We turned left off one of the best roads in Central America and began the final leg of our journey on one of the worst. We didn’t care, though, because this rutted gravel road led us into the tiny jungle village of Ojochal, over the single-lane bridge, past our favourite restaurants, around the town tree in the middle of the road. We waved at the local butcher. Our friend Fabrizio’s pizza parlour drifted slowly past as Holly and I cheered loudly and held hands, shaking them in the air triumphantly. The Jucaloa general store came and went, as did our beloved little library. We passed the decaying ruins of the old Tico bullfighting arena and then the local water office, now painted a sporty new blue.
The public school came into view and we swung wide, making our final left turn of the trip. We crossed our final river. We passed the last house of the trip that we would see together and I started beeping the horn.
Finally, at 4:15 pm on Dec. 13, 2013, our high bamboo hedge came into view and we made the final right turn of thousands we had taken together, riding through our gate and pulling to a stop in the soft gravel. We were home.
No banners or bands or fanfares blowing. Just a strong sense of relief on my part knowing that Holly had been delivered safely into the arms of her mother and sister. The front door opened and out walked my good friend Chris with a Nikon in one hand, a cold Imperial beer in the other. Mary and Jocelyn came through the door next and there were many hugs, many helmeted kisses. Jossy, still wet from the pool, was shivering with emotion, tears streaming down her lovely cheeks and she smiled and cried and hugged her sister in an anaconda squeeze.
Chris’s wife Heather and kids Adam and Lauren joined the welcome committee in the driveway. Holly’s dream of riding from her driveway in Ontario to her driveway in Ojochal, Costa Rica had been realized finally and a wave of fatherly pride washed over me for what she had achieved. I was in the presence of one of the toughest 12-year old travellers on the planet, without question.
I had Holly jump off her motorcycle home for the final time of the journey and then I slowly followed her, savouring every moment. There was a riot of hugging and happy high-fives as we removed our helmets. I walked to my Mary, held her beautiful face in my hands and kissed her. I had missed my best friend, missed our early morning coffees and life chats. A deep look of thanks passed between us: on my part for her trust in allowing me the opportunity to take our 12-year old on this wild ride through nine countries. On her part, I’m sure, for bringing Holly back to her in one piece.
I took a moment to look around, checking out our house and yard, the coconut trees full, the papaya and banana plants bursting with fruit. The hedges were neatly trimmed, the grass cut. Hibiscus and butterfly bushes in full bloom everywhere. Tropical birds shrieked from the trees as I unpacked my bags and walked inside.
I quickly donned my bathing suit and, as I approached the pool, 10-year old Jocelyn caught me privately in a bear hug. She was shaking, crying, laughing all at once, telling me how much she had missed me. We stood there, both our faces wet with tears, and I held her close and told her how much I had missed her. I hadn’t hugged Jossy in six weeks, hadn’t tucked her in or driven her to the bus stop or laughed at one of her jokes. Now she had her Daddy and her big sister back with her.
And here I sit, two days later, sipping early morning coffee in the company of the many birds populating our high mango trees, the countless morpho butterflies that float up from our creek and pass by me on the pool deck. I’m happily tired and very pleased to be back home in Ojochal.
