Brace yourselves! We have a lot to report in this installment. We’ll start off with the story from Dan about how we got here in the first place.

How Did the Parrotts End Up in Costa Rica Anyway? Like, what the heck?

Good questions, all. I’ll try to lay out the circumstances that brought us here.

In the fall of 2013 a four person delegation from the University of Costa Rica (UCR) visited Maine Maritime Academy (MMA). They flew up for a week, a significant investment on their part. They had just created a nautical college, the first in Costa Rica. UCR is the largest and most established university in Costa Rica. It has about 40,000 students. There is a main campus in the capital of San Jose but this program was grafted onto an existing engineering program at a satellite campus in Limon, on the Caribbean.

The delegation included the Vice President of Academics for the entire university (no small job), the Director of the Limon campus, one engineering faculty, and the man in charge of making the whole thing go, Capitan Professor Caballero Jose Maria Silos Rodriguez, Ph.D, a Spaniard formerly of Madrid. El Capitan is an experienced mariner and professor of nautical science with several books to his name. He was also knighted by the King of Spain (that’s the “Caballero” part) for blowing up mines in the Persian Gulf during the Iraq-Iran war in the late 80s. At the time he was captain of a research vessel which was one of very few with the technology to detect the mines. You may recall Reagan’s 600 ship navy? They forgot the minesweepers. There is a famous photo of a U.S warship sheltering behind the tanker is was supposed to be escorting. Anyway, El Capitan knows what a maritime academy is supposed to look like, having attended one in Barcelona and taught at another in Cadiz. But no one else in all of Costa Rica had a clue. So, he wanted others to see what an established maritime institution looked like. They also came with aspirations for forming a partnership that would give access to some of our resources.

I had long given thought to taking the family abroad via some sort of academic exchange. It was on my mind from the moment I took the job at MMA. You can do that kind of thing in academia so, why not? Kim, having grown up overseas, was aligned with the idea and perfectly equipped to take it on. No persuasion necessary. The questions were how, and where, and when? What were the financial ramifications? What about the kids, and school? What about 8th grade graduation? Yes, in Blue Hill 8th grade graduation is an exalted event, something like a prom, debutante ball and Presidential Medal of Freedom ceremony rolled into one. There was never going to be a perfect time. You either go for it or forever ponder the possibilities.

I made a point of getting to know our visitors during their week in Castine and planted the seed that eventually grew into this. But a lot had to happen first.

A colleague in another department at MMA had won a Fulbright Scholarship in Costa Rica years earlier. She was keen on seeing that connection continue. She was forthcoming about the Fulbright process and supportive of my proposal. Costa Rica was not the only country I looked at. MMA has a mature relationship with the University of Izmir in Turkey. Two of our faculty had gone there, and three of theirs had come here. Despite the present political situation, Turkey has an excellent reputation among those who have been. I’ve met Turks at academic conferences and without exception, they were internationally oriented, very outward looking. Plus, it is a beautiful country with extraordinary antiquities, on the Aegean Sea. Other than being beheaded, what could possibly go wrong?

I was also interested in the nautical college in Cork, Ireland. I love Ireland, so why not again? I had made connections there on a port call on the State of Maine during a training cruise and our two schools had struck up a wider collaboration since. These were the prospects. But a Fulbright Scholarship comes with funding appropriated by Congress, and administered by the State Department. It’s not lavish but anything else likely entailed going to half pay for a year. Who wants to eat half as much food? And what bank would be content with half a mortgage payment? And how would I feel about providing health insurance to only Finnegan and me? No, if possible, a Fulbright was best solution from that particular standpoint.

But a successful Fulbright proposal has to stand out from thousands. It can’t just be “My wife and I want to have an overseas experience with our kids before they grow up and hate us. Well, let’s just say before they grow up.” There needs to be a compelling story. Of the three, Costa Rica had the best. New nautical program. First in the country. Ever! Two-ocean country with no maritime tradition. Ever! (What were they thinking these last 500 years, these scions of Columbus?) No Costa Rican merchant marine, therefore no cranky old Costa Rican captains to come ashore and teach navigation or wire splicing. Costa Rica, famously, has no military so there are no retired navy personnel. No one in Costa Rica is related to anyone who ever made a living at sea unless they were doing laundry on cruise ship. Ok – there is a Coast Guard. They have 2 boats: the Atlantic one and the Pacific one, both trailer-able. Since being here I’ve seen a few open boats with outboard engines, and a kayak rental agency. No, the only people qualified to get this ball rolling would be, like El Capitan, from abroad. And they have to come NOW! Civil engineers, rainforest biologists, Cervantes scholars – that can all wait till after the poles melt. What you need, Mr. Fulbright and Mrs. Costa Rica, is a captain with seagoing experience and teaching experience. And who speaks English, since that is the international maritime language.

If I neglected to mention that my current wife said something about warm weather being a priority, well, it did come up.

I applied in August 2014. Got references, filled out forms, made my pitch. Roundabout Christmas I got a letter saying my proposal was considered meritorious and was being forwarded for further consideration. I was on my way. It really was a very good proposal, I spoke aloud to no one in particular. On March 17th, 2015, St. Patrick’s Day, I got another letter saying that my proposal was universally found to be outstanding, excellent, and extraordinary. However, there was only funding for two slots in Costa Rica and I wasn’t one of them.

That’s ok. Didn’t want it anyway. Just a lark. Time on my hands. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. My gaze turned to Turkey.

Roundabout June 2015, I got an email from someone at the Fulbright office in Washington saying, you know, that really was a very good proposal. Would you consider resubmitting? My first reaction was, hell no. I took my shot. I’m moving on, though not to Turkey. I slept on it for a couple weeks and again concluded, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I pulled out the file, re-approached my references, re-wrote the proposal, re-established contact with my Costa Rican buddies.

The VP of Academics had already written a letter-of-invitation the first time around, absolutely essential for this sort of thing. To Whom It Might Concern, it outlined the importance of the proposed work. But this time he really went to town. He cast the whole thing in terms of national destiny, which was ineluctably tethered to me, Dan Parrott, teaching navigation and wire splicing in Costa Rica immediately, post-haste, not a minute to spare!

Roundabout Christmas I got a letter saying that my proposal was found to be meritorious and was being forwarded for further consideration. My reaction was subdued. On March 17th, 2016, St. Patrick’s Day, I got a letter. The only person I knew who had ever been awarded a Fulbright Scholarship got the letter in late April. I let the day go by and finally opened it up. It said “Congratulations, etc.” And that is how we got here.

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Over to Kim:

We’re at the halfway mark in our time here and already I’m accounting for the things that I’ll miss most:

Selecting perfectly ripened avocados at the mercado for that night’s guacamole. Papaya and lime for breakfast. Cilantro in everything. The ubiquitous Lizano salsa. The sweet spicy Jamaican ginger bread that is only sold at the bus station. Hot crispy plantain chips right out of the fryer. Batidos—freshly blended fruit smoothies with exotic ingredients like guanabana, maracuya, soursop, cas—whipped up in little closet shops around town. On a sweltering dehydrated afternoon, there is nothing more refreshing on earth. There’s a food theme here, no?

A couple weeks ago I took a whirlwind work trip to NYC. The hotel’s continental breakfast included the usual spread of cantalope, pineapple and strawberries. I didn’t even bother. How can you eat cardboard when you’ve been ruined by tropical fruit exploding with flavor?

Over Semana Santa, Holy Week, we took a trip to the Volcán Arenal region. Driving out of the humid plains of Límon, over the mountains to arid San Jose, and then north, we found ourselves in rich dairy and coffee land. Tidy farms form a patchwork quilt across the lush rolling terrain. No wonder Costa Rica is called the Switzerland of Central America.

Bordering the fields are what Dan and I have coined “living fences”. As best we can tell, farmers take branches from live trees and plug them into the ground along the fence line. The soil is so perpetually moist that before long these “cuttings” sprout new roots and grow into medium-sized trees themselves. Each pasture is fringed with these lovely leafy fences.

Not surprisingly, Volcán Arenal dominates the area. It is considered to be an active volcano, emitting puffs of steam on a daily basis. The last significant eruption was about seven years ago. However, lately a neighboring volcano, Poas, has gotten lively to the point that the American Embassy has warned American tourists not to venture near Poas, and if they do, not to expect an Embassy-sponsored rescue.

The volcano changed personality throughout the day. Reclusive in the morning mist, verdant as the clouds lifted and a stark moonscape as we viewed it in the afternoon glare from the west. I felt l had to keep an eye on it the whole time, this slumbering behemoth occasionally letting out a soft snort.

We did the Arenal things: a hand-over-hand climb up and then down into a crater for a swim in the lagoon, epic zip-lines that petrified me but Kessler and Dan took in stride, a hanging bridge walk through the canopy where we sighted a band of monkeys stealthily moving through the treetops like a SEAL team on a mission, and on our last night, a soak in the healing volcanic hot springs. Picture a series of starlit steaming pools surrounded by rainforest. As darkness fell, the noise of the jungle was so loud you couldn’t hear your neighbor talk. Not that you wanted to.

Last week we took a three-day trip to Bocas del Toro, Panama. This was actually a required excursion to renew Kessler’s 90-day tourist visa. Dan had to get a formal visa for his Fulbright and I’ve been traveling in and out of the country so we were both covered. But to keep Kessler from ending up in the Costa Rican jail, we took a bus to the southern border. Upon stepping off the bus we were immediately accosted by hustlers…I will show you the way across the border, take my shuttle to Panama, this is the best boat to the island.

We were street-weary by the time we reached our destination, Bastimentos, a wee island off the main island. Bocas del Toro (Mouth of the Bull) is a cluster of islands known for wildly colorful buildings perched on stilts over the water. It has an even stronger Caribbean and Creole vibe than where we’ve been living in Limón. Wafts of marijuana and strains of reggae greeted us on our walk (no cars on the island) to our Panamanian family-run hotel. We got to know all three generations during our stay.

In contrast to the Costa Rican dearth of maritime culture, the people of Bocas live and breathe by the sea. Children bathe in the shallows, teenagers buzz around driving outboards, whole families make their living from fishing and the ocean-based tourist industry. On the surface, this island-style living was idyllic. But just below was an undercurrent of malaise, at least for us. We learned that only two months earlier a 23-year old American Columbia grad went missing on the island. Her strangled body was found on the path between the village and the beach. We walked that very path to swim at that same beach. There has yet to be a conviction.

Suffice it to say, we were relieved to be back in our Costa Rican hometown, away from the hustle and intrigue of Panama. Even the garbage piles on the corner seemed familiar and safe. There’s nothing like leaving home to gain a greater appreciation for home.

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Kim’s tidbit:

To buy a stamp at the Post Office, you wait your turn by sitting in one of twelve chairs, lined up in two rows. Every time someone steps up to the counter, everyone shifts over one seat. That’s right, by the time you buy your stamp, you have stood up and re-seated yourself a dozen times. There is a “wave” effect with every shift as if you were at a high school basketball game watching the wave move around the gym. The Ticos themselves seem somewhat amused by this arrangement but there is no protest as they gamely rise and fall until their turn.

Back to Dan:

I stepped up to the cash register to pay for lunch. The woman on the other side said something in Spanish to the person behind me. I got my credit card out and, just in case, checked my cash. She repeated herself, with emphasis. I moved my money around to make it plain that I was ready to settle up. A third time, and with still greater emphasis, she uttered the same words. I looked behind me. There was no one there. My Spanish is weak, and she had a lazy eye.

As it turns out, our house is equipped with not one, but two rotating disco balls! There are also a couple of police squad car-type revolving lights, one red, the other blue. There is another light-emitter that I can't quite describe, except to say that the lights revolve in a cylindrical pattern on a universal axis which periodically permits it to interact with the disco balls and the cop car lights. Did I mention the pulsating Christmas lights dribbling above the bar, and the fluorescent ‘Bienvenido’ sign? Well, I have now.

Across the street from our house is the Movimiento Misionero Mundial church. No kidding. It’s quite a landmark in these parts. You need only mention “Tres Ms” to a taxi driver and you’re as good as home. Heck, it’s even on GoogleMaps. The “3 Ms” are some ilk of holy-roller evangelists, lots of call and response. They are very active, which means no narco-trafficking on the corner. The choir is practicing mid-week and they sound good. The Movimiento keeps its place up so I count them as good neighbors. Not so sure they'd say the same of me, strutting about in boxers and wife-beater, clutching a beaded bottle of beer. Aye!