Still Rollin’…

Dear Diary,

I’ve lost track of time. I don’t know what day it is, and I don’t really care. What I need to do right now is get the fuck away from this mess.

Living on the water feels more right to me than anything I can imagine, but I can’t do it with these retards. The “captain” doesn’t have much inclination to sail his own boat, let alone impart expertise on others. He seems more concerned with ramming every available inch of space with Workaway volunteers to fund his supply of food and broken parts. His “suggestion” to contribute a few bucks daily turned out to be more of a rule. When I realized I ate a third of what everyone else was eating at mealtime, with no say in the offerings, I decided it might be time to make a move before the shore slipped away.

As 6 new people were welcomed aboard without any realistic quarters, my decision was made easier. Did I mention that there’s no functioning head (toilet) or engine on either vessel? Not that big a deal if you’re keen on adapting, but something that should have been mentioned before coming aboard.

Up to 15 people now on two boats. I decided to bolt while I could. Captain Daeli didn’t have shit to say when I thanked him for the opportunity to come aboard, so I hitched a ride back on the dinghy that was sent ashore to pick up more new guests.

Wise move, Mikey.

I spent two days at a hotel in town to try to find some new sailing contacts. At 13 bucks a day for a room, I didn’t feel rushed. The responses were scant, so I decided to take a tour to Livingston, a town on the ocean only accessible by boat from Rio Dulce.

Wise move, Mikey.

It was more than a shuttle. We stopped at several locations where people were getting out to spend their time at “hotels” that I had no clue existed. We passed through stilt houses and river dwellers that made me beam with envy. There was a stop at a volcanic hot spring reeking of sulphur that I would never have known existed relying on travel information from Google.

I arrived at Livingston, and some Rasta dude pulled me off the ferry suggesting I stay at the African Place Hotel. A private room for 60 Q a night, which is about 8 bucks. Seemed pretty good, so why not? I decided to check it out.

After a 10 minute walk through the rain, and multiple offers of dope, here I am. This place is fucking awesome. I feel like a god, although of course my god standards are probably far below what North Americans perceive as luxury. I have yet to explore the town or do much of anything because I was in the mood to write.

My WiFi only works in the courtyard, which motivates me to be social.

What next? I dunno, but the serenity and chirping animals seem to be the perfect place to finish book number three, while dipping my toes into the ocean whenever I feel the need.

Everyday is an improvisation. There’s only one thing I know for certain. Humans are supposed to live free. Free to do what they want, and share unconditional love with one another. Yeah, money and slavery is alive and well here, but this is an incredible opportunity to take one step closer to an ideal that I think we can achieve if we put our hearts and souls into the process.

The day is young, and the rain has stopped. A good time to explore.

Chat later, dear diary…

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