Buzzing Freshwater Sharks in a Leaking Plane

I knew I made a mistake mentioning the sharks, the plane, and the remote river village in my résumé of adventures while typing out the first paragraph of my premiere article for Traveling Coffee Girl. The moment I submitted it to Marie, I thought to myself, she’s probably going to have follow-up questions about some of these. Boy, was I right! The very next day, while I was tending the bar at my other-other job, in walks the Traveling Coffee Girl herself, her laptop and notebook tucked beneath her arm.

“I have follow-up questions about some of these,” she announced as a greeting. Thus began the brief clarification of my adventure in Nicaragua. What was framed as a perilous moment of bravery and Solo-esque luck was actually more of a panic attack in the back of a small cargo plane. After all, the main point of the article was “do it afraid,” and I was indeed.

“Were you flying the plane?” Marie pressed, anxiety laden upon her brow. I laughed at the drink I was pouring and shook my head.

“No,” I replied. “I flew my Uncle Brian’s plane just outside of Tombstone, in a place called McNeel.” I deliberately gave her this information to confuse her further, for the river of Nathan-lore is deep, and many are not fit to ford it. Before her mind could organize the events of my earlier life any further, a customer stole my attention away.

 I have the scattered, drifting pages of a litany of peril and woe in my wake, and some of it has been worthy of telling, in retrospect. Even half a lifetime past, the memories of that trip have clung tightly to my mind. In times of mental and spiritual drought, I remember the calls of strange new birds and the heaviness of equatorial air. When I hunger for community and peace, I remember the long table where we ate freshly caught and prepared seafood plated beside mangoes and tamarind from the trees outside. The moments we can’t forget become the stories we are compelled to tell. After all, stories are how humanity sustains the past. When a story stops being told, it’s lost forever.

So, for the sake of storytelling and my rich character backstory, I agreed to share the events surrounding the sharks, the plane, and my freaking out throughout.

My Uncle Pat was born in Costa Rica and raised in Nicaragua, but due to his father’s involvement in a local rebel movement, he was forced to avoid his home for many years. When he finally got to return to his mother country, he was reborn with a vibrant passion to restore his community. Pat became the guy to know in Bluefields. He was connected to every nonprofit and community leader that he could reach, and the city was healing. Uncle Pat invited us to come see his home and the work he’d been doing.

At that point in my life, the furthest I had ever been from home was within driving distance, but Nicaragua is far. I’d never been somewhere that had indigenous monkeys and months of rain. I couldn’t comprehend jungle mountain ranges that were impassable by anything but planes. Also, having only driven everywhere until then, this was my first time aboard a commercial plane.

My first time going through the departure process of an airport was an international flight. Needless to say, I was overwhelmed. I remember trying not to appear terrified the first time the plane lifted from the ground. I remember realizing I had to pee almost an hour into the flight, knowing I did not have the courage to attempt the toilet currently hurtling thirty-thousand feet in the air. I remember watching a thunderstorm from above while the rest of the plane slept.

Arriving in Managua was my first exposure to Nicaraguan culture, and I was in shock. The cars were tiny and rude, the people were welcoming and helpful, and the air was really, really humid. Like super humid. Like more humid than I had ever known possible. The flight to Bluefields wasn’t until the next day, so we took the evening to rest, enjoy our hotel, and blast our ACs until steam rolled from our doors.

The next morning, our departing flight was at a lesser entrance of the grand Managua airport and our terminal was located amidst heavy fronded palms and lumpy dirty roads. Our luggage was weighed and inspected by hand before we were directed to a small waiting area bathed in warm morning sunlight through peeling tinted windows. Beyond the scuffed and clouded glass, a dirt runway sat empty. Behind me, Uncle Pat was explaining the path of the plane to my father, how flights to Bluefields aren’t common, so someone was coming especially to get us. They talked about how the rapid acceleration was needed to gain enough altitude to get over the mountain before the rapid descent over Lagos Xolotlan.

Fun fact for all you trivia fiends out there: Lagos Xolotlan, also known as Lake Managua, is the only freshwater lake in the world to contain bullsharks.

Another fun fact: I am deathly, irrationally afraid of water and being eaten therein.

Sputtering through the air at the speed of smell, our plane arrived, coming to a rolling stop near our sunny terminal. Before the plane had come to a complete stop, the cockpit door swung open and the copilot leapt out, holding a bucket. As the pilot shut off the engine and powered down the plane, the copilot hooked his bucket to a lug beneath the engine to catch the release of steaming oil that spewed out from within. Our luggage was loaded aboard while we watched Uncle Pat speak to the pilot, and I spotted duct tape on one of the struts connected to the wing.

The interior of the plane reminded me of scenes of the TV show M*A*S*H; if you’re familiar, that description will suffice. The pilot inspected each of us like an experienced freight pilot and assigned us our seats by weight. The seats smelled like livestock, and some of them had seatbelts.

After the copilot dumped his bucket’s contents back into the engine, he restarted the engine and we began rumbling along the dirt runway. When he reached the end, he wheeled it about and throttled up the leaky engine, aiming the plane at the dark jungle mountain directly ahead. Like a dying car’s last trip, the plane shivered off the runway and we submitted to the skills of the rural pilot and his oily-handed compatriot. The smoking engine screamed and whined as the plane continued to lean further and further back, jungle mountain still filling our windshield, and the pilot was leaning back, pulling his yoke to save his life.

At last, light from the east illuminated our canopy, and the reaching trees flitted beneath us. The plane burst forth from the mountain’s shadow, and we beheld the vast beauty of Lagos Xolotlan. Moments before we could relax and breathe freely, the engine changed in pitch again, and the whole of the craft tilted forward. I remember hearing somebody say, “oh my god,” and the pilot laughing from the front.

We submitted to forces Bernoulli only dreamed of, while the plane buzzed above the ancient trees as those of us seated in the back tried not to embarrass ourselves. I vaguely remember planting my foot on the seat in front of me while the front canopy showed only the slowly approaching waves of shark-infested waters.

Honestly, I don’t remember the rest of the flight, but I remember thinking about being eaten alive should I survive the plane crash. I remember somebody holding my hand. Thinking back, I remember being afraid, but I remember more now that I didn’t  feel afraid.

I could write tomes based purely on my concussion-riddled memories of Bluefields: the chromatic hodge-podge cityscape, the sound of the locals’ dialect, the scent of food in preparation, and the freshness of the local seafood. But the bulk of my memories linger on the children who resided within the city dump, barefoot and smiling. They didn’t want anything except to share a smile and chase our truck as we left. Uncle Pat told us their stories with tears in his eyes. My brief time in Nicaragua imprinted on me at an important time in my life. It was the first time I ever ate turtle, the first time I ever picked mangoes, and the first time I realized how wealthy and privileged I was.

My life is full of stories and traumatizing epics worthy of podcasts, and only recently have I begun to feel the burden of being full of stories. Each of our legacies are built on storytelling, how we influenced and affected those around us, and I hope I can inspire storytelling in everyone I meet.

If stories like this speak to your sense of adventure and you want to read more in future, be sure to tip this amazing bartender, writer, and adventurer through Buy Me a Coffee.