Page 2 of The Hitchhiker in Panama
There were small sailboats with cluttered decks and shiny wood, and luxurious catamarans that made me think of the pictures my best friend Dani had taken on her trip to Greece when we were sixteen—a trip my mother had forbidden me to go on.
Someone caught my eye up ahead, a young man walking down the dock, coming all the way from the end. I tried to focus on the sailboats, but I kept glancing at him, and the closer he got, the more I liked what I saw. He was broad and fair-skinned, dressed casually in a T-shirt and shorts that showed more thigh than not—very European fashion.
When he was just a few boats away, our eyes met. His lips grew into a sly grin, and my heart skipped a beat. I looked away, but just before we passed, my eyes caught his again.
“God morgen.”His voice was low, accented, and even though I knew it was a simple greeting, I blushed and forced myself not to glance back. Definitely European.
Ah, what a wonderful distraction to my morning.
I kept walking, hoping to see the guy again on my way back to the shore, but he didn’t return. On the next pier, I was startled by a noise up ahead of me. It began deep and guttural, resonating through the jungle and crescendoing to a roar. The kind of sound that made humans know they were prey.
I froze, listening intently, though no one else seemed to be concerned.
“Howler monkeys,” came a voice to my right. A balding man with glasses and a goatee was sitting in his boat with a tablet and a mug of coffee.
“Seriously?” I was stunned. “They sound like dinosaurs.” The howls continued, the monkeys answering one another from tree to tree. “Should I be worried?”
He grinned at me. “Nah, they don’t come out of the jungle—you’re just fine. But if you’d like a cup of coffee . . . ?” He gestured with his mug.
I bit my lip, torn between the prospect of sheltering from a hypothetical monkey attack and the safety factor of climbing into a boat with a random man. Just as I was about to make an excuse, a woman’s head poked up from inside the boat.
“Hello there, dear.” She gingerly held a pot of steaming coffee while she climbed out of the boat. “Peter’s offering some caffeine, eh?” She winked at me while refilling her partner’s mug.
“Yes, I’d love some.”
The woman gestured me over and showed me how to climb onto the boat. Her white pixie-cut hair, weathered skin, and heavy laugh lines around her eyes pointed to a happy life out of doors. She smiled so much, she had tan lines in her laugh lines.
“Welcome toSilver Lining.This is Peter, I’m Edith, and here’s your mug.”
“Thanks. I’m Lila.”
“Lila,” Edith repeated, settling down onto a cushioned bench. “Lila with an accent. Are you an Aussie?”
“I am, good ear. Are you . . . ?” I hedged, unsure whether they were Canadian or American.
“Canadians,” Edith confirmed. “But this boat’s been our home for, oh, eight years now?”
Peter, who had returned his attention to his tablet, nodded.
“Where’s your boat?” Edith asked.
“I don’t have one, actually. I read online about how boats going through the canal sometimes need extra crew members, and that if I came here, I might find a ride.”
“Oof, I hope you aren’t in a rush. The season hasn’t quite picked up around here yet. It’s still early. How much time do you have?”
“I’m pretty flexible,” I said. “After the canal I’ll be making my way south, backpacking for a while.”
“How fun. Back in my day, we didn’t do that, what do you call it? A gap year?”
“A gap year,” Peter agreed.
“You know,” Edith said, “parents’ house, college, marriage.”
I smiled into my mug. “Did you always know you were going to go on a sailing adventure together?”
“Not at all. My kids were appalled when I told them I was taking off with my new husband”—she gestured to Peter— “to go sailing. But when the kids are grown, what’s to stop us? It’ll be grandkids soon, and then our health will deteriorate. Best to go now.”
Peter interrupted us. “How long have you been backpacking?”
