Puerto Viejo recently lost one of its most memorable and most loving and lovable characters. Patrick Abrams, Captain Zero was a true legend and famous in his own right. I'll let his own words speak for themselves.
This story was handed to me by Captain Zero one day while giving him a ride into town. He wanted me to help him publish it because he knew I "worked with books." I have typed the copy exactly as it was given to me so that you can read it in his own words. There is no way not to hear his voice or picture him while reading this account.
EMBRACING THE GIFT
The following story recounts a series of events in the life
of Patrick Abrams, the notorious Captain Zero. The story, I think, speaks volumes
of Patrick’s philosophy concerning how we could and should live. I met the Captain
in March of 2015 and he welcomed me into his home as he would an old friend. Patrick
wrote, at some point, the first draft of this tale on 16 sheets of lined paper
and gave it to me, Brain Rogers, for a “look” that led to some editing and proofreading.
I have mostly only ironed out some grammatical errors and it is my hope that I
have not altered Patrick’s tone, voice, or intent in doing so Lots of work yet
to do here, but it’s closer, I think, Captain.
EMBRACING THE GIFT
Costa Rica, Central America, 2006. This is the Caribbean Coast,
Talamanca, Limon, the largest province in Costa Rica. Surrounding me is thick,
green jungle, the canopy’s flora and fauna beyond description. Es rico in every
way. The temperature is, ah, perfect, as the embrace of a lover.
Awesome and tranquil, but ALIVE and perhaps disarming, and
allowing one to neglect the fact that there’s danger everywhere.
When I least expect it, my receptors are bombarded and these
instincts release the adrenalin, driving my senses into full alert. This
awakening call. The Law of the Jungle.
So it was on this morning that naturally, being who I am,
there was this problem.
Standing at the end of the road that leads to my casa, I was
being questioned by an official who was asking me for my passport or my papers.
We were standing just a few steps from my dwelling in this sleepy town called Old
Harbour.
My passport had expired in 1994. However, I had lived along
this peaceful tropical coast for many years and for most of those yeas had not
concerned myself with passports and papers of identity. Before 9-11, papers
weren’t important, especially along the Talamanca coast. Land of the Free, a
two car town, horses and bicycles the chosen modes of transport.
Local immigration officials would pass through on occasion
and suggest that I pursue my legality in Costa Rica. Fines imposed were
determined according to time lapses in my visa. It had not been a big deal in
the past. However, on this day, I was being asked for my papers by Federal
Immigration officials. Clearly this visit was different.
This being Rasta country, my response to the papers request was
to ask, “Rolling papers?” No smiles came my way. Apparently they didn’t smoke.
“Oh, toilet papers? Some newspapers?” Humor seems to get the
best of me but not them on this morning.
“Federal Immigration,” they responded. They were very polite
and quite serious. “Passport, please!”
“Forgive me, gentlemen,” I said. “I live in that house over
there. Allow me to retrieve my passport. Please!”
Ever so casually I walked to my house. Moments before their
arrival I had just finished a creepy green bud so I was about peaking when I
entered my humble casa, quickly snatching my emergency travel bag that I always
have readied. My getaway bag! I was out the back door and headed for the bus station,
hoping in a hurry to catch the next bus to San Jose. In the nick of time, I was
on my way.
I remembered that I had applied for a new passport in San
Jose a few years prior, in 2003, at a cost of $100 that was paid to the
American Embassy there. My hope was that the passport would still be available
to me. After a relatively uneventful but unsettling bus ride, I arrived in San
Jose and went to the embassy. Surprise. My passport was there, three years
later. This new passport was important for obvious reasons and it also helped my
financial situation as it allowed me to access a new ATM card that the Bank of
America had sent for me. I was told by embassy officials that this card was in
a mailbox and the mailbox was just a few blocks away. After accessing my new
ATM card, another surprise awaited. The card allowed me to access $3,000 USD
that had over time been direct deposited by the US government for my service in
Viet Nam, so many years ago. My Blood Money, I called it.
In June of 1966, I graduated from high school. By September
I was drafted and off to Viet Nam seven months later in April of ’67. A shocking
way to begin a new life. However, all things considered, for me things went well
in Viet Nam and now in San Jose, Costa Rica. Earlier in the day, I was being
hunted by the Federal Immigration Police as an illegal alien. By nightfall, I
was in possession of a new passport and a windfall of three thousand dollars.
Lou Reed’s “Hey Babe, Take a Walk on the Wild Side” has for
many years been my anthem. And so I did. This day my being was at peace with
the world; a new passport, cash in my pocket, and daylight quickly fading to
tropical night.
In exotic San Jose, Costa Rica, with the sun hanging low
against the mountains, I was drinking 7 year old Flora Canya (Flor de Cana)
Nicaraguan rum. Multi colors and shadows were dusting this green canopy with various
shades of pink and purple, dazzling my visuals, tantalizing my impressions of
this moment. It had been three years since my last visit to this city.
“The Wild Side,” he sang. My adrenalin was driving me to
seek the unknown. I was in need of companionship, women, liquor, and mood
enhancing medicines. Mi hermano, a very close friend from many years ago, has a
hotel called Casa Alfie. It is centrally located downtown on Second Avenue. My
home away from home.
We were unlikely companions, Alfie and I. These two strange
animals, inquisitive enough to recognize the endangered species that we were.
Alfie is a patron of the Arts and I am a patron of the Art of Surfing. Alfie,
raised British in Africa and me, a renegade product of my years in the USA. Our
common ground? A belief in Embracing the Gift for those who have been condemned
to poverty all of their lives. This Gift bestowed upon us, this choice, this privilege,
this High Ground. That we could make a difference.
I called Alfie and explained my situation, embellishing my story
of escape from the Federal authorities. Alife, knowing me “quite well”, laughed
continuously, being aware that there’s a thread of truth in everything I say.
Then I was off to Casa Alfie, where I stashed my cash and a copy of my passport
before showering and joining Alfie for a departing drink and venturing into the
night. And, of course, it was 25 year Flora Canya as British Alfie is more
refined than myself. In conversation, I informed Alfie of my evening’s desires.
Alfie’s response was, “Of course, Patrick! Three years in
the wilderness (The Wild Side, he sang), you could use a good shagging,
massage, jacuzzi, sauna… However,” he added, “be careful. There’s a jungle out
there.”
Indeed, I thought to myself. I am an animal. I’ll be in my
natural element.
I took a cab downtown and the time was about 11 PM with
people just starting to make their night moves. I was delivered to a House of
Quality that my friend had recommended. This House of Quality, of lust and
temptation, was just what I was looking for.
The Ambassador Club was all brick and plentiful green vines
added to its ambiance. Before entering this unique building I thought, “Sweet.
Meant to be. Just for me.” The management was very professional, especially
when I presented my “Alfie” card. I was directed toward a VIP lounge. It was
very quiet and extremely comfortable, with couches, lounge chairs and thick
carpeting. A unique idea, I thought. It allows one to collect himself and
perhaps take a pause from the action that’s happening within the complex, this
other world which I was so looking forward to entering.
My spirit, my being, at this moment was tranquil. I was
reflecting on similar situations I had experienced. So many years ago: Saigon,
Mombasa, and Bangkok; Viet Nam, Kenya, and Thailand. A thrill a minute! This
adrenalin of life—this unknown—this Wild Side, he sang. Take a Walk on the
Wild Side.
This loneliness won’t leave me alone. This need for
companionship, the feminine side. The tender touch. More, a friend of the
spirit—a communion of compassion, of trust, perhaps caring. Transcending time. “Been
here before,” I thought. “Obtainable. As my past had shown me.”
Her name was Kimberly and she was a beauty. Bronze in color
with awesome green eyes. Lean of body, a gymnast’s physique. Kimberly’s hair
was reddish blonde; the texture suggesting African descent. This unique being.
This unique personality. She took my breath away. Conservatively dressed, very
sure of herself. Five foot four inches and twenty-three years old.
We assessed each other from a distance. This spiritual eye
contact. We both shook our heads and smiled as we met half way across the room.
Hugging and laughing. Pecking each other on our faces. Perhaps each knowing the
other from another time.
Both of us realized that this was a special human chemistry
that we were sharing.
We introduced ourselves. “Patrick is my name!” I gasped. “Ah,
ah.”
“Kimberly, I’m called,” she cooed. She was rad, bro.
“My Kimberly, perhaps a bit of food and drink, darling?” I
suggested so that we could become better familiar with our pasts, lives, and loves.
This bonding of respect achieved during dinner would later
enhance our physical and spiritual union. Hours later, we pondered the
improbability of this level of satisfaction being achieved in such a condensed
period of time; these milliseconds of love, Kimberly and I would become
lifelong friends. We, my love, my Kimberly and I shared a final drink before
she returned to conduct her professional business and I returned to the VIP
lounge to assess these impossibly magical last few hours.
My desire now was to smoke some herb. It was early in the
morning now and the street was quiet with little traffic. I stepped out into
the night. I fired one up and took a long pull, holding it and then slowly
letting it out. And the world was a better place.
Suddenly, I noticed a movement to my left. Just a shadow.
Nevertheless, my survival instincts said, “Red flag!” Reaching into my jacket
pocket, I clutched my Browning automatic; my sweetheart, my protector. I never
traveled without it here. Costa Rica is a third world and there are several
homicides every night.
A figure stepped very slowly out of the shadows. He was
studying my reaction to his intrusion upon my moment of solitude.
“Buenas noches,” I said. My first impression was that this
fellow was down on his luck; perhaps in need of a few colones or maybe a drink.
Perhaps, a touch of compassion?
Okay, I thought. Been there myself. In my lives past, while
traveling this earth, always my requests were addressed, my loneliness
placated, confirming my faith in the human spirit. Yes, we can make a difference.
“Mi amigo, perhaps a drink?” I offer to this stranger while
producing my flask of Flora Canya 7 year old Nicaraguan rum. We each accessed a
long pull and again the world was a better place.
My new friend spoke English was a cool Latino touch that
always makes me smile. It also reminded me that my life was now south of the
border, deep within the Central American jungles. This Wild Side. We shared a
green bud and drank our favorite beverage while exchanging a brief version of
our life stories.
Mr. Jose Vargas was his name. Nicaraguan by birth. Years
ago, he was an illegal alien fleeing from the war and looking for a better life
in Costa Rica. As we talked, I got the feeling that the vibe was positive and I
was relaxed with this new personality. He had a positive attitude and showed an
appreciative acceptance of our situation at this moment. Besides, “It’s lonely
at the top of positive.”
Mr. Jose Vargas’s life over the last twelve hours had been interesting
and it would become more so. That morning, Don Jose was released from a maximum
security Costa Rican prison after serving eight years. His crime? Possession with
the intent to distribute The Herb, ganga, the Lamb’s Bread. This natural medicinal
plant. Eight years for eight kilos of this healing medicine! Jose had a wife
and three children in Blue Fields on Nicaragua’s Atlantic coast. They had been
separated too long. My mission was quite clear. My obligation, the Gift, for Mr.
Jose Vargas was to reunite him with his family. This Gift, bestowed to ME.
I was incarcerated in February of 1987 in the Grand Cayman
Islands for possession of a thousand kilos of Jamaican green bud. British, you
know, are quite proper and quality time was spent for twenty-two months before
the powers that be realized that they had only found ganga. They were almost
apologetic. Regarding my new friend, I recognized my opportunity to balance the
Scales of Justice. I indeed had the power to make this happen. I had this
window of opportunity… or should I say “We?” as I knew Alfie had to be
involved, too.
The hour was now 4 AM and I knew that if I did not call my
good friend and include him in this mission, he would never forgive me. Alfie
is a nocturnal being and I prayed that he was still awake. And he was. Over the
phone, I briefly explained this extraordinary situation to Alfie.
“Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “What can I do on this end?”
“We’re on our way to the hotel,” I said and then explained
that Jose would need a direct bus to Managua, Nicaragua with a connection to
Blue Fields on the Caribbean coast. That morning!
“I’m on it!” Alfie shouts, “ and remember, Patrick, one must
accept the Gift whenever it appears.” We both laughed. The laughter of the privileged.
“First class!” I shouted.
“Of course,” Alfie replied.
I’m thinking as I hang up the phone that life does not get
much more satisfying than this moment. On our way to the hotel, I watched my
new friend who was not yet aware that his karma was about to embrace him. We
arrived at Casa Alfie and I introduced my old friend to my newest friend. Alfie
embraced Jose and suggested we toast our good fortunes. We shared our favorite
beverage, Flora Canya rum. This time 15 years old, as Alfie was more
sophisticated than Jose or myself.
We were feeling the energy and Alfie explained to Jose that
our mission was to reunite him with his family. Still, Jose was not quite sure
of what was about to begin. Jose was possibly in a time warp, having just been
released hours ago after eight years in prison and now, que paso? Alfie and I
suggested that Jose bathe and take a moment to reflect.
Alfie and I toasted each other, clinking our glasses and
laughing; this positive energy making us giddy and drunk on this privileged moment.
Then, Alfie got serious.
“Okay,” he explained, “transportation first class to
Managua, Nicaragua with a connection to Blue Fields. Done.”
Just at that moment, Jose was descending the balcony stairs
having finished a thirty minute shower; his first hot shower in eight years.
Imagine. I had previously given Jose a set of clothes. He was just a bit taller
than me and a mite leaner but we had similar enough body builds. My extra pair
of Timberline moccasins still had some life and he wore them with pride. He
seemed sheathed in his new identity and I wondered if perhaps he felt like he
was being born again. Alfie and I made eye contact and reacted with purpose.
“He’ll need a travel bag!” Alfie shouted. “And toiletries,”
I insisted. “A sack of food, also. It’s a long trip.” After we got together
some things for Jose, Alfie bellowed, “Time is of the essence, mates!”
The energy being shared at this moment was extremely self
satisfying. Unique to each of us; this bonding of the spirit. Mr. Jose Vargas
was speechless and he looked at us, unbelieving. We were communicating without
verbal language; a primitive positive mode.
Jose embraced Alfie and me, thanking us and expressing his
desire to perhaps repay this Gift. Unknown to him, we had also stuffed $200 in an
envelope for his family.
Then we took a moment to explain this concept, called the Gift,
to Jose. Expounding on the fact that we had both been in his situation in our
pasts, we explained that always our desires were addressed and then, of course,
we spoke of the Guardian Angel who had taken the time to explain the theory of
Embracing the Gift to us. The gift of receiving by giving. Jose’s lack of
response was, I think, because he was trying to dissect his unbelievable meteoric
transformation from incarceration to now, this moment.
Jose again expressed his desire to some day repay us. Alfie’s
response was, “Perhaps in your future the opportunity to reciprocate in kind,
to others who are in need will offer you the privilege of embracing the Gift.
Hopefully, at that moment, you will think of Patrick and me, with a smile on
your face and a tear in your eye.” We all embraced again.
It was now time for Jose to board his bus that would reunite
him with his family that he had not seen in eight years. I tried to imagine this
soon to be moment of reunion, but I could not visualize it. Jose boarded the
bus and took a seat in the back, waving to us as the bus departed. His departure
created that void one experiences when an emotional disconnection takes place.
This was a sobering moment for Alfie and me and the two of
us were silently reflecting on this privilege of the Gift. It was now 6 AM and Alfie
was the first to speak. “Well, Patrick, since we’re feeling quite worthy, and this
being a special occasion, the only cure for early morning melancholy is Bloody
Marys and Black Jack at the Del Rey.”
“And early morning women.” Alfie and I spent all day and
into that next morning very high on the Gift.
Several years have passed since Jose was transported to his
destiny and often Alfie and I will reflect on our memorable encounter with our Nicaraguan
friend. Doing so allows us both another warm moment of pleasure—the gift, The
Gift. And we both agree that when the challenge of the Gift appears to Jose, he’ll
embrace it and he’ll think of us and shed that tear and have that smile on his
face.
So there it is, my readers. And yes, this is one of those feel
good stories that really happened. God only knows, we need to be able to tell
more of them.
From
the desk of Patrick Abrams, Captain Zero
