The Costa Rica Incident - Part Three

I’ve struggled to get this part of the story down on paper - it just doesn't want to come through, how um, visceral, frenetic, and anxious it all was. so much “doing”. Frith would often describe me as “fizzing at the bung” - that was how I was, and yet often I wasn’t - there were times that just flowed,  of new friendships, overwhelming generosity, genuine caring and concern, fun and laughter so essential to break the tension.
And unfortunately there are no photos of the actual refloating, fitting the gear, the various stages of the day -I guess we were all too busy doing. If some come along in the near future I'll update this post with them.

The Blues!

The memory of it all goes something like this:
Eighteen days of pleasure and pain, condemning my boat to 36 more incoming tides and surf, and being with her several times every 24 hrs to "mitigate further damage";
Driving with crazy Costa Ricans on their potholed secondary roads or truck and motorbike jammed highways, where rules and common sense appear to both be absent;
Fine dining with Christie and Don at fab places like Davinas, Pangas, and Hacienda Pinilla;
Rest and retreat at Villas Avellanas, a welcome break from the constant onlookers down on the beach;
One day Jackie and I, in search of flotation equipment after tool replacement shopping in San Jose, wasted a whole day, the first of many, on The Nasty Frenchman, the most self-interested, avaristic, and devious person I have met on my travels, and I'm sure he took great delight in my circumstance while pretending to want to help. He's probably proudly telling his story of how he ripped off a naive trusting Kiwi, while I tell mine. He owns Apex Boats, a company making upmarket inflatable boats, and I'm telling many cruisers I meet not to expect honesty, support and genuine guarantees from them as a result of his treatment of me.

With a full moon, a big tide on its way in the afternoon, offshore winds and small swell all arriving on 8 November as ordered it was en masse to the beach- backhoes, teak poles, anchors, voluntary labouring of tourists and surfers, residents, and Lola staff, nourishment being ferried up the beach from Lolas.

Just an aside and to break up the text -
Lola's is named after a very large pig

However frustration soon took centre stage with late arrival of critical equipment, a no show from my rigger, and the panic and danger that was inevitable with missing the low tide.

The Apex Boats Frenchman's next cruel play, one of several, was to have the pontoons arrive at 10.30, not 8am, well after the low tide, (and not send a bill of sale or invoice of any sort) and I considered not handing over the $4000 for the pontoons, but I knew we would need every resource to succeed today. So I scribbled out a receipt on the back of an envelope for his manager to sign and took possession of two gold plated old rafts.

Scott the boatyard manager of a large marina in Quepos to the south was appointed local rep by my insurance underwriters, and we would have a lot to do with one another over the next two months!. His first role was to bring specialist equipment to Avellanas for the salvage attempt, but his misadventure in The Marriot nearly forced me to abort the Refloating attempt - in brief, this was almost a game breaker - not knowing the area and following his GPS from Quepos, Scott ended up at the wrong Playa Avellanas, thanks to The Marriot renaming their beach. Security didn't like the look of his truck loaded with unusual gear and ran him off the road as he tried to find the office for directions. Four staff tackled him to the ground, handcuffed and hog tied him with zip ties, threw him in the back of their vehicle "like a dog" and held him, effectively under arrest, for trespassing. They allowed him a phone call (to me). I found Don, who held a lot of sway with the Marriot, and he drove the 15 minutes there, playing the best possible play - there's a very big insurance company trying to salvage a very expensive yacht off the real Avellana beach and if you get in the way by holding this essential equipment you could well be held liable- needless to say, Scott was released (just before the paddy wagon arrived to take him to jail) and they drove like bats out of hell knowing time and tide were really against us now.

By the time Scott's gear arrives we have been forced to inflate the two 20' pontoons (actually like very old river rafts without the floor and transom) before harnessing them to the keel, both because the harness was in Scott's truck but also the Frenchman had again let me down and not provided the promised modified connections so the pontoons could be inflated once snug against the hull. And without the dive tanks, also on Scott’s truck, we had done it all with my SUP pump. The silly little foot pump you get with a lilo that the Frenchman cruelly supplied not worth the effort.

Without my rigger, and the rush to get everything tied up with waves already surrounding Whakaari, the back hoe operators trying to keep the channel open, the teak poles propping the hull upright so we could fit the rafts now threatening to damage the hull top sides and rubbing strakes, many a risk was taken trying to get ropes under and around the keel as the boat heaved above us.

And if that wasn't enough we still had to get the main anchor and chain further out using the Otto’s fishing panga so it didn't impede the towing; set up the side pull anchor deadman (that the Frenchman had actually required me to buy at American retail plus freight for $780) to pull the mast over to reduce the draft, but allow a quick release so the boat could continue out to sea; and paddle the towline (a brand new 1000' heavy duty 2" hawser rope the insurance company had purchased for the job) out to the panga to hand on to the tow boat when it arrived. Oh, and load aboard a huge evacuation pump we'd hired ( a whole story in itself that one) in case the boat started to sink once we got her off the sand -you know - contingency planning......

By this time I have successfully drowned both my local phone and my iPhone, forgetting they'd ended up in my board shorts earlier in the day, and we had to arrange another phone and numbers hastily scribbled on paper and carried out through the surf to me, because it turned out the towboat’s VHF didn't work and I couldn't communicate with the skipper.

The attempt begins, the tow captain, showing up dead on time, announces he'll put tension on the towline, not pull, and only until the High Tide time of 1545 then he's gone., Ok, so those conditions were never mentioned before!?!
The hastily fitted bridle connecting Whakaari to the towline comes away three times, effectively pulling the hull round broadside to the waves. Frustration and tempers rise, but the work gets done.
Don is patiently kedging away at the bow, I have the engine running in surf n sand to keep the batteries up, and be ready to respond.
Then, with 7 minutes left on the tow captain's clock, a noticeable lift and we float for a few seconds, so I slam the engine into gear and gun the throttle with each big wave, we surge forward then hit hard as the wave passes and we find sand again in the troughs. Three big surges, three big hits, then we're free!!!
Don and I are grinning at each other like madmen, hooting and thumbs up. The support crowd on the beach is cheering and waving, Christie especially vocal telling us to "just get the f..k off my beach:-)"

Once clear of the wave sets I call the tow captain, he throttles back, and as feared the bridle drifts back fouling the prop. Suddenly I'm again potentially at the mercy of the waves and tide. The tow boat has already dropped the towline and ready to leave, no offer to pull me to safe deeper water, just yelling at me " you're in a dangerous place, get out of there" (he later called us all "Stupid White Fucks" - apparently a strong minded Red Indian expat who depises the white races)and motors off back to where he came from.
Scott, an excellent swimmer and free diver it turns out, cuts free the bridle and pontoon harness, the Panga and he retrieves my big CQR anchor which at first won't budge, and soon we're all sorted.
Then the insurance rep back on the beach wants to be picked up to do a post salvage inspection! Impossible unless he can paddle a board out. So Scott does a quick appraisal, while the local fishermen escort me to a safe area off the beach to anchor, and soon we are motoring in the panga back to celebrate - an amazing feeling of elation, relief, and exhaustion. Don had thought ahead, as usual, and had rums and cigars ready - "it ain't over til the fat lady sings"!

I felt like I'd just competed in "the longest day" Coast to Coast adventure race back home but the rush of getting Whakaari off the beach after eighteen days was big enough to overcome any tiredness. On return to Lolas the beaming smiles,  high fives and "flipping the W" were the clear signal a party was inevitable.

Gave, Xavier, Don and I "Flipping the W" for Whakaari

 What a lucky guy!