morning walking up. A lot of them made it to the water, thanks to the tourists scaring off the frigates.”
“Yes, that’s a perilous trip, but one they have to make. Nobody picked the babies up, I hope.”
“No, we were good eco-tourists. Everybody knew the rules. We just flapped our arms and yelled at the birds.”
“Good job. Well, come in and sit down. Would you like some lemonade? Are you going to stay over? Do you want to surf? I think we have an extra board around here somewhere.”
“Yes, yes, yes to everything.” Lucy sat. “I’m just learning how to surf, on a longboard.”
“We have one in the shed. I’m a boogie boarder myself, but Larry’s a surf-nut. He’s out everyday, pissing everyone off. He especially hates longboarders.” She grinned.
“Why’s that?”
“We’ve been here a long time. There didn’t used to be anyone else surfing here. Larry had it to himself for five or six years. So he’s a little impatient with crowds. And longboarders take up a lot of space.” A Tico boy came out with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. “Gracias, Luis. Lucy, this is Luis. He’s been working for us since he was eleven. Now he’s sixteen and will be the second cook next year, right, Luis?”
“Si, Alberta,” he said, and smiled.
“We have hired everyone from the little village up the road,” Alberta said. “It was the best way to get the community’s support when we were trying to convince the egg-poachers that it was better to help tourists watch turtles instead of poaching eggs. Now the former poachers guide people to watch the turtles lay eggs.”
“Sounds good.”
“It is eco-tourism at its finest, except there are still a few poachers, and too many tourists in high season, and too many surfers all the time. We are victims of our own success.” She stood. “Let me see about your surfboard. Chita can check you into a room. We’ll comp it, of course.” She called out into the kitchen in Spanish. A woman emerged. “You’re in room number six, downstairs in back. Have dinner with Larry and me tonight. That’s our table over there. Around seven. Do you want to do the turtle tour tonight?”
“Yes, I think so. Will you be going?”
“Me? God no. I have been with these turtles for thirty years. I’m on a first name basis with most of them. When I was a kid my father brought me here. We used to ride on their backs when they’d come up out of the water at night. Make omelets from the eggs. It was very bad. And we were, you know, from San Jose, the educated class. You can imagine how these local people would feel, smarty-pants outsiders come in and tell them to stop living the way they’ve lived for generations. It took some time—years, actually—but now they make more money off the turtle tours, and the idiots who used to eat raw turtle eggs thinking it would make them have a hard-on will soon be able to afford some Viagra.” She laughed. “That stuff’s going to save half the endangered species in the world. Hey, meet me down by the gate in fifteen minutes. I’ll have a board for you. Chita, you will check her in and show her the room, please?”
Twenty minutes later Lucy stood on shore, a borrowed nine-foot longboard at her side. She watched a tall, heavy-set goofy-footer drop into a six foot left tube, get barrelled, then come flying out to bang off the lip and carve a huge cutback, nearly ramming a kid who’d threatened to drop in on him; the guy followed up with a series of slashing turns that carried him almost all the way to the beach. He straightened out into a close-out shorebreak, flopped down onto his belly and rode in.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going with my log?” he said to Lucy, a mock-fierce look on his face as he walked up out of the water. Tan from head to toe, he was six-two or so, muscular and slightly thickened, fortyish, with thinning blond hair worn medium long, and dark glittery eyes set off by high cheekbones that lent him a vaguely Native American appearance. “Hey, I’m Larry Walker. What’s up?”
“Lucy Ripken. From Get Going. Alberta said I could use this board. Hey, that was quite a wave, that last one.”
“Thanks. That fucking kid was about to drop in on me. Might have had to whack him. Man, these crowds can make you crazy,” he said. “I had this place to myself for like, five years, so you can imagine what—”
“So I heard. Well, everything changes,” Lucy said. “And you get to live right here. That ain’t so bad.”
“I know, I know. Thank God and the turtles,” he grinned. “Are you going out? You know how to surf? Those waves are—”
“I’m your worst nightmare,” she laughed. “A beginning longboarder. But I prefer rights.”
He pointed up the beach. “You should set up over there. The rights are better. And there aren’t so many idiots in the way.”
“Cool. So I’ll be seeing you later. I think we’re having dinner together.” He looked her over from head to toe, a salacious smirk on his face. “Sounds good. Really good. Maybe I can talk Alberta into going to bed early so you and me can do the—”
“Whoa, cowboy,” Lucy interrupted. “Don’t make me regret hiking all the way up the beach to meet you guys.”
“Hey, just joking. I haven’t slept with anyone but Albie since—well, it’s been at least 48 hours. Just kidding. We’ve been tried and true—mostly tried—for eleven years now. Saved a lot of turtles between us. It’s just that women, you know, after you�
��ve been with one for a while, they don’t want to—oh, never mind.”
Ignoring, him, Lucy said, “I’ll see you—and Alberta—at dinner. Right now I gotta see about some waves.”
“OK, Lucy. See you later.” He gave her another lecherous once-over, then headed up to the hotel, his short red surfboard under his arm.
Shaking off the effects of Walker’s low-rent sleaziness—he seemed harmless enough—Lucy walked up the beach a hundred yards. There were only half a dozen guys out up here, and Walker was right: while the waves weren’t quite as shapely as the crowded left break down the beach, every now and then a good right peeled through, and this little crew of surfers seemed only half-hearted in their efforts at catching the bigger, better waves, probably because they were all beginners like her.
Later, dressing for dinner, Lucy reviewed the day’s session. By her standards she’d ripped, catching at least half a dozen rights, making a couple of bottom turns and cutbacks, almost getting into a barrel once—by mistake, of course, but still—she had surfed that borrowed longboard like she’d been born to ride it
Dressed in tank top, shorts, and sandals, she ascended to the open air dining room. The high wall of shrubbery on the ocean side completely cut off the sunset, draining the light from the room. Dim overhead fixtures countered with a murky orange glimmer. Lucy had a seat at the house table closest to the kitchen entrance, overlooking the back stairs that led to the turtle-shaped pool.
Lucy had started on her second beer when Alberta showed up, accompanied by a pair of sixtyish eco-tourists in forest-green clothes, with well-meaning faces and no-nonsense packs, glasses, notebooks, flashlights, and cameras. By the time Lucy had been introduced to Norman and Minnie Mitford, from Concord, California, here to do the turtles, Larry arrived. He wore shorts and a t-shirt and a smirk, for he had with him a pair of cute twenty-something girls—tanned, short-shorted, tank-topped, babe-bodied surf-chicks named Yvonne and Deedee, from Santa Barbara, traveling alone. Introductions were made, everybody found seats.
“God was that surf awesome, Larry,” dark-haired Yvonne said. She looked at Lucy. “Larry said you were out there today too.”
“Yeah, I did some longboarding up the beach a ways.”
“Longboarding’s cool,” said blonde Deedee. “I mean, if you’re over 30.”
“Hey, I’m over 30 and I ride a smaller board that you,” said Larry.
“Yeah but you’re different,” Yvonne said. “I mean, you get to surf everyday, man, so you’re like, so lucky. This place is so totally awesome. Saving the turtles and everything.”
“So how long are you here for?” Lucy said to Norman and Minnie. “Have you been on a turtle tour yet?”
“No, tonight’s the night,” said Minnie. “We’ve been in-country four days. We went to Monteverde and got lucky and saw two quetzals.”
“So Yvonne and Deedee said they want to sleep over, Albie,” Larry said, flashing an obnoxious ladies’ man grin. “But we’re all booked up. I was thinking they could stay in the guest room up at our place.”
“Larry, forget about it. You girls staying in Tamarindo?” Alberta said coolly.
“Yeah, but—”
“So you can get a ride back down there later, right? Or did you want to stick around and do the turtle tour tonight? Excuse me,” Alberta said, getting up abruptly. “I’ve gotta go see how the kitchen’s doing.” She headed into the kitchen.
“Hey, stick around,” Larry said. “We can all take a hot tub after dinner, get relaxed. Norman, Minnie, you guys want to do a tub?”
“Hey Larry,” Lucy said, “I have some stuff I need to talk to you about. For my guidebook I mean. Can we—”
“No thank you, Larry,” Norman said. “Actually Minnie and I are kind of—well, I think we’ll just move over there,” he glanced at an empty two-seat table across the room, “and order some dinner, if that’s OK.” They both stood.
“Yeah, sure, of course,” said Larry. “Turtles tonight. You should eat and maybe take a nap after dinner. High tide’s not until two a.m. It’s going to be a long night.”
“Why’s that?” Lucy said.
“Turtles come in with the high tide,” Larry said. “After dark. So they won’t be showing until after midnight tonight.” He smirked at Yvonne and Deedee. “That gives us plenty of tub-time, eh girls?” Was he completely sleazy, or just a self-mocking caricature of a sleaze? It was hard to say. “Well, listen, Lucy here’s got some stuff she wants to talk about, so I guess—” The girls got up.
“Later, Larry,” they said, flitting down the stairs to the pool.
“Hot tub’ll be fired up around nine.” he called after them, then looked deadpan at Lucy. “I figure I’ll get a double blow job from them, then call it a day. What do you think?”
“What do I think? I what wonder makes you imagine talk like that is cool, or funny?”
“Got you going, didn’t it?” he said, grinning. “It’s just talk, Lucy. I’m not really gonna—well, if I thought I could get away with it, and they were willing, I probably would, but there’s no way, so—”
“So why do you feel the need to be such an asshole?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Fuck it, Larry. I’m not here to talk about you. Your hotel, yes. The turtles and the marine park, yes. And one other thing.” Might as well jump right in. “I was talking with your old pal Manny Sky the other day, about some different stuff, you know, for the guidebook, and also because I have some friends who’ve got some money they’re thinking about moving down here. Anyway, these guys The Four Señors kept coming up. Manny says you’d have plenty to say about them.”
“Give me a blow job and buy my hotel for a million dollars, I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” he said, then flinched and threw his hands up in mock-defense as Lucy bristled. “Sorry, sorry, just kidding. God, the Four Señors. Hey listen, here comes Alberta. She can tell you about the turtles and the hotel and all that jazz while I mingle”—he made quotation marks with his hands to emphasize the irony of the concept—“with the other guests. Then we can talk about those guys.”
Three other guests joined Lucy, and Alberta did her save-the-turtles spiel. Lucy wrote it all down and then moved to another table to eat some brown rice and vegetables—the semi-vegan menu maintaining the politically correct market position of the hotel—while waiting for the horny environmentalist.
“So. The Four Señors,” he said, pulling up a chair a few minutes later. He’d changed into a Hawaiian shirt and wrapped a multi-hued scarf around his thinning hair, seeking a sort of sophisticated hippie look. More like an over-the-hill surfer cruising hard for a date, Lucy thought. “Man, it’s been a while since I’ve thought about those dudes.” He waved at a waiter. “Yo Manuel. You want a beer, Lucy?”
“No. Cup of tea would be great,” she said, already dreading the two a.m. turtle walk. But feeling obliged to do it.
“Can you get Lucy a tea, and I’ll have black coffee,” he said. The waiter nodded and left. “How’s Manny doing, anyways?”
“He’s quite the empire builder, isn’t he?” Lucy said.
“Yeah. God, I never would have expected it, watching him haul tourists around in his old microbus way back when. You know he used to do barbecues for his guests in the nude—he was really into nudism—and man does he have a big hairy ass.” He grinned. “Bend over to stir the campfire coals, it was a scary sight. But he’s nothing if not ambitious.”
“Unlike you and Alberta?”
“Hey, we’re doing all right. But you know, this all started with the turtles. I mean I never imagined myself running a hotel. I came down here for the surf—and the women.” That smirk again. “After a few years I met Alberta, and well, she got me into this turtle thing, and got me off the women—believe it or not, when it comes to skirt- chasing I’m nothing but talk, these days—and pretty soon we—well, what the heck. Here we are. Fucking ecolodgers.”
“Right. And it’s a great thing y
ou’ve done, making this park and the hotel. But you were going to tell me about the Señors.”
“Yeah. Sorry,” he said. “I was just—thinking about them got me to thinking about the past, you know. Hey, have you ever heard of the snake called the terciopelo?”
“No, but what does that have to do with—”
“Nothing. It’s just a story I like to tell. Kind of a conundrum. The terciopelo’s an incredibly deadly snake. If it bites you you’re dead in like a minute. The thing is, only the female’s bite is deadly. The male’s bite hurts, but it’s completely non-toxic. And you can’t tell them apart without close examination.” He stopped.
“So?” Lucy waited. Seemed like he was going to do some weird sexist thing here, but what?
“So if you get bit on the arm you have thirty seconds to decide: if it’s a female that bit you, you can whack your arm off with a machete, stop the poison short, and live a long and happy one-armed life. If it’s a male you don’t have to whack your arm off. But you don’t know. What would you do?”
“What would I do?”
“Yeah. If you got bit. Thirty seconds to decide: would you chop your arm off with a fifty-fifty chance that you’ll die if you don’t, or would you risk that fifty-fifty chance.”
“Oh, I see.” Lucy said. “Do you know anyone who’s—”
“I’ve heard of two one-armed guys still alive, and neither of them ever found out if the snake to was male or female. But then again would you even want to know?”
“That is a tough one, isn’t it?”
“No shit. There are a lot of terciopelos in Costa Rica.” He paused. “And several other kinds of deadly poisonous snakes, man-eating crocodiles in the surf, toxic spiders, scorpions, dengue fever-carrying mosquitoes, and even a few left-over contra kidnappers with attitude problems. You still want to invest here?”
Lucy's Money: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 4) Page 8
