Jurassic Park
Most of the ocean cargo has shifted from Puntarenas to the nearby port town of Caldera, but there is still plenty of life in the town, and there are still plenty of boats. The fish market, on the northern shore of Puntarenas’ thin spit of land, full of fisherman and their haggling buyers, seemed as good a place as any to start my search.
My Spanish is decent, so I didn’t have any problem striking up conversations with some of the captains sitting around the dock, though I had some trouble being understood. I found I had to repeat myself several times. “Yes, I want to hire a boat. Yes, the crew too. Yes, that is there I want to go. Yes, I’m sure.” After half a dozen fruitless conversations, I came across José, captain of the trawler El Inventado. There were a few false starts, and a protracted hour of negotiation, but aided by a round of cervezas bien frías, we struck a deal. They’d take me where I wanted to go, a small island far out in the pacific. In truth, like the rest of the sailors, they thought I was loco – they were probably just the only ones who had nothing better to do.
“But amigo”, José said. “This island you are looking for. It’s a fiction, nothing more. It does not exist.”
“Don’t worry, José”, I told him. “That’s what they want you to think. But it’s there all right. I read about it in a book. You know what that means? That means it’s true. Everything you ever read in a book is true. Don’t ever forget that.”
The crossing was arduous. The seas were as calm as could be expected, but with El Inventado only averaging eight knots, it would be thirty seven hours after we left the mainland before we sighted land again. To pass the time we mostly talked about football. We dissected the forthcoming world cup in minute detail, and of the five men aboard, all but one plumped for Spain. The other went for Mexico, though he was half mad, and no one paid him much attention.
Finally, we spotted a spec of green on the horizon. Land.
I watched in awe as it grew larger, larger, larger. We anchored barely a hundred yards from the shore, the lush vegetation shimmering in the sunlight above us and crystal clear waterfalls plummeting down into the ocean below.
“Finally,” I said quietly. “I have made it to Isla Nublar.”
“Actually, no”, José replied. “Isla Del Coco.”
“Hmm,” I said. “I guess it could be Isla Sorna”.
“No, Isla Del Coco. It’s part of Costa Rica. It’s a national park and a world famous scuba diving destination. We think it was an inspiration for Micheael Crichton, but that’s all. It’s not like I didn’t tell you back in Puntarenas, amigo.”
“InGen are smarter than I gave them credit for,” I conceded. “They’ve rewritten history. They must have paid off the Costa Rican government. They’ve even changed Wikipedia. Goddamm it, they’re good.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “You leave me here. Come back for me in six months. I’ll photograph the animals. I’ll film them. No one will be able to deny it them. Once a week, I’ll light a signal fire on the eastern tip of the island. When you come back, wait in this bay for a week. If you don’t see the fire, you’ll know I’ve probably been eaten.”
“Much as I’d love to humour you, no can do”, José said. “It’s a national park. Only park rangers are allowed ashore, and you’re not a park ranger.”
“Of course”, I said. “How convenient. How very convenient.”
