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Torrential rains drench the tropical rain forest of Golfito, Costa Rica. The town is ensconced on a lagoon that lies within a larger lagoon called the Golfo Dulce. Squeezed onto a sliver of land at the foot of steep and densely forested hills, as summer approaches, everyone and everything sweats profusely in the humid air. The thick, claustrophobic blanket of silence is pierced only by the buzz of Dengue Fever carrying mosquitoes and the deafening roar and crash of afternoon thunderstorms. In 1985 the United Banana Company abdicated leaving this village it to fend for itself. Ostensibly eco-tourism, Costa Rica’s magic bullet, bolsters the town’s economy, but in the dripping month of June, there’s little evidence of booming tourism.

Banana Bay Marina is filled with sport fishers so we have chosen Land and Sea Services as our refuge. We lay stern-to a short, tattered dock with room for only one other boat, similarly moored. The breezeless bay offers little respite from the suffocating heat. Our little 12-volt cabin fans whir ceaselessly night and day. The pummeling rains, on again off again, force us to drape the boat with canvas from stem to stern so that we can leave the hatches open. The boat needs to breathe. We need to breathe.

The most bearable hour comes at first light. The land, having given over a tiny bit of heat during the long night, warms to the new day and the tepid bay exhales a shoreward puff that wafts into our forward hatch. It is not so much relief as a hint of what relief might feel like. What passes for bearable lasts from six to eleven in the morning. These are the hours available for physical activity.

Before departing the boat we slather our bodies with Deet, our best defense against mosquitoes and their viral passengers. We walk up to the damp waterfront street and toward a downtown consisting of a few desultory markets and shops. On the landward side of the street we spy a rickety little shop sitting on a postage stamp lot carved into the mountainside. In English and Spanish, a hand painted sign in the window announces videos for rent. As we enter, a bell mounted on the door tinkles. Inside, the shop smells of the tropics—musty, moldy, and fungal. The walls are lined floor to ceiling with shelves cobbled together from the rudest lumber. Videocassettes fill every nook and cranny. They are stacked on shelves, piled on tables, scattered on the floor. A moment passes before we spy the young, round-faced Tico behind a counter also heaped with videocassettes. A smile spreads across his face but he only nods an invitation to browse.

The prospect of watching a video movie on our little boat TV is enticing. The diversion might substitute for the elusive relief we crave. We move among the shelves searching. The black cassettes are crudely labeled with photocopied stickers, every one a bootleg copy. When we locate a candidate title we hold it up to the light filtering through the front window. Through the little plastic cassette window we examine the tape spools. Most are blackened with a thick mildew that will, when played, instantly clog the video player heads.

Finally we find a cassette that appears usable. It is yet another Kevin Costner baseball move called “For Love of the Game”. At the front desk, the Tico clerk smiles broadly. In Spanish, we ask him for the price and terms of the rental. Again, he smiles broadly but says nothing. He points upward to a sign over his head that spells everything out in Spanish and English. I fish two limp dollars from my pocket and hand them over. Wordlessly, he takes them, puts our video in a bag, and smiles us out the door.

After finishing the rest of our shopping we slog our way back to the boat just as the heat is approaching its devastating zenith. With the last of our vitality, we stow the new provisions and collapse on the settees in front of our chattering fans. I plunge Kevin Costner into the VCR receptacle and hit Play.

We wile away the afternoon watching the movie and drinking limeade. Soon our pet poodle, Jackie, begins fearfully pacing the cabin sole, panting frantically. She is always first to sense the distant thunder that precedes each afternoon’s downpour. Within minutes the crashes and flashes begin and then the sky unzips, releasing a hammering rain that pounds our decks with such force that we must crank up the volume on the TV.

Costner’s movie unfolds predictably. His character is trapped between love of the game and love of a girl. Can he reconcile these irreconcilable forces? Can he rise to pitch the perfect game? Will he get the girl? As the end of the story approaches our discomfort fades from consciousness. Rapt, we eagerly await the outcome.

It’s the bottom of the 9th with two out. Costner’s on the mound, ball in hand. The catcher is flipping hand signals. Costner’s shaking his head. Cut to the girl exiting a taxicab—walking into the train station—about to disappear from Costner’s tormented life. And then the movie stops! The VCR makes clicking and whirring sounds, and ejects the videocassette. The hammering rain surges back into our consciousness. I grab the tape to see what’s wrong and there’s nothing. No mildew and no break. It has simply rolled to the end of the spool and stopped, denying us the ultimate satisfaction of knowing, and abandoning us to the afternoon heat, humidity, and rain. A sullen gloom falls over the boat. Game over

The next morning we wake to our puff of air, breath deeply, and make ready for our morning activities. First on our list is a visit to the video store to get another copy of the movie, certain that nothing less will provide satisfaction. We arrive and push the door open. The bell tinkles. We step to the counter and explain in our best Spanglish that the movie has no ending. Por favor, we plead, can we get a copy that is complete?

Still wordless, the clerk rolls his eyes and shrugs his shoulders. Although he goes through the motions of a search, his demeanor makes it clear that there are no other copies. After shuffling through cassettes, he returns to the counter. His expression is one of consternation. He is searching for a solution. Suddenly he raises a finger. He steps from behind the counter and stands before us. For a brief moment he averts his eyes in concentration, rolls his head as though preparing for an athletic event, and then raises his head to meet our gazes. He scans about an imaginary stadium, shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand to his brow. He drops into a pitchers stance. Shakes off the catcher’s signals with a wag of his head, winds up for the pitch, and throws. He lets a moment pass, and then throws his hands high in a victorious gesture. In our minds we hear the roar of the crowd as the batter swishes the final pitch. Then he puts his hand up as if to say, “Stop, there’s more!” We watch as he begins running in place. He jumps into an imaginary car. He drives. He arrives at the train station and runs some more. He sees the girl. He makes eye contract. After a poignant pause, he smiles and runs to her. Then he turns his back to us and wraps his arms around his own back with a caressing motion, miming the climatic embrace. He turns back toward us and puckers up the imaginary kiss. The end.

So Costner pitched the perfect game AND got the girl! That’s relief.

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