Fear often surfaces in the most commonplace situations as well as exotic locales. Fear may take the form of spiders and snakes.

It may appear in a darkened alleyway or high atop the pyramids. Perhaps it can occur deep within the recesses of this computer? 

Whereas I’m not afraid of heights, I have often been afraid of situations when I just happen to be up high; for instance, flying.  How do those things stay up in the air, anyway?  Yes, I heard about aerodynamics, but, come on, seriously? 

So began our recent trip to Costa Rica aboard a Cessna Grand Caravan, a single engine twelve passenger prop.  Arriving at our connecting flight with time to spare (what’s with that?), Bob and I climbed aboard a Sansa Airlines miniature aircraft. 

Swiftly and efficiently, this Tinker Toy version of an airplane soared upward over the mountains and above the clouds while I carefully contemplated every eyelet of my sneakers.

I made light conversation with other passengers, discussing the various nuances of choosing a fine wine as well as whom they favored on American Idol.  We talked about everything but the fact that we were surrounded by mountains not conducive to emergency landings.

Thankfully, before you could explain the plotline of Lost, we were descending safely onto the Quepos airstrip which would vaguely resemble your driveway, assuming you lived on a dirt road. 

The runway was quite possibly the only flat surface in all of Costa Rica. The drive to our hotel (the Villa Roca) was a Central American version of over the river and through the woods.  Although one would assume that all terrain vehicles would be everyone’s preference, we invariably rode in one of the many bright blood red cabs about the size of a Ford Focus.

Built into the mountains, our hotel, like many others, sat atop the lush and flourishing forest with views of the Pacific in the distance.  We quickly got to know many of the other guests as most converged there for happy hour (for our bar was happier than the local bar), before climbing up a road to dinner; another pleasant surprise.

Firstly, you can drink the water (fear number two).

Most amazingly, the town boasted some of the most sophisticated dining that we’ve experienced in a long time.  Although we frequently ate the freshest, choicest fish, a fine meal could be had with diverse fair such as arroz con pollo or roast pork. Fittingly, the tuna “was like butter” became the adapted turn of phrase for the week.

Whenever we visit my cousins in Florida, we often race from town to town searching for a dry patch of sand.  Upon arriving at West Palm International, the heavens customarily open up to torrents of never-ending rain. Deborah tells me that after all, Florida is a tropical climate and points to a map of the Caribbean.

Conversely, on this vacation, each morning began after an early breakfast with an unwieldy but unhurried walk down to the beautiful town beach.  Once on the way down, Bob stopped to take a photo of the beach from a Kodak vantage point.  After doing so, a nearby tree limb promptly fell upon the ramshackle road and could have hurt us considerably had we not stopped (fear number three).

The ocean was amazing; warm as bath water and wild enough to provide a thrill ride for the many surfers as well as Bob, who was consistently fraternizing with the surfer dudes.  I was elated at the consistent sunshine, but irritated that I once again fell asleep under an umbrella that was not programmed to custom alter my shade.  As a result, this pale body turned many shades of red, prompting one of the other guests to comment that my complexion was outside the Crayola box.

The prime fear of the week was also our most anticipated escapade; having planned a canopy zip line experience from the beginning.  Waking up that morning became a nerve-racking undertaking, along with having breakfast, talking and smiling for the camera for I was surely en route to death row.  This was it!  My affairs were in order; my life insurance paid up.

But, to my inconceivable surprise, sailing high above the rainforest canopy grew to be my most memorable experience.  This is an adventure for people of all ages, interests and physical conditions (I am exhibit A).  There were 18 tree house platforms, 10 zip lines, 2 repel lines and one “Tarzan” swing.

After the first short zip, you feel reassured that everyone is safely hooked onto what look like clothes lines (really).  This is apparently not the bitter end you imagined as there are no noticeable lifeless bodies lying in the foliage.  As you slide from tree to tree, you wonder why they even call this a zip line, and since you need a distraction, songs like “Zip Goes a Million” or “Zing Go My Heart Strings” come to mind, but don’t offer any clarification. 

“Zipping” back and forth, very often backwards, you ignore the pulleys’ mechanical whirring noise in your ears that drown out the bird calls and monkey chattering; but there is nary a zip to be heard.  Swinging through the air like Johnny Weissmuller, many try to duplicate the yell, but still no zip.

In the end you make it to the finish and realize you may have faced your greatest fears but had the best time of your life in the process.

Happy Travels!  Bob Giangrasso and Bob Frankel
Wanamassa, NJ

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