I Can't Stop Calculating the Return on My Own Joy

A piece about a guy who can't stop pricing his own life, written by the same guy.

I’m lying on a surfboard in the Caribbean Sea. Eyes closed. Singing along to Three Little Birds with a guy I hardly know. He on his board, me on mine. In the back of my mind, I’m calculating what this is worth.

In February, a friend I’ve known for a year sends me a message with a Booking link to this shanty shack of a motel in a remote corner of Panama and simply says, “Book for the 14th through the 19th. See you there.” A five-day stag do in the furthest stretch of the Central American isthmus, on an island only accessible by prop plane.

I’m still not sure what led me to book the trip.

I’m sitting in the airport bar, laptop open, overpriced Sculpin sweating into the paper coaster on the countertop. I’m waiting for the arrival of three guys who went to high school together while frantically shooting out final emails and setting out-of-office autoresponders. None of us can afford this trip, whether financially or in terms of opportunity cost. But a redeye to Panama City awaits.

I’m squeezed into the A column, twenty-three rows back on an airline I’m certain was founded last week, as it dawns on me what I’m leaving behind. I haven’t taken a solo trip this long, away from my family, since my daughter was born. I’m homesick, I think, for the first time in my life.

I’m tucked into a corner of the breakfast lounge at a Marriott in Panama City. I snuck past the hostess after the front desk told me daily access to the pool area was $150. I have a four-hour layover, so some free coffee and WiFi are all I need. I can get a half-day’s work in before I meet up with the rest of the crew in Bocas Del Toro. The guys think I’m suffering disappointment, but I’m ecstatic to have this excuse.

I find myself on the balcony of the hotel room with the crew, plus a couple of new faces who are old friends of a friend. Two Rastafaris who have deep roots in Panamanian culture. We take a boat to their island, a place somehow even more vibrantly ramshackle than where we are staying. Kids playing soccer in a flooded field, men lined up for haircuts in a dirt patch next to the sea, as multicolored boats bob in the wake, a woman selling some of the best empanadas I’ve ever had. My mind is still fogged, and the experience is dreamlike. We hang there for some time on painted, swinging benches with men touting varied accents given to them by the unique pathways they’ve taken through life. They smoke cigarettes and speak different languages despite the ‘No fume’ sign hung overhead. The dullness of my senses enables a transitory freedom from my thoughts.

I’m spectating an indoor soccer match. It’s a packed house, absolutely brimming with people. How could this many people fit inside such a small auditorium? Where did they all come from? This community is unbelievably tight-knit, to the point that they seem more like family than disparate parts of a shared culture. I should stumble home. Big day tomorrow.

I find myself aboard a boat only slightly larger than a skiff. Our surfboards have been loaded by our guide. He’s going to bring us to the wave. One of the guys in the group is an ex-pro. He lived here for a while; he still opines about the old days. I, on the other hand, am about to get onto a surfboard for the fourth time in my life. The boat anchors to a buoy in the middle of the sea. The waves are gorgeous as they cascade into breaks along the coral reef below. There’s no beach. We’re paddling into this swell from the boat. With my heart pounding, I dive in headfirst.

I come up for air. The second day of surfing has been drowned out by torrential, albeit sporadic, bouts of rain. I walked from the hotel to the boat without so much as a pair of shoes. I jumped in the water with ease. The pellets of rainwater were overcast by the darkness of the sky and the intensity of the swell. This was the day we’d been waiting for. At least that was our stated preference. What was revealed was a growing nervousness about where I was and how I got there, and moreover, how I would get back. But fuck it, I’m already here. I should take a wave. This one looks good. Perhaps too good for my fifth time on a board. A board that soars into the air as I’m pummeled under the barrel of the crashing wave, over and over again. I’ve never felt so exposed. So insecure. So alive.

I see myself taking a piece of grilled chicken from a Rastafari man as the participants in the upcoming cock fight arrive. As the men weigh their chickens and prepare their talons by taping the barbs, I scan the room. Children of all ages, men and women of all shapes and sizes, even a few white folks, line the walls of this raised, seaside platform. The structure has seemingly been developed solely to enable chicken fights. A small, square-walled structure lined with astroturf is affixed to the center of the decking. My head swims as the night gets darker. The pylons and the rafters sway and bow as a cacophony of different languages deafens any semblance of thought. Someone has started chanting. I lose $20 to a man with dreadlocks. I was hustled, no doubt. A man gets stabbed and runs as blood pours down his right arm. We need to find a boat.

I’m back in row A, seat twenty-three, fighting with the plane’s WiFi. Great, entertainment only. Head is too spent to read. I’ll watch a couple of shitty movies as I doze in and out, waiting for the microwaved chicken meal they’ll serve. I’m convinced I catch a whiff of my soiled clothing from the duffel bag in the overhead compartment. That midnight rainstorm was unexpected, but we couldn’t resist one last Cuba Libre.

I’m back at my desk, hopping on calls. Answering questions about the trip and hearing the version of myself from before I left, as reflected by my peers. “I think I’m done with those trips.” “Not sure I could let my inner child get me all the way down there.” “Oof, five days off?” In the back of my mind, I’m calculating what this is worth.