The Year of Fog

by Michelle Richmond

  “I lost my little girl.”

  “What?”

  “Actually, my fiancé’s little girl, Emma. On the beach in San Francisco. I’m down here because I think she was kidnapped, and I believe the people who did it may be in Costa Rica.” I don’t tell her what a long shot it is, don’t let onto the fact that I’m chasing my last lead. Maybe what I need more than anything right now is simply for someone to believe in my plan.

  “Not funny,” Sami says. “Stop fucking with my head.”

  “It’s true.” I lay the police sketches on the mattress next to her.

  “Shit, you’re not kidding, are you?”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “They don’t look familiar.”

  “You sure? The guy, he has a tattoo of a wave on his chest. He’s medium height, muscular, has a lazy eye. She’s thin, bleached blonde, a little crazy-looking.”

  “What’s the Killer Longboard got to do with all this?”

  “This couple was at Ocean Beach the day Emma disappeared. The guy had a Rossbottom board.”

  Sami’s eyes get wide. “I can’t believe it,” she says. “A kidnapping. That’s movie shit.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Surfers are a tight-knit group, you know. Best keep your eyes open and your mouth shut for a little while. Let me help. I’ll ask around about the board.”

  “Thanks. Another thing. I don’t really know where to look. I’ve been over my map of Costa Rica a hundred times, and I’m lost.”

  “You should meet Dwight. He’s a bartender at the Pink Pelican. He’s not all there, but he’s been here for twenty years. Knows the whole country by heart. I’ll hook you up.”

  “I owe you.”

  “Hey,” Sami says, “I’m starved. Got anything to eat?”

  “Bananas, Oreos, peanut butter, white bread, and chips.”

  “You’re a veritable health food store,” she says. “I could sure go for a peanut butter and banana sandwich.”

  I go over to the little table underneath the window, which I’ve transformed into a makeshift kitchenette with a coffeepot, Bunsen burner, paper plates, and silverware. I make two sandwiches, with a side of Pringles.

  Sami takes the top piece of bread off her sandwich, lays a few Pringles on top of the bananas, and puts the top back on. “Hey, you ever been to Graceland?”

  “No.”

  “I went a couple of years ago. Funny thing is, the Graceland Mansion isn’t a mansion. It’s just like a regular house, only bigger, with uglier furniture. But there’s this restaurant across the street where you can get fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. They’re so fucking good, I had two and bought a third one to go. It’d be worth going back to Graceland just to get that sandwich.”

  The peanut butter tastes good, even feels good against the roof of my mouth, and I realize that I’ve been eating regularly for the past week. I stick my finger in the waistband of my shorts and notice that, even though I’m still much too thin, the fit is getting slightly more snug. Everyone’s been telling me I had to get on with my life, and I’ve been thinking, all along, that they’re wrong. I’ve been thinking that there’s no getting on with anything as long is Emma is missing. But my body, it seems, has made its own decision.

  I think of Emma, wherever she is, and I wonder if she’s healthy. Is she growing, gaining weight? Is her face changing? Among my meager luggage, I brought a small album containing a couple dozen photos of her. In some she’s with Jake, in some she is alone, and in one the two of us stand together on the grounds of the Legion of Honor, with the fountain in the background. The first photo in the book was taken at Crissy Field a couple of weeks after I met her, and the last one was taken the day before she disappeared. Even in that short span of time, a single year, her features underwent a gentle metamorphosis—her face thinning, her widow’s peak becoming more pronounced. An adult can look pretty much the same for a decade or more, but in childhood the alterations occur so rapidly that photographs taken just months apart can be startlingly different.

  The album has room for five more photographs. I don’t remember now whether or not it was a conscious act to leave those final sleeves empty as I was packing for this trip. I tell myself that there will be more pictures to fill out the book, that the narrative which began with the very first photo at Crissy Field has not come to an end. I tell myself there is a future, and it is not a terrible, unbearable one. Surely there will be more pictures, a complete and happy story. In waking dreams, despite everything, I picture this: Emma and Jake and me, together, getting on with our lives.

  64

  THE NEXT day, as promised, Sami introduces me to Dwight, who’s six foot two and can’t weigh more than a buck fifty. He’s balding on top, very tan, and it’s impossible to guess his age. When we get to the Pink Pelican at ten o’clock in the morning, Dwight’s the only one there. He’s doing some sort of sidestep behind the bar, lifting and lowering his arms like a bird in flight. He reminds me of somebody, but I can’t place the resemblance.

  “Hello, ladies.”

  “My new friend Abby needs your help,” Sami says.

  He stops sidestepping and reaches over the bar to shake my hand. “Hello, new friend Abigail. How can I help you?” That’s when I realize who he reminds me of: Sam Bungo. Something about the male-pattern baldness combined with exuberant youthfulness, and the way he says my full name. Sam Bungo used to do that, refused to call me by the abbreviation because he thought Abigail sounded British, and he had a thing for the Brits.

  “I was hoping you could tell me the best longboarding spots,” I say.

  He grabs a rag to polish the already immaculate counter and gives me a questioning look. “You surf?”

  “No. I’m doing research.”

  “Lonely Planet,” Sami chimes in, pointing to my camera. “She’s a photographer.”

  “Right, dude. Here, I’ll draw you a map. But you’ve got to promise to put me in your guidebook.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “Not just my name. I want a photograph.”

  “No problem.”

  Dwight takes a pencil from behind his ear and begins to draw a map on the back of a paper menu. He starts with the Caribbean coast. “You’ve got Playa Bonita, north of Limón, and to the south there’s Cahuita, nice beaches. Best bet on that side for surfing is Salsa Brava, the hollowest wave in Costa Rica. You know what ‘Salsa Brava’ means?”

  I shake my head.

  “Angry sauce, roughly translated. Fucking poetry, man. Only way to know what I mean is to surf the sauce. Pound for pound, it’s as intense as any coral reef double-up right tube in the world. You like poetry? You look like a woman who can appreciate a good metaphor.”

  “Sure, I like poetry.”

  “I thought you would,” he says, leaning closer. “I can really get into a chick who can get into poetry. Listen, how old are you?”

  “Easy,” Sami says. “She’s married.”

  “No shit,” he says, looking at my left hand. “If you’re so married, where’s your wedding ring?”

  “Left it at home. My fingers swell in the heat.”

  “Right.” It’s hard to tell if he believes me, but he looks back at his map and begins scribbling again. “Truth is you won’t find much action out that way now. Best time to go to the Caribbean coast is between February and April. During the summer, anybody who knows his ass from his tail fin is on the west coast.”

  He keeps drawing and talking, marking the prime spots with a green star.

  “Up top is Ollie’s Point, named after Oliver North. Once upon a time there was a secret airstrip there. They used it to run guns and shit to the Contras, but you can’t get there by road, you have to hike in. Way down south on the Pacific side, toward Panama, you’ve got Matapalo, killer right point break with house-size waves, west swell. Then Playa Pavones, some of the most perfect waves on the planet. Going on up the coast you get Dominical. Real quiet. Pretty consistent beach breaks year-round. Then there’s Playa Es
padilla at the entrance to Manuel Antonio National Park, real touristy, so you get your trolls and waxboys, of course, but when the big swells come into the bay, it’s awesome. Some good action at the north end of the beach, too.” He moves his pen up the map, marking Quepos, Roca Loca, Puerto Caldera.

  “And you and I, Mrs. Abigail, are here.” He winks like we’re in on some big secret, and draws a big heart to mark the spot for Hermosa, midway between Quepos and Puntarenas. “Then there’s Boca Barranca, no place for random standers.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, weekend surfers, folks who aren’t serious about the sport. Boca Barranca is a river mouth about a hundred kilometers northwest of San José. Real popular with longboarders because it doesn’t get hollow, and on a really good day you can catch a half-mile ride. It’s also home to the granddaddy of all longboarding contests, Toes on the Nose.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Early June. Every longboarder who’s worth his weight in sex wax will be there.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “You’ve been really helpful.”

  “Hey, that’s not all. You don’t want to miss Tamarindo, way up on the north Pacific coast. Just your speed. There’s a big expat surf community there, but it’s a little more upscale than most of these other places. Tamarindo’s got spas, bakeries, museums, you name it. A bookstore even.” He scribbles a number on the top of the paper. “And in case you need a personal tour of Hermosa, you know who to call,” he says, handing me the map.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Hey, let me know when you’re divorced, sweetheart.”

  “Will do,” I say, standing to leave.

  “Hold on. Aren’t you going to take my picture?”

  “Of course. Just stand there and look natural.”

  Dwight picks up a cocktail shaker and gives me a toothy smile. “Gorgeous,” I say, pressing the shutter release three times for authenticity’s sake.

  65

  DAY 237. I stop at the Internet café near my cabin and spend a few minutes answering e-mail. Nell’s latest message says all the bills are paid and it’s quiet in the neighborhood; when am I coming home? Nick is in Helsinki again. “I saw a girl in a watch shop who reminded me of you,” he writes. “I left Wiggins a message telling him all about you.” A second e-mail, sent just a few minutes later, says, “Would you find me strange if I admitted that I miss you?”

  There are two e-mails from Annabel. “I’m plumping up,” she writes in the first message, dated three days ago. “See attached photo.” In the picture she’s standing in profile, her belly just beginning to show. Her auburn hair is cut shorter than I’ve ever seen it, her face is a bit heavier. She’s one of those women who actually look better pregnant, all radiant and round.

  The second e-mail from Annabel is only two words. “Any luck?”

  “Too early to tell,” I reply.

  No e-mail from Jake, even though I’ve sent him three since I arrived.

  The next morning, I take thirty thousand colónes out of the ATM and catch the ten o’clock bus for the three-hour ride to Boca Barranca. An American surfer I’ve seen hanging around Hermosa takes the same bus. Doug is a grad student in American History, on break from Ole Miss. He’s meeting friends in Jaco this weekend. He’s carrying nothing but a small duffel bag.

  “Where’s your board?” I ask.

  “You can’t bring them on the buses, so I just rent one in each town. What’s your story?”

  “I’m writing a guidebook. I’m also looking for a Killer Longboard.”

  “A Rossbottom?” he says, surprised. “For what?”

  “A gift for my brother. Cost no object. Have you seen any?”

  “I wish.”

  “If you do, would you mind e-mailing me?” I hand him one of the handwritten cards I made up last week, featuring my e-mail address and the message Looking for a Killer Longboard. Will pay top dollar.

  At Jaco, Doug shakes my hand and wishes me luck. I’m left alone on the bus with a family of Costa Rican tourists, a couple of German-speaking surfers, and a boy with a paper sack full of Wrigley’s gum who looks too young to be traveling alone.

  About a half hour north of Jaco, we cross a bridge over a wide brown river. The driver pulls over on the other side of the bridge. “Photo!” he says, opening the doors. “Very good photos!” I follow the family off the bus. The kid with the gum sleeps through the commotion. Standing on the bridge, I look down into the grimy water fifty feet below. Six enormous alligators are moving slowly upstream, and another four are lying in the sun on the riverbank.

  The tourist family takes some photos, and so do I. As I press the shutter release, I realize these are the first photos I’ve taken since Emma disappeared that have nothing to do with the search or with work. I’m taking them because the scene before me is interesting, and I’m thinking, as I shoot them, about how they will look when developed. I’m thinking about the way the dull green alligators will almost disappear against the brown water, and the way the ripples fan out from their rugged bodies. I’m thinking about the sun, which is too bright; it would be better to capture this shot at dawn, soft light falling over the muddy river.

  A couple of hours later, we approach Puntarenas. Shacks everywhere, snuggled up beside roadside food stalls. A slimy-looking river pours into the ocean. We grind to a stop beside a sprawling stucco motel that looks as though it hasn’t been used in years. I check in with no problem, nineteen dollars for the night. “It’s low tide,” says the guy at the desk, a Tico who speaks near-perfect English. “Best time to get a look at the beach. I’d get on out there if I were you.”

  The room itself is so dirty and dark that even ten bucks a night would feel like a rip-off. I change into a clean pair of shorts and tank top, then walk along a dirt path to the beach, stopping along the way to buy a re-fresco at a run-down cantina. The drink is ice cold, its shocking sweetness balanced by the tartness of tamarindo fruit.

  A finger of land juts out into the murky water. The peninsula is hemmed in on one side by the river mouth and on the other by a brown curve of bay. The ground is covered with sharp, slippery barnacles, and there’s an unpleasant smell in the air. The beach is deserted except for a kid, eighteen or nineteen years old, who’s sitting alone with his board, staring out at the water. There are four or five guys out there surfing, all of them bunched up in the same spot.

  I go over to the kid. “I’m Abby,” I say, holding the camera aloft. “With Lonely Planet.”

  He pushes a lock of bleached hair away from his eyes. “Jason. With Jason and Company.” He laughs at his own joke.

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “What can you tell me about this place?”

  “One of the longest left breaks in the world.” He grins. “If you’re willing to risk your health for a good ride.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “See how dirty the water is? It’s sewage. I’ve heard rumors of surfers contracting hep A and meningitis here. This one guy I know saw a dead horse float right into the lineup. And you’ve got the crocs to consider.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s documented. You get these badass saltwater crocodiles that come out into the estuary to feed on the carcasses. Not a pretty sight.”

  “Ever seen one yourself?”

  “No, but I’ve seen pictures.”

  Jason pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offers me one.

  “No thanks,” I say. “I’m not much of a smoker.”

  “Me neither.” He produces a plastic lighter, cups his hand over the tip of the cigarette, and lights up. “Waterproof lighter,” he says. “Best invention ever.”

  “Ever go to Toes on the Nose?” I ask.

  He squints into the sun. “I don’t compete, but I come down from Miami every year to watch.”

  “Were you here this year?”

  He nods. “Last four in a row.”

  “Did you by chance see anybody with
a Killer Longboard last year?”

  He turns to look at me, suddenly interested. “Sure did. Gorgeous board, dude. I’d seen one a couple of years back in Maui. What I’d give.”

  “Do you remember the guy who owned it?”

  “There were two. One was Australian, the other was some American dude.”

  “What did they look like?”

  Jason shrugs. “Like surfers.”

  “The American, was he alone?”

  “You sure got a lot of questions.”

  “I’m trying to buy a Killer Longboard.” I thrust my card at him, but he doesn’t take it.

  A guy in a big leopard-print hat comes walking down the beach in our direction, and Jason raises an arm to greet him. “Yo, pimp! You got worked!”

  “Too crowded out there,” the guy says. “Conan and Slime Dog were in the impact zone. Thought I could thread the needle between them, so I caught the wave and made the drop, then the fat lady sang.”

  “It’s all good,” Jason says. “Meet my friend Lonely Planet.”

  The friend tips his hat and does a little bow.

  “Later,” Jason says, standing up and dusting sand off his rear end. It’s an amazingly flat rear end, completely devoid of contour. He grabs his board, and he and the friend jog down toward the ocean. Moments later they’re in the water, paddling.

  I spend a week and a half in Barranca, talking to everyone who will listen. One other person, the hotel clerk, remembers seeing a couple of Killer Longboards here during the last Toes on the Nose contest, but, like Jason, he doesn’t remember much about the owners. “They haven’t been back since then,” he says. “You should come back in June for this year’s contest. Pretty quiet around here most of the year, but during contest week this place is elbow-to-elbow.”

  I thank him for the information and make a reservation for the week of the competition. “Meanwhile, if you see anybody with a Rossbottom board, call me,” I say, handing him my card.

  “Is there a commission in it for me?”