Redemption and Hope

By C.E. Tuna

Redemption and Hope, with a heart as large as the Nebraska flatland that Heath calls home, is a wild romp through the jungles of Costa Rica as he frantically searches for his wife, kidnapped by terrorists, and his soul, kidnapped by childhood abuse. Read his gripping account and enter his world of deceit and intrigue, redemption and hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.E. Tuna
• Release date: Feb 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465907820

C.E. Tuna

C.E. Tuna is an old man living in Prairie Village, KS.

Book preview

Redemption And Hope

By

C.E. Tuna

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Redemption and Hope

Published by C.E. Tuna at Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 C.E. Tuna

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Redemption and Hope, with a heart as large as the Nebraska flatland that Heath calls home, is a wild romp through the jungles of Costa Rica as he frantically searches for his wife, kidnapped by terrorists, and his soul, kidnapped by childhood abuse. Will Heath figure it out is the question only he can answer? Read his gripping account and enter his world of deceit and intrigue, redemption and hope, where the disharmony of his life lies in sharp contrast to the harmony of the tropical paradise that threatens his very existence.

Table of Contents

• Chapter 1: Heath’s Surprise

• Chapter 2: The Broken Toy

• Chapter 3: Buyer’s Remorse

• Chapter 4: The Right Thing

• Chapter 5: Some Explaining To Do

• Chapter 6: Everyone Has An Angle

• Chapter 7: Middle Class With A Twist

• Chapter 8: Yankees Go Home

• Chapter 9: The Jig Is Up

• Chapter 10: Someone Lives, Someone Dies And The End Is Never Around The Corner

• Chapter 11: No Choice

• Chapter 12: The Crazy Larry Show

• Chapter 13: Get Thee Away To Panama

• Chapter 14: Saturation Time

• Chapter 15: A Writer, Searching

• Chapter 16: Jolting Me Awake

• Chapter 17: A Bold Plan

• Chapter 18: Mission Accomplished

Chapter 1

Heath’s Surprise

I take no pleasure in telling this story yet tell it I must. And while it’s a story best told by me, don’t be alarmed; I won’t be the only one to tell it. If that were the case, you’d get most of the story, but not all of it, not all of it by a long way. So to keep me honest, as things get going, others step in to tell their part. Don’t be confused. You’ll come to enjoy their perspective, even as I don’t. But remember, the thrust of this story is myself, and like I said, best told by me.

* * *

Uneasy feelings fill the air, having followed me here to Costa Rica and taken up residence with the gorgeous scenery. The only certainty in my life is that there is no certainty. At any moment, my marriage could snap like a broken neck. I’m hoping to stop that from happening, mainly by convincing Beth that I’m a changed man, but that’s proving to be a daunting task. Words won’t do the convincing, but what will? I’ve got about a month to figure it out, and that’s about all I know.

The heavy rain pounds this home, beating down so hard upon the canopy over our heads that I expect it to collapse at any time, sending a deluge of water upon us. Not five yards away, the roar of the Sarapiqui River jumbles the fractured English of the two German women who have joined us for lunch. Their vocabulary is good, but their usage is suspect, and as they’ve chosen to dine with us, this is their chance to practice. I, however, am more distracted by the river and I can’t take my eyes off the strong current, hypnotized by the inferno of churning water, so unlike the placid rivers back home in Nebraska.

Look at the size of that log! I gush, interrupting their conversation and pointing to a log the size of a telephone pole racing by us at breakneck speed. The melting snow from the mountains, plus a torrent of daily rain fuels this river. The German women smile, amused at my boyish occupation with the floating debris, but Beth grimaces.

Do you think the boat ride will be safe? she asks, gazing at the swirling black water, clearly troubled by its menacing appearance. The boat ride is to be the culmination of this crappy day. Exotic animals will delight us and bring smiles to our rain-beaten faces, the guide has promised us.

Oh, don't be such a wimp, I scold Beth. She fires back a glare that lands like a slap on my face. Beatrice and Anna pretend not to notice but they do. That’s good and that’s bad. Good because at least I’m not imagining things when it seems that Beth is overreacting. Bad because it’s fairly obvious from the get-go to both women that things are not all peaches and cream in our relationship. There’s no language barrier in that respect.

Both women are attractive in different ways. Anna is tall and spindly, her shoulders broad. I can picture her at the lap pool with her goggles and her swim cap pulled tightly on her head, going for hours in a smooth Australian crawl. Beatrice on the other hand is more like the St. Pauli girl, the buxom blonde with the full figure that graces their fine bottles of beer, blue eyes and all. With that wicked smile of hers, she’s a dangerous flirt, the kind that wouldn’t hesitate for a second to write her phone number on the palm of your hand if she feels like teasing you.

Where in the United States are you from? Beatrice asks me, steering the conversation away from the boat ride, and my thoughts away from the potential danger of having more thoughts about her.

Have you heard of Nebraska?

Is that Indian country?

I can’t help but laugh at her question.

I hope you’re not thinking of wild Indians, are you?

The look in her eyes is quizzical, like of course we mean wild Indians, you know, the kind that ride horses and shoot arrows.

Well, there are Indians where we live, I explain to her. We have reservations like the White Pine Reservation on the South Dakota border, but I wouldn’t say Nebraska is Indian country. Native Americans can live anywhere they want.

What are the reservations like?

While these may seem like silly questions, I’m getting the idea that their notion of Native Americans comes straight from John Wayne movies.

The reservations suck! I say bluntly, it being my turn to startle them. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve got a great country, but we screwed the Indians. How can you make up for not only taking away their land, but their entire way of life? We destroyed it. And the reservations, the reservations are decrepit places, a scandal in themselves.

There’s a quiet at the table until Anna speaks up with another question.

What do you think about the Monica Lewinsky scandal?

Even from a German woman on holiday, the question could be expected and there’s no mistaking the mischievous sparkle in Anna’s brown eyes. In 1998, there could be no bigger story than President Clinton and Monica Lewinsky; a witches' brew of love, deceit and politics that boiled over onto the American landscape leaving mountains of bile in its wake.

The damn Republicans are a lynch mob, Beth tells them pointedly. They'll stop at nothing to get rid of Clinton.

Her spirited response delights Anna and Beatrice as if Beth has confirmed something they both suspected, that Americans are stupid about this stuff, about impeaching a President over a blowjob.

Now don't forget about my cousin, I remind Beth with a laugh. As I explain my comment, the German women pay close attention.

You see, my cousin is elected to Congress in the Newt Gingrich revolution. He's a loyal Republican and one of those guys against the President. Beth had the pleasure of talking to him at our last family reunion, although I guess she doesn't consider it such a pleasure now, I chuckle.

Typical Hastert mentality, she says disdainfully, lighting a cigarette and tossing out a puff of smoke in exclamation, Republican as Republican can be.

Sure, as the black sheep of the family, I can testify to the validity of her Republican as Republican can be remark, but I would hope she could be a little less condescending.

At that moment, drawing our attention to the dirt road, an upscale tourist bus chugs to a diesel-spewing stop at our restaurant. The door opens and out come about twenty middle-aged men, college professor types sporting trimmed grey beards and round spectacles, each wearing an orange shirt or jacket emblazoned with their school logo so it’s not like we don’t know where in the states they’re from. To my surprise, exiting after the last of the men are young Costa Rican women, mostly wearing shorts and tight fitting t-shirts with their tennis shoes. Each pairs up with one of the men at various tables. As the men talk among themselves, the women turn to browsing the racks of children’s clothing parked on the sidewalk. It’s pretty obvious to all of us what’s going on, a bunch of old guys paying young women in their impoverished country to be their escorts as they bus around, apparently a win-win situation for everyone, and in Costa Rica, it’s perfectly legal. I shake my head nonetheless, not in judgment, but in knowing that this is one scene that’s not going to help improve Beth’s mood in any way.

That’s disgusting, she bemoans, I wonder if their wives know about this?

I’m pretty sure that would be a negative, Beth, I answer.

Thankfully, Anna and Beatrice just shrug their shoulders and stare at their plates. I know better than to say anything else. What can you say anyway? It is what it is.

From the day's beginning, like the annoying brat at the playground who never leaves you alone, the rain is an unwanted companion mocking our every move. Now, as we finish our lunch alongside this turbulent river, anxiety is evident in Beth's manner. She continues to chain smoke, puffing frantically, glancing quickly from table to table to see if others share her concerns about a boat ride in this heavy current.

But first, more frustration awaits us as we travel to our next destination: the Paos Volcano, the only sulfur volcano on the planet. Anticipation is high. After all, the Paos Volcano is the world’s largest active crater. The green waters of the lake simmer in low boil upon volcanic rock, like water heating on the kitchen stove. We march single file along a muddy trail, twisting our way through a landscape of unrecognizable black and brown vegetation, making our somber way to the volcano’s edge. The dense fog is impossible to penetrate and one by one, our anticipation dashed, we give up on seeing the crater and the green water, coughing all the while from the heavy smell of sulfur.

Back on the bus, Beth's concern about the boat ride boils inside her like the water in the lake, threatening to explode into a geyser at any time. When the bus stops alongside the dock, she’s determined to get some answers from our guide and rushes up to him as soon as she’s off the bus.

Are you sure this will be safe? she asks him in a loud voice, compensating for the roar of the nearby river. Everyone on the tour hears and looks our way. The guide takes one look at her anxious face and smiles.

It will be fine, he assures her in a calm manner. The boat pilot is very experienced and he would call off the excursion if he thought it was dangerous.

The pilot of the craft looks to be fourteen. On top of that, the boat is old and rusty, its paint faded and blistered. The engine, caked with oil, spits white smoke as it idles. Rocking precariously as we board, one by one we navigate the boat’s narrow aisle clutching our life jackets and taking a seat on the damp, wooden benches.

The teenager edges the boat slowly away from the dock as the canvas top flutters vigorously in the strong wind. Revving the engine to full speed, we buck the hearty current and dodge debris, struggling to reach the center of the river. At this point, the pilot turns in the direction of the current and lowers the engine speed. As he does, the boat settles down in the water for a smoother, less jerky ride. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

The heavy rain that mostly obscures our view doesn’t stop us from scanning the trees and shoreline for signs of life. Through the haze, faint outlines of monkeys appear suspended in trees. Emboldened by the sight of these creatures, we shuffle around the boat, moving from side to side looking for more.

Look, that’s a sloth over there, a man in the back calls out excitedly, pointing to a tree where the animal is hanging by his toes, his long tail gracefully latched onto the limb above.

A stampede ensues and in the process, Beth, running closely behind me, loses her balance in the narrow walkway and falls forward into my legs, knocking me hard into Anna's back. I try to catch Anna as she falls against the railing, but she flips overboard and lands in the river with a big splash. I watch in horror as her head bobs up and down in the fierce current. With her arms flailing in the murky water, her cries for help piercing the jungle landscape, she manages to stay afloat only because of her life jacket.

Turn the boat around! I call out frantically. Turn the boat around!

The pilot expertly guides the craft alongside the struggling woman for the rescue. I reach down to pull her from the water but her weight is too much and I fight to keep from falling overboard myself, managing only to keep hold of one arm. The guide is quickly by my side and deftly grabs her other arm. Between the two of us, we haul her back onto the boat's deck. Drenched, she removes her life jacket and wraps a blanket around her wet clothes. She sits on the wood bench shivering, her lips blue and her brown hair a tangled mess, coughing as she spits up river water.

It’s my fault. I’m really sorry. I lost my balance and couldn’t stop myself, I offer contritely.

I feel like a complete jerk, but I must also confess that for a moment while Anna struggles in the water, I have a feeling that we may not save her, that she may drown. So I guess that’s my silver lining.

Several days after this episode, I notice the two of them across the street in the map-neglected village of Puerto Viejo, examining small jade carvings spread out on a card table. Something inside me cringes as I’m hoping maybe they won’t notice us. Out of the corner of her eye, however, Anna spots me, and grabbing Beatrice by her arm, pulls her quickly across the pockmarked road to where we stand.

Did you hear the news? she asks us breathlessly.

After fishing Anna from the river, almost drowning her, her friendliness takes me by surprise.

What news? Is there another hurricane coming our way?

Only weeks earlier, Hurricane Mitch had cut a broad swath of devastation across the country. The effects are everywhere, from washed out bridges to flooded fields.

No, no, it’s your president's impeachment, they're doing it tomorrow. Do you believe it? Tomorrow?

Beth stomps her feet like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

I knew this would happen to Clinton. The damn Republicans were hell-bent on doing it.

I shrug my shoulders. My college days protesting the Vietnam War made a permanent cynic of me long ago. None of this political crap surprises me, but this impeachment farce falls into the realm of absurdity. Hundreds of kids died each day in Vietnam. Where was the impeachment then?

We can watch it at the Dutchman’s bar, Beatrice assures us with a big smile, already anticipating the fireworks sure to come from the warring parties. He has CNN by satellite.

The bar Beatrice refers to is found inside the Dutchman’s compound. Ringed by a bamboo fence, his spread includes half a dozen huts spread out among the meticulously groomed grounds, dotted with patches of tropical flowers, red ones and yellow ones and orange ones that all seem to be some sort of Bird of Paradise variety. Surfboards and hammocks adorn the verandas of these huts, each one built about five feet off