If Lost - Listen for the Wind & Costa Ricans

Whenever I get a bit lost, the easiest way to home is finding where my sister has roamed. She’s actually quite easy to find, I simply go where the wild things are. I pack Band-Aids and tshirts following her all the way, to the mountains, rivers, or sprawling plains. On this trip I traced her steps to the waters of Coloma. As we are part water nymphs, she went to the waters to be a river guide and master rapids.  Sheri the Hyundai Santa Fe bumped along the dirt road dragging along her trailer, where the two eyes of Oliver peered anxiously out the small window. Leaving my small suitcase to rest under the bed, we step into the night for the friends she’s eagerly been waiting for me to meet. Familiar with the unlit roads without a single misstep we turn a corner, walk right through an old school bus, and enter the opening of a camp circle that was clearly several hours deep in the passing of beers and jokes. Sitting on a creaky chair, I settle in as the raft guides from around the world call out greetings, their faces hidden in the dark but gleaming smiles shine through.

Once the clock moves past the bewitching hour of midnight, bleary eyes one by one begin dissipating as each member in the circle returns to their own hearth. We tuck ourselves into bed, though my mind races still, my body not quite ready to release its months of tension just because of a campfire.

Uneasily I fall into sleep and stay there until morning. Still unsure if I’m quite ready to be awake Morgan decides we are and leads us down the way to coffee and creamer. I sit on the edge of the bed while she lights a camp stove and boils water. After a full cup and a handful of leftover sausage from the breakfast hall, we walk down the path to the boat waiting on the edge of the river. Full boats watch curiously as two remarkably similar girls push off alone, committing to sixteen miles of water bound travel. On the job training begins and Morgan pulls out her trip leader voice out to help us move in tandem, one forward stroke at a time. The comradery of the guides is tangible, as we greet her fellow friends along the journey. Sometimes we swap stories, sometimes we listen to the river. Both in such different places, both a bit struggling, trying to figure out where we got lost, and where we’ll find home. No matter the differences or variety in our individual journeys, the constant is the sacred place of the sister bond. This day I listen, begging wordlessly for answers I didn’t realize I desperately need, for questions I still can’t even formulate enough to speak.  

Despite the solemnness outdoor nature sometimes commands, it often was interrupted by the laughing rapids. Expertly as someone who has travelled this way everyday for months, Morgan guides us to ensure the biggest splashes and narrowest escapes are our victories to claim. Our laughter joins the river, and we wink at each other, thankful again for another adventure between the Kemp sisters. Even if we don’t have answers, we always have our laughter.

Tagging along the end of another trip, I watch the guides wearily hoist the boats onto trailers. Taking big gulps of water, the van is full of anticipation another long day is being marked as over, so the night by the campfire can begin. Quickly we run our tired bodies under the outdoor hose water, and claim a nap to revive us from river rats to girls. Morgan manages to nudge me away from my dearest friend, this incredible bed, to saunter down the road to the ribs on the grill. Heads nod as we enter and plates wordlessly passed to our hands, until they return full of grilled meats and spiked seltzers. Murmuring moves around the table, everyone much too committed to the mistress of dinner to give one another much attention. Slowly the conversation picks up as the sun sets and the music volume rises in its place.

Before long, I have hardly noticed the dinning table is unlit, as my eyes have adjusted. As I did on the river I listen, this time to the winding stories and rolling consonants of the Costa Ricans. We take turns bantering and swapping stories, egging on, un bothered by differences, enjoying instead our mutual desire to live fully in this moment. Liquid courage finds its way into the party, closely followed by its partner in crime, dancing. Conversations move from across the table to the dirt filled dance floor where rhythm is optional.  We watch their feet and count the beats, and everyone roars when knees meet. When dancing dies off, the crew moves in the familiar routine to complete the evening on the patio of the party leader. Sitting in the customary circle, Spanish and English float over the center, and I listen, feeling right at home among the mixed languages, savoring the rewarding feeling of being approved and included by this lively crew. Until my eyes become too heavy to stand, I take another deep breath of the moonshine magic to carry me to sleep.

Despite the rigors of the day, sleep evades me. All the listening leads to thinking, as I ponder the voices of the people and the river. My life back home is a stark contrast to the river guides campsite. While both lifestyles are run by coffee, my day is dictated by emails and calendars, not sunshine or weather vanes. Busy and weighty with expectations. Despite the heaviness it can hold, life back home is a good, stable, wonderful in many ways. I know I’m a bird, who likes travel and change, but I’m also a bird who likes to find its way home when the sunlight fades. The office often feels like a cage, but the wide open space feels just as treacherous. As I listened all day I fell asleep wondering, if there was a place with open skies but strong trees, if there was a place for me to be where I could be fully, happily me. Drifting off my heart stays awake, listening for the answer.