Isla Coiba was everything we expected it to be, and a bit more.  This is the tour operator.  Basically a bunch of bricks with a sign on it, but a good reputation, so we went with it.

It was a bit of a rough start, as once we wandered over to where the boat was moored, they discovered the battery was dead.  We all stood around and introduced ourselves for a little while until a guy strolled up the beach with a boat battery on his shoulder.  There were seven of us that set out in the morning, three from Germany, two from Austria (one half Japanese/Polish, and odd combination), and us, the old farts in the middle of the boat (where the good seats are, and where you get put when you help push the boat out against an incoming tide).

Maybe twenty feet end to end, it was sound enough, and covered.  Just keep us off the rocks, and we’re good, ok?  Once out, they passed out life-jackets (mine went under my butt), and hit the throttle.  Everyone was looking forward to it.

On the way out, we spotted a few dolphins, some flying fish which are sooo cool if you ask me, and got a pretty good view of the relatively untouched coast to the west of Santa Catalina.  Jungle, every single little part of it.  You can easily tell where property lines are, because it looks like the hand of God has come down and chopped off all but the biggest trees.

Here, it seems as though the jungle is something that regrows every second day, and there isn’t a local that goes out in the bush without a machete to hack his way through – an unspeakable thought in Canadian National Parks – but you can understand it as it seems the jungle is a creature that continually needs to be beaten back day by day.  It’s only when you see something like “the hand of God”, that you get a sense of just how long it takes for some of what makes up the jungle to grow.  There are one hundred year old trees. They grow slowly, only after establishing themselves, then grow far above all else, supporting hundreds of other plants and animal species the whole time.  Trunks ten feet across at the base, is where all our mahogany and many other exotic species came from, and why many are protected now.

It took 45 minutes or so to get out to our first stop, an itty bitty island fit for a post card.  Too bad the sun was on the backside of it.  Around it was clear shallows teeming with schools of fish, and the sand, all white, crushed up corral, and soft under-foot had you constantly trying to regain your balance.  Then try to putting on flippers!  Ha!  Just sit down half-in the sea, hold your breath because you are going to get knocked over before you get them both on, and “get to it” so you can right yourself once your gear is on.

Once under, what a world shows itself.  With your head underwater, all you can hear is your own breathing, and then the ocean itself, hissing and popping as this that or the other thing released oxygen to the surface.  Walking on the sand released bubbles at your feet with every step.

Two of the other guys had those “go Pro” cameras for taking shots underwater, and I’m sure some of them would have been fantastic, but I saw them both diving down with their little camera on a stick spending more time trying to get the shot than actually appreciating what was right in front of them. If I had one, I might think differently, but still probably regard it somewhat as a cell phone – a relentless nag in your pocket, stealing from the “now”.  So, no underwater pictures.
There were a few coconut trees on that little island as well, and they were just loaded.  One of the guides climbed it and bombed the beach with all that were ready, some 15 or so, so everyone had a drink of coconut water, and some a taste of the coconut meat that was in them.  I don’t know enough about the different types of coconuts, or whether they have to mature or not, but the meat in that type was thin and soft.  Some prefer it, I don’t, but instead prefer the thicker, more chewy meat most shredded coconut is made from.  Here is the captain explaining how to open the better ones — on auto pilot, of course. 
There were three other snorkeling stops that day, and one little walking trip on an island we stopped at for lunch.

On that island was a sendero, or mirador, which is a viewpoint.  At the top of it was quite the view, but it was interrupted by a tree right in the middle of it.  I don’t know what I was thinking, but this is what happened to get the shot.  I think it was worth it.
The other two stops were spent looking for sharks, sea turtles, and manta rays.  We saw a turtle, and the others say they spotted a small shark (one meter), and a few small mantas.  Oh well, I saw a few huge sea urchins, the ones with the really long black spikes on them, lots of star-fish with 20 legs or so, got to dive down below big schools of fish, then roll over and look at them from below which is a unique experience all it’s own.

From there we stopped at another island called…. uhhh… Geez, there were so many…  but this one was special.  Not for the beach…

or for the way it was kept up…

and not for the other pictures that were taken…

but instead for what I wasn’t allowed to take pictures of.

If you walked far enough along the beach, it opened up into a big grassy field.  There were two workers there busy raking leaves, and keeping the place looking pristine.  There were ruins of an old Smithsonian Institute building, and boats, the hammocks the workers were lounging in before we got there (little radios in the sand beside them), old unrecognizable rusty equipment, and if you kept walking – because the further you went, the cooler it got – you found a long set of stairs that disappeared into the jungle up above.

At the base of these stairs was a sign saying “no pass without permission” in Spanish.   So I did, got permission for Cass and I, went and got her, said nothing to the others, and the two of us came back, her looking at me like I’d lost my mind a little bit more, and began climbing the stairs all the way up until we came upon a clearing  with views of all the islands around.  Priceless.

Long ago, I guess when the Smithsonian Institute was doing whatever it was they were doing – counting crabs or whatever – they built themselves a large building atop the island, cleared and leveled a huge swath of land, and did God knows what here for who knows how long.  You couldn’t tell at all from the sea.  if you didn’t know it was there, you never would.  Sooo cool, IMO.

So, that was the highlight for me.  Best view ever.

By the end of the day, my nipples were rubbed absolutely raw by the shirt I used instead of sunscreen, and in spite of it, I had a tan line on my lower back quite a bit lower than any line before.  All good though.  No complaints to speak of.

Here’s Cass and the gang.  She looks Panamanian now.

Back home, we were both exhausted again, only looking forward to a few pieces of pizza left over in the room before a nap.  The pizza was all covered with ants (doh!) because we forgot for a minute that ants are everywhere, always.  Cass was repulsed, but I crunched away.  Meh, they were little itty bitty ants that scattered as soon as you opened the box, and after a few minutes were all gone.  Bugger it, I was hungry, and ants are protein too!

Great Day!