A Mystery Unfolds in Panama
There were nine of us in Bocas del Toro, a small group of tiny islands off the northeastern shore of Panama. With us were my son Harrison, daughter Gabby and five of their friends, none older than 24. My GF Kim Bowen and I were there to provide adult supervision. Ha, ha.
Bocas is a place where 20-somethings go wild. Think tropical waters, topless beaches, bars, nightclubs, youth hostels…whatever. The locals encourage it. Let the tourist dollars flow.
The vacation was a college graduation present to Harrison. He picked the spot, Kim booked it, and we took a red eye from LAX to Panama City, thence a charter flight to Bocas. The charter was a luxury. We could have taken a scheduled airline flight, but my sister Kathy had just died after an agonizing illness, so I thought to hell with it, you can’t take it with you.
I was in mourning but I hadn’t let it out yet.
The Bocas del Toro islands are close together and you get around via small ponga water taxis. They are ubiquitous, cost two bucks and go everywhere. Hey, young wildlings in a crazed Disneyland with water rides.
I told the kids that as tourists we had one prime function: to be fleeced by the locals. Prices usually are not posted, so you are charged the maximum the seller thinks you can pay. Therefore, learn to bargain. The kids thought, meh.
Secondly, there were the usual young American drifters and grifters; they are way more likely to con you than a local. One such guy called himself “Oz” and every word that came out of his mouth was a lie.
However, there is another older, permanent group. They are part of the great American migration to Central and South America. Most are hollowed out, displaced middle-income people looking for less expensive places to live. There is something else, though. They think America has become too violent. The culture that held us together has disintegrated. Any psychopath can purchase an assault rifle, go murder school children and nothing ever changes.
Plus, the internet and Trump have given us constant turmoil. We’re tribal now and increasingly vicious. Panama, Colombia, Costa Rica, Nicaragua and others are considered safer—–and more importantly, saner places to raise children.
From Laguna and Newport alone three friends have migrated.
Finally, I couldn’t stop thinking of Kathy. She was only 15 months older than me. When we were little, we played like puppies. She taught me about shampoo, girls, how to scratch each other’s backs, what to say when you were nervous. She passed on July 5 and it hit me like a ton of bricks.
On the third day in Panama and thinking of her, something mystic happened.
Let me explain. My bedroom there has a high peaked ceiling and at the apex, a ceiling fan with a big central light. The fan worked, but the light did not. The house manager said the light never had worked; the wiring was bad.
On the second night I knew I had to let the grief out. I grabbed a bottle of rum and walked to the end of our pier. I plunged into a good ole Irish drunk and wailed. It went on and on, and eventually Gabby and Harrison gathered around and let me sob. On the horizon were lightning flashes so far away you could not hear thunder. You just saw flashes. They were magnificent.
The next day, I still was going at it, but not so hard. I did not want the kids to see me; I went to my bedroom, sat crossed-legged on the bed with my head down and cried softly. Then that something mystic happened.
There were lightning flashes brightening the room. I went to the windows and looked out. Nothing. The sky was clear. I sat down again on the bed and the flashes intensified. I flopped back, stared straight up and saw it. It was the fanlight. It was flashing on and off. While staring, the light turned straight on, bright, and stayed glittering for maybe two minutes. Then off. That was it. Nothing more.
The next day was a repeat. But this time, I asked, “Kathy, is that you?” More flashes. “Kathy?”
Then the light was intense and constant. “Kathy, did you do that?” More flashing, then it ceased.
I do not believe in any individual religion. For mankind to invent a particular God and state there is no other God but that God is a twisted human conceit born of stupefying arrogance.
But I do believe in the connectedness of everybody and everything. We’re in it together, all of us, and it is infinite and forever.
At least, isn’t it pretty to think so?
Laguna Beach resident Michael Ray is a local real estate developer and board member of several local nonprofits.
