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|91--Costa Rica: Life Outside the Box|
Oct 23 2002 - 03:56 PST
cherie writes: Costa Rica: Life Outside the Box
Where are the brakes?
Greg is a true sailor. He is a sailor from his dirty clothes right down to his deodorant. He wears Old Spice deodorant because it has a sailboat on the label. And like most men of the sea, he thinks that if his clothes are dry, then they are clean.
“Greg, that shirt is dirty.” Imagine that I say this almost everyday.
“No it’s not. It’s dry.” This is always Greg’s response.
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|90--Costa Rica: Sailing is a Life of Extremes|
Oct 15 2002 - 12:55 PST
cherie writes: Scirocco left San Francisco on October 10, 2001 heading for the Panama Canal. In one year we went from latitude 38 to latitude 9. In that year I’ve learned that having a boat is a lot like having a kid. You clean them up and they just get dirty again. Things mysteriously wind up broken every morning. They always need money for something. They wake you up in the middle of the night with their constant moving around. And although they exhaust you, frustrate you, and take every dime you have, you love them all the same.
Greg with the sunset and a smile on his face, we're finally heading south again!
It’s amazing that I still love Scirocco after our last sail from Flamingo Bay to Quepos, Costa Rica. Our 24 hour estimated “sail time” turned into 40 hours with the intrusion of a magnificent lightning storm.
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|86-The Pure Life in Costa Rica|
Oct 01 2002 - 04:14 PST
cherie writes: As I write this I am burned, scraped, scabbed over, bit, bruised and a little drunk. In Flamingo Bay, one dollar buys you a cold beer and “Hora Feliz” or “Happy Hour” is every hour, everyday.
Here's the lizard we ran around photographing, only after shooting tons of pictures did we notice his brother who was ten times his size.
Our trip to Flamingo Bay, Costa Rica was a dramatic test of my abilities as a traveler. Greg and I arrived at the Los Angeles airport over two hours early, but our flight took off as we were standing in the long Delta line. No problem, an hour and a half later, we squished onto the next flight. Atlanta is no where near Costa Rica, but that’s where our flight took us. I can’t complain because Greg’s dad got us passes on Delta that let us fly First Class to Costa Rica for about $200 bucks each. In other words, you had to pry me off my first class seat, because I knew that plane ride would be the last bit of luxury I would have in the next few months.
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