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Annual Birthday Laguna Swim or Die Trying

By Neal Graham

You may recall (and you may not care in the least), every year on my birthday for the past four years I have swum across some part of the Laguna de Apoyo…in one direction…or the other…or both  My first such venture in 2015 began at Punta de Cacique on the northern coast with the intended destination of Vista Lagos on the eastern coast.  I got off course in the wind and waves and swam halfway to the southern end of the laguna, then had to angle back when I saw my friend and driver, Bosco, waving the white flag far behind and to my left.  In 2016, I wanted to simplify the process, so once again, I started at Punta de Cacique and swam across the northern bay to the far eastern shore and back, a distance that would have equalled a full crossing of the upper one-third of the laguna.


In 2017, I did it the way I always thought it should be done.  We dropped into the water just below the Vista Lagos clubhouse and I swam straight across to Los Ranchos, a public beach area on the western shore, a distance of just under three miles.  This venture required transporting a kayak from the west to east coast, then returning it to its place of origin at the end of the swim.  Once again, Bosco was waiting at Los Ranchos waving the flag and he actually called my cell phone when he saw us in the middle of the laguna.  During each of these ventures my friend, Jose, paddled the kayak behind or along side me.  He wore a life jacket and carried a second one attached to a long rope.  After the full crossing in 2017, I asked him if paddling the kayak for such a long distance was hard work.  He said, “No, not work.  Just boring.”  I was slightly taken aback.  It had never occurred to me that any part of this adventure could be boring.

Last year, I wanted to reduce the expense and logistical requirements of transporting the kayak and paying a driver, so using Google Maps (as I always do), I plotted a three-mile course that began at La Laguna Beach on the western shore, took me halfway across the laguna, then back again.  It was important for me to swim three miles because the number “3” happened to be one of the two digits designating my age.  I think I made clear what decade it was by revealing the year I began collecting Social Security and when I went on Medicare. So what about this year, with a “4” prominently displayed as one of the two digits in my years upon this earth.  Would I attempt a four-mile crossing? 

Indeed, it became a topic of discussion among certain friends and acquaintances who had followed my annual ventures into the laguna.  “Yes, man, swim four miles.  You can do it.”  or, “Why not?  If you don’t make it, Jose can always throw the life line to you.”  or  “You can plot a course that’s three miles across, then swim another mile along the shore to the south.”Such high hopes and expectations!  Jose was always present for these discussions, so…little by little…a little later…you know…you know what we did.  We set out to make sense of the nonsense of what they were saying…and we succeeded.  Using Google Maps, I plotted a course across the northern bay and back that would take us 4.44…kilometers (2.67 miles).  Enough “4’s.”  Enough said. 

We would duplicate our previous trip from Punta de Cacique to the far eastern shore and back again.  No need to transport a kayak or wave the flag.  The first half of our journey would be against the wind and waves and straight into the full tropical sun with (hopefully) a smoother, less punishing, but always painful and fully exhausting return.

So, today, 25 May 2019, at 8:00 am, Jose and I arrive at the entrance to the Cacique landmark.  “Bue…nas!”  we call (the typical inquisitive Nica greeting extended by anyone at your front door or gate).  “Esta en la casa” (Are you in the house)?  “Puede abrir la puerta” (Can you open the gate)?  At first, we only hear the ferocious barking and wailing of what must be a very large and vicious dog.  Then we hear voices, first with the purpose of quieting the beast, then directed at us.  Having been told the park opens at eight, we wait for a caretaker to arrive and open the gate allowing us to enter.  “Que pasa, amigos?  Que quieres?  Es muy temprano ” (It’s very early). “Queremos alquilar un kayak” (We want to rent a kayak) “y nadar a traves de la bahia y volver” (and swim across the bay and back).”Es posible, amigos,” and then he adds with a smile, “si puedes hacerlo” (if you can do it).

We quickly descend the familiar arrangement of ramps and staircases that brings us to the water’s edge.  We see immediately this is not a good day to be swimming from the northern shore.  The current is moving forcefully from the southeast and producing four to six inch waves rippling against the shore.  The attendant motions to the kayak leaning against the wall and we quickly load it with the usual items:  my clothes, water for Jose (I certainly won’t need any), the life jacket attached to the rope and my cell phone.  I soak my face and arms with SPF80 lotion and wonder how long it will last.  With only a few steps along the sandy bottom, I am in water over my head.  I push off with the powerful breaststroke I have been perfecting since the age of six and fix my gaze on the rocky point that marks the entrance to the bay on the other side.  From that point, I will swim the extra distance to the far eastern shore of the laguna, then back again to Cacique.

Over the past four years, what have I not already said about the physical and mental pain and distress that comes somewhere during the journey…and the absolute joy and exhaustion at the end?  What about the constant, awesome wonder of knowing that 175 meters (574 feet) straight down through the crystal water lies the lowest point in all of Central America?  What soothing waltzes and great tempestuous and cascading symphonies have I not already used to describe these feelings?

Only fifteen or twenty minutes into our journey, I realize we are skipping the waltz this year.  The waves coming from the southeast are crashing against me at an angle somewhere between broadside and head-on.  It’s not a waltz at all, but perhaps…a tango.  Yes, the predictable and temperamental cadence of the famous Blue Tango.  Chop! chop! da da da!  I must be careful to raise my head above the crest of the waves after every stroke to avoid taking in a mouthful of water along with the air I so desperately require.  Now what’s this?  No matter how hard I struggle to stay on a straight line course with the rocky point destination, I feel the current pushing me northward and deeper into the bay.  Jose is not unaware of my struggle as he maneuvers the kayak against the current.  “Allen,” he calls to me (you know my friends in Nicaragua call me Allen), “you are swimming away from the course.  Follow me in the kayak and I will guide you there.””Lo se, amigo,” I call back, “pero las olas son muy fuertes (the waves are very strong) “and I cannot stay on the course.”

He maneuvers the kayak to my left side with the intention of blocking my drift deeper into the bay, but soon realizes he must adjust his course to avoid the danger of me crashing into the side of the kayak.    An hour passes and we have still not reached the other side of the bay.  I am struggling and already feeling some of the familiar pain in my lower legs and chronically disadvantaged left knee.  I push on in a determined battle against the wind and currents that persistently will not allow me to correct my course.  Another twenty minutes and I am approaching the eastern side of the bay far inward from the rocky cliff that plunges into the water at the point that marks our initial destination.  I struggle to move south as I find myself very near the shore, but at least a couple hundred feet from the corner. 

Jose is already at the point and I see him also struggling to hold the kayak in place. I wonder will Jose think this trip is not hard work and only “boring,” as before.  Why, at this time, would I think about how long I have known Jose, how I watched him become a father, then a husband and practically “grow up” along with his now ten-year-old academically gifted son, Jeremy; and how Jeremy nearly died when his appendix burst because the doctors at the Japanese-funded hospital could not get to him in time.  By the time his second son, Allen (named after me) came along only eighteen months ago, Jose was aware and practiced in the knowledge of what it takes to be a father and a husband. And now something is happening that I have never experienced in any previous crossing of the laguna.  As I struggle to swim due south to the corner of the bay, I watch the currents pushing past me in the opposite direction and I am frozen in time and place and cannot move forward.  I glance to my left and see a rock formation on the shore that remains at a perfect right angle to my position, which I cannot alter. 

“Allen,” Jose calls.  “Como puede ayudarte” (How can I help you)?  “You must to swim more strong or go to the shore.”  And now another first (do I dare admit it), as I manage to move to a position only a couple meters from the shore where my feet can feel the sandy bottom.  I have never, ever touched the bottom of the laguna during any crossing in any direction until I reached the end.  But now, my only hope of moving forward is to continue my crippled strokes while pushing off with my feet along the bottom…and by doing so, I manage to reach the rocky point.

“Allen,” Jose calls to me, “will you to swim la distancia extra hasta la costa este” (the extra distance to the eastern shore)?It is a decision that must now be made.  I say “yes” and begin swimming to the east, but after a few hundred meters mas o menos, I realize I am no match for the powerful current crashing against my right side and pushing me off course again.  “Jose,” I call out.  “No puedo continuar.  Voy a regresar a la Punta de Cacique” (I will return to the starting point).So with what will surely be delayed disappointment, I reverse my course and begin the return trip.  When I reach the rocky point I swing slightly to the northwest on a course that will take me back across the bay.  Jose paddles the kayak next to me and I ask him the time. 

We have now been in the laguna for more than an hour and a half and I am beginning to anticipate the pain and discomfort that will come at some point during the second half of the journey (even though my feet have already touched the bottom damn it)!  But for a time, I find some comfort in the fact the waves and currents are now behind me, still pushing on my left side, but actually seeming to aid my efforts while moving me along in the desired direction.  I remain in this comfortable mode and mood for perhaps half an hour, allowing my mind to drift away from the task at hand.

Jose senses this temporary comfort and seems relaxed and pensive in the kayak.  I have written much about his changing life and family over the past few years.  Indeed, these laguna sagas have become more about the life of Jose than the futile wishes of an aging swimmer to stay young forever.  I know three generations of his family who all live together in the typical small Nicaraguan house:  Jose and his wife and two children, his mother and father and two of his three brothers.  I count them all as friends and have them listed as “contacts” in my Nica cell phone.  Papa is listed as “Morales” and Mama as “Chepe’s Mom” (Chepe being the accepted nickname for Jose in Nicaragua), and brothers Angel, who lives across the street with his wife’s family, and Jonathan.  Jose’s youngest brother, Wilmer, does not have a phone probably because he is slightly impaired (or “slow,” as the family describes him) with eyes and a smile that capture your heart.  Jose’s wife, Faviola, is also listed in my contacts, but does not have a phone at the moment because baby Allen (my namesake) threw it into a bucket of water as he exclaimed, “no gusta!”

The comfort of the return trip is short-lived, as the waves have pushed me far enough into the bay that I now must swim parallel to the shore to reach my destination. This means I am struggling to move forward while the waves and currents coming from the southeast are hitting me broadside causing every stroke to lose half its power and purpose.  I try to remember, why am I here?  Why do I choose to subject myself again and again to this worry and discomfort?  What exactly am I trying to prove?  I begin counting strokes, a method I have used in the past to bury pain and fear in a mindless, monotonous litany of litigious lies and legends.

If you choose to befriend a struggling Nicaraguan family (as most here certainly are), one thing is for sure.  Costs will be incurred.  No matter how much they like or respect you, they will always need something from you.  The costs are voluntary and can be kept within  established limits.  Over the years, we have poured concrete floors in most of the house where there was only dirt before.  We built a big, new room in one corner of the walled backyard currently occupied by Jose and his small family.  Once I drove his parents all over Managua looking for the best price on a flush toilet, only to learn later we could have bought one here in Granada for about the same price.

Most recently, the toilet wouldn’t flush because the sumidero (sewer pit) was full and there was no money to have it pumped out or to pay the fee to connect to the new sewer system that has been  installed throughout the city over the past few years (I think Germany paid for ite).  We decided not to pump, but to connect.  Then not long ago, when there was no money to meet basic needs, Papa Morales pawned his power tools to make ends meet.  Now he has secured a big new (albeit temporary) work project, but only has half the money needed to reclaim his tools.  Guess who came up with the other half.  I never leave Granada without knowing there are enough diapers and formula in the house to last two months.

431, 432, 433…and so go the soul bending strokes that move me along the northern shore toward Cacique.   Still battling the wind and currents moving steadily against my left side, I have reached that familiar point where it seems I am moving no closer to my goal while something somewhere between pain and numbness permeates my body.  Tchaikovsky and Wagner have surely rejoined my journey, with crashng cymbols, cannons and screaming trumpets.  I push on.

686, 687, 689…when I reach a thousand, my mind switches to another set of numbers I recall from Google Maps.  The position to where I swam just past the rocky point is 1.7 kilometers from our starting point, allowing me to keep one of the “4’s”in my total distance (3.4).  But having reached the point by way of swimming a deep arc into the bay, then returning by way of a sharp angle to the north then swimming straight along the shore, I think I surely must have kept that “4” in the desired position (4.0).  Unfortunately, I will never know.  Google Maps does not measure distances in curves, but only in straight lines.

I am clinging to the bamboo frame that supports a wooden dock just offshore at Punta de Cacique.  Jose is pulling the kayak onto the shore while I try once, twice, three time to stand up and walk,  but stumble and fall each time.  After some time, I am able to make it to a large, smooth rock at the water’s edge where I sit waiting for the strength to get dressed and walk up the hill.  Jose knows I consider this swim a complete failure, but says nothing. 

Sometimes I think there is a type of telepathy passing between us.  He reads my mind and I read his face.  Half an hour later, we are driving out of the deep canyon that holds the Laguna de Apoyo (yes, I am actually able to drive).  I am thinking this may be the last time I attempt to swim across any part of the laguna.  The number “5” would certainly be a more symbolic and desirable place to end it all, but who knows?  Only time will tell, as always it does.  I think of baby Allen and that reminds me I must buy some diapers tomorrow.

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