Literary Life and Levitation
Dominicalito
Dominicalito Beach is not as infinite as Baru Beach and not as hang-ten as Dominical. It doesn’t have roaring caves like Ventenas, and it certainly doesn’t have a sweeping Whale's tail.
Upon my
first visit, I ditched my flip-flops and traversed the sand, walking left until
I reached the rocky end. I looked around. Any thoughts of beach inferiority melted
away. Years later, Dominicalito is still my favorite beach in Costa Rica; it is
the beach I always visit first.
When you
reach the Marina on Dominicalito, a dramatic coast materializes. You can see
jungle hills melting into the ocean and, beyond them, hazy blue mountains.
Weathered fishing boats sit moored to the sand at low tide, but not for long.
There is a flurry of fishing activity on Dominicalito, an ongoing mission to
keep local bellies full of fish.
However,
even with all this activity, vultures still outnumber people. The ominous creatures
are always close, waiting and watching, with a sinister vibe and a stinky, foul
smell. Fish guts are a beach vulture's favorite typical plate. The ocean
cleanses the gunk away. If you walk past the vultures and boats, you'll reach a
tiered rock shelf at the end of the beach. You can navigate the rocks at low tide,
and later, select a secluded tide pool for a mid-day dip. The pools will be
shared with tiny fish. There is a magnificent dead tree lying prone at the end
of the beach, with weathered arms reaching toward the sea. Climb the trunk, and
for a moment in time, you'll be the figurehead of a ship, surveying your
kingdom. Take a breath.
At this
point, you might as well hop down and walk to the other end of the beach. Be
sure to take photos along the way. You may find an old boat abandoned on the
sand, filled with nets and anchors, set against the vast coast, or a weird
bone, leftover coconut, smooth stone, or seashell at your feet. At low tide, big
rocks dot the sand like the surface of a chocolate chip cookie, and overhead,
inaudible trails of pelicans skim the sky. If you time it right, you’ll witness
an orange orb sinking into the sea. Sunsets are beautiful in Costa Rica.
These are
the images that I remember. I live in Minnesota, a land of lakes, farms,
forests, seasons, and snow. The coldest thing on Dominicalito is the refreshing
stream that meanders over countless pebbles until it reaches the ocean. I want
to walk through life barefoot. That's why I always return to Costa Rica.
But back to
you. How many beaches have you explored? Have you walked Dominicalito yet? Take
a break, park close, throw a blanket or chair in the shade, and watch the
fishermen clean fish. Buy some pipas frias from a vendor behind the beach and
drink. Stay long enough to watch the surfers at high tide. Leave only
footprints.
A day on
Dominicalito is Pura Vida to me.
A
young girl named Sparrow crept through the quack grass until she reached the
tallest tree in her yard, a Norfolk pine with emerald limbs attached to the
tree like perfectly combed mustaches. Sparrow stopped by the tree trunk and
knocked, placing a box in front of a tiny birch bark door. She stuck out her
tongue, fiddling with the shiny red bow taped to the top. “Perfect. This gift
is for you, Mr. Elf,” she stated with conviction, rising to her feet and
rubbing her snotty nose.
Sparrow
rubbed both hands across her stomach and danced a little jig, turning and shuffling
back towards her house.
Inside
the tree, an elf the size of a stick of butter leaned a pointy ear against the small
door, opening it to peer outside. The elf watched the human girl’s pigtails
wiggle as she walked most peculiar, like a penguin. But there were no penguins in
Florida and not many elves.
As
soon as the girl slipped into her house, the elf opened the gift, finding two
walnuts the same size as his hands. Martin the elf removed his green cap and
scratched his head. His mission was to give gifts, not receive them, and he
wasn’t the kind of elf to change his life’s purpose now. Martin looked up into
the branches of the towering Norfolk, grabbed the walnuts, and touched his nose.
Poof! He was gone.
Now,
Martin was twenty feet high, sitting on a branch. “Excuse me, Ms. Bark Beetle, I’m
your neighbor Martin. Would you like my walnuts?”
“Oh,
no. Yuck,” said the beetle.
Martin
frowned, then raised his eyebrows, waving at a Mockingbird. Unfortunately, the
bird flew away. This time, Martin touched his green boot, finding himself at
the top of the tree, surveying the lush mangroves littering the bay and the
majestic royal palms scattered below. Martin wasn’t alone; a serious-looking
osprey was clinging to the precipice of the Norfolk. Martin held out his hand. “Hello,
I’m Martin the elf. Would you like these walnuts, you know, for a Christmas
gift?”
“No,”
said the osprey. The bird glowered at Martin. “I only eat fish.”
Martin
furrowed his brows and touched the soft, spongy part of his right ear lobe.
Pop! Martin found himself halfway up the tree, clinging to the bark. “Sir. Mr. Pine
Weevil, would you like these nuts?” asked Martin.
“Don’t
be silly. The nuts wouldn’t fit inside my tiny mouth,” replied the bug.
Martin
kicked at a pine needle, searching the branch for other critters. He pulled up
his shirt and touched his belly button, vanishing again. Now, Martin was out-on-a-limb,
staring into the beady eyes of a fluffy gray squirrel. Martin smiled, holding
out his sweaty hand. The squirrel inched closer, ruffling needles in his wake. “Are
those for me? Oh, thank you so much,” said the squirrel with a whisker twitch.
Martin
puffed his chest. “Merry Christmas!”
I love this photo of Ernest Hemingway’s office, taken through a wrought-iron doorway. It reminds me of my twisted travels to publication: I'm still an outsider, locked out but trying to find the right key to entry. I hope to pass through after I pay my dues.
I have a new literary gambit: Grammarly. I forked over a bit of dough for a huge reward. Now, I have an editor in my corner of the ring, working hard to eliminate my novels' errors before the bell tolls. Still, you may read future posts and say, "Sharon said she is using Grammarly and look at all these faux-paws!"
Do you see what I did there? (I had to insert paws somewhere in a Hemingway post) Most likely, I won't be using Grammarly for my blog posts. So, they will still be full of the predictable grammatical errors you've come to expect. (It doesn't help that blogger spell check hasn't been working on my computer)
Before my pilgrimage to
the Hemingway House, I read The Old Man and the Sea. I was
swept away, thinking about the story long after the last page. Follow my
paws for the inside scoop...
500 words. 55 hours. Go!
This month’s criteria:
I love gifts. My
mother tried to hide them every Christmas. I always found them. I was like a
truffle-hunting pig, rooting them from locked suitcases and dusty cupboards,
foraging for them in attics and R.V.’s, basements, and bins. The garage. “Open your palm,” said my husband.
I appraised my
husband’s smile, extending my fingers and squeezing my eyelids. I envisioned
the Hope Diamond. I figured the gift might be heavy, like a gold bar or antique
Russian nesting doll, so I clenched my muscles. I felt a tickle. “Okay. You can
open your eyes,” he said.
It was a red feather.
My husband had done this before with a strip of red licorice, a pretty rock or seashell,
a chocolate kiss. But it’s almost Christmas. I furrowed my brows. “That’s not
funny,” I said.
That night I felt a
hand on my shoulder. I pretended to be asleep.
I noticed the red
feather the following day; it was in the utensil drawer. I grabbed a knife and
slammed the drawer shut. I plundered the butter and jam from the fridge,
noticing a bowl of dirt—or sand beside the milk. My husband entered the kitchen
with bare feet. I could hear his sticky footsteps on the tile. He yawned in
that annoying way he does, like a tired dog, and hugged me from behind. I
didn’t say anything about the fridge.
On Christmas Eve,
I wrapped my husband’s presents and placed them under the tree: a goofy tie
with clowns that I found on Etsy, some matches from our favorite restaurant,
and a rose-scented candle for the bathroom. The real gift was a book from his Goodreads.
I also wrapped a piece of charcoal in some newspaper and placed it in his
stocking, just in case I received more feathers.
There was only one
gift under the tree for me. I frowned and stood, adjusting a few ornaments that
were hanging backward. I noticed a tacky plastic palm frond projecting from the
middle branches. Usually, I would laugh. But the lack of gifts made me feel
gloomy. I left the room.
After a candlelight dinner, we opened gifts. I
glanced at the stockings, then handed my husband his packages. He opened them
and laughed, wrapping the tie around his head. I eyeballed my single package,
then the stockings. “Your turn,” he said.
I grabbed the gift
that my husband had wrapped with green foil. A red feather waved from the top
instead of a bow. My stomach constricted. My heart fluttered, hoping it would
be better than expected. I tore the foil away and ripped off the tape; the box
was an obvious re-gift, last year’s amazon prime. I opened the flaps, burrowing
into the tissue paper. I discovered an empty coconut and a photo of a Scarlet Macaw.
“We’re going to
Costa Rica!” he exclaimed.
I ran to the
fireplace, tearing the stockings from the mantel. I threw my husband’s stocking
into the fire.
