Living life while searching for death

On the tip of the Nicoya Peninsula in Costa Rica is a reserve that encompasses the entire shoreline. At this tip is an island, which is only accessible during low tide when an isthmus rises above the water. The island holds a cemetery in which local funerals illuminate the ocean at twilight with a candlelit procession from the mainland.

However, the day I visited all were well and living, no candlelit funerals. The idea of viewing a reclusive cemetery had peaked my interest. I planned to embark out solo, during low tide through a clandestine kiosk on the western side, cross the isthmus to the island, return and exit through the eastern park gate, all before the tide came in. Upon entering the reserve, the island was not visible through the natural inlets of the coast. I saw the island after rounding a few bends and naively estimated a 30-minute stroll that became a 6-hour Survivor episode.

The first mistake I made was that I had worn the wrong shoes; actually, I had worn no shoes. I was expecting a walk on the beach, which it was, if the beach was Normandy 1944. Jagged, unforgiving rocks punctured my raw, naked feet. Blistered, calloused and terrified I kept onward, persistent. Unbeknownst to me at the time, was that the western side of the park is undeveloped tropical forest, serrated rocks, and shear cliffs, all secluded and majestic.

With the tide swiftly lapping closer at my tender feet, I gave up visions of ancient burial grounds and focused on finding a real beach and living people and drinking water, which I had not brought enough of, my second mistake. Just as I crested the southernmost bend, I spotted the beach, and in the distance, I saw the colorful pop of synthetic clothing against the white sandy background. In broken Spanish, I screamed for help, with no response.

Hastily, my wounded legs maneuvered around the disappearing shore. The ocean was rapidly reclaiming the rocks underwater. Violent waves with menacing riptides forced me upward onto the cliffs. I bouldered along the final wall, high above the waterline, my fingers now recognizing the pain of my feet. As I approached the beach, I thrust myself onto the welcoming sand and dragged zombie-like towards the brightly dressed people. Thirsty, hungry, and hurting, I called again for help.

I was met with a sweet, succulent mango, which I devoured like the white-faced capuchin monkey. Any information regarding the mysterious death island went to deaf ears. I was alive.