Bobby Costa:  

A JOURNEY TO COSTA RICA LACSA Flight 720 from Miami to San Jose was long and turbulent. A sultry young blonde sat quietly across the isle reading Richard Bach¿s, ¿The Bridge Across Forever¿ while sipping her second chilled Coors Light. Strange ~ I thought ~ she looks more like a Zinfandel woman than a beer drinker ~ leave that to the guys in smoky pool rooms or the dark corners of jive joints on a Saturday night, late, hoping to get lucky, and stumbling home in the dark, alone. Coincidence? Perhaps not ~ after all, there are no accidents. I remember the book well. ¿The Bridge¿, as I had come to abbreviate its title. Here, on a flight bound to Costa Rica, searching, seeking, hoping to find her ~ the mate of my soul, the love of my life, too long a mystery, sometimes considered an illusion, I found myself once again face ¿ to ¿ face with the book that opened itself and revealed her to me. I have seen her for a lifetime. I have known her before then. I have felt her touch, deep within my heart as we danced long into the night in dreams so real I awoke to catch her sweet breath brush gently against my lips. Here, on a flight bound from nowhere to somewhere, I wondered again ~ will she be there waiting, smiling, waving, wondering, as have I, too long. The 747 touched down hard upon the cracked Costa Rican tarmac, jolting me back to familiar. The blonde isle mate was tucking the book into her bag, overstuffed with the things that make women feel like they are beautiful, and usually are. Our eyes met for a brief encounter in the space called now ~ both pondering the question, ¿Is it he?¿; ¿Is it she?¿ while both knowing the answer, ¿No.¿ Customs in the San Jose¿ Airport brought shivers of presumed guilt before innocence. Angry faced guards with machine guns and growling German Shepherds on shoe lace leashes snarled suspectingly at the departing passengers, most of whom, like me were wondering if this was yet another of life¿s lessons in stupid ignorance. My luggage was opened, inspected, evaluated, and looked upon questioningly, as a hermit might sort through the garbage in search of something that was not supposed to be there, and hoping it would be. Two hours later I was on the tarmac again, walking to the Cessna 180, the straw hat pilot assured me, would fly me to Tamrino, ¿No problema.¿ The grease beneath his fingernails told me he was also the plane¿s mechanic. I liked that ~ who better to fly the weary lady than he who knew her best. Pilots and planes are like that. You fly them, you fix them, and a bond develops twain. One day you may disappoint both and then transition to that place where old pilots and planes never die ~ they just live to fly tomorrow and then again in the skies known, as Forever. I was hoping this would not be that day. ¿Does she have a name?¿ I asked? ¿Aero Pescara!¿ Straw Hat exclaimed through his toothless grin. ¿Air Fish?¿ I inquired. ¿Si! She swims through the air like fish in the water.¿ His English was broken, but I understood him well. He loved her, this plane of his, and the way she responded to his touch, she loved him too. ¿Does she have a name for him?¿ I pondered? Soul mates usually do. The engine sputtered and won the war with gravity lifting knowingly aloft. I grew quiet and looked long at the lush jungle growth below us, desperately hoping Aero Pescara would swim well today to the shore of the Atlantic fishing village, called my destination. She would be there, waiting. I was certain ~ I had come too far for her to be, not. Suddenly, on the horizon, aged volcano to port, was the ocean, sparkling like diamonds ablaze with fire and ice. A small clearing opened on the jungle floor revealing a rough path Straw Hat called the runway. ¿What about the approach, turn ¿ to ¿ final, I wondered?¿ FAA flight plans were left on the Florida coast line ~ this old warrior was taking her in nose down, diving fast ~ much too fast for a proper landing. I knew that. I had flown the dainty birds myself. I was recalling a landing I had attempted too fast, and nearly too late, as he pulled her up, nose high, stalling just above the mud baked surface. I heard Aero Pescara groan as she hit the ground, tail yawing from side ¿ to side. ¿No brakes!¿ Straw Hat was laughing as he watched me loose my sun baked tan. Aero Pescara rolled to a stop barely inches away from a line of palms anxious to pluck the heart out of yet another seeker of paradise in the hands of a maniac gringo who called himself a pilot, and flew a plane called Air Fish. I departed through Straw Hat¿s door as the passenger door was long welded shut. My luggage retrieved, Straw Hat took Aero Pescara¿s tail, lifted her up, turned her around, waved goodbye, laughed yet another, toothless, ¿Adios¿ was airborne ~ gone and forgotten less a promise to return for me eight days beyond. Perhaps he¿d forget, I dreamed. I looked for her there. She was, again, not. I wondered how my isle ¿ mate was fairing back in San Jose¿¿. Long into the night I made my way to the village café¿. A make ¿ shift Moroccan band was playing loudly off in a corner. The steal drums beat a melody of passion as thte native girls danced in wild abandon. I ordered a Tequila, lime and salt, pescara, rice and black beans. The village dogs slept under a table seating the old men who sat quietly dreaming of yesterday when their¿s was a village girl dancing sultry to a song of lost love and romance. No, and again, she was not here. I joined the dream of the old men in an old game of pensive contemplation. Alone in my room at the villa, I glanced once more through the window. I the distance I caught a glimpse of a fire glowing, warming the hands and faces of the women from the chilling Atlanta breeze. Another tequila, a squeeze of lime, a splash of salt, and I drew the curtains, and drifted off to a night of sleep. It had been a long day. Somewhere on the stage of a dream, I saw her dancing, and heard the song of her soft and gentle voice. Her hair frosted golden, her eyes sparkled, and her lace gown flowed angelic over the softness of her body. Fragrance filled the dream stage like perfume from an Egyptian vessel ancient merchants carried home their wives, women, and lovers. Again, I felt her touch as her fingers moved delicately across my skin. Her breath, like fire, burned deep into my heart, lace gently ruffled, and falling down around her soft shoulders to touch and arouse...Expand for more