The Honeymoon: Chapter 1

The River Sarapiqui

"I never meant to marry," she said.

The man behind her laughed.

Sara Sidle Grissom crossed her bare legs—she had rolled her pants to her knees—and laughed with him before she continued. "I daydreamed about romantic boyfriends, but I was also sensible enough to know I never wanted to be…" she glanced at him, "wanted to be dominated by any man," she finished with a certain interesting tone in her voice.

Gil Grissom's husky chuckle pleased her ears. She heard the dip and paddle of the water as the boat they were in moved a little faster than the current.

"But you sort of swept me off my feet the first time we met." Her laughter was more of a light, girlish giggle and she glanced at him. "But that didn't mean I wanted to marry you!"

She turned to face him, swinging her legs over the side of the canoe as she did. By most standards, he was not a handsome man, but to her he was perfection. The past two weeks had relaxed his face, tanned his skin, and given his sapphire eyes a twinkle that she found extremely pleasing.

Her smile greeted the one on his face. "I do believe this wedded state is agreeable to us," she said, still laughing. "Especially the part where you get to paddle and I get to talk!"

The paddle came out of the water with a quick splash sound, bringing an arc of water in her direction and she shrieked as cool water hit her.

The first days of their marriage had been highly agreeable to both. They spent several days in the nearest small town, occasionally walking the streets and learning a few words of Spanish. But most of the time had been spent in a rooftop room sharing intimate privacy familiar to all newlyweds before returning to the research center where they were volunteers to a project studying migrations of wildlife.

Grissom's love of bugs had been discovered within hours of his arrival in the Costa Rican rain forest, or perhaps before, and now the two were on a voyage of sorts; if one could call an expedition in a canoe a voyage, Sara pointed out. Grissom called it their honeymoon. Following a French researcher's route, they were collecting ant data from specific areas along the river Sarapiqui. Everything they needed was packed in this canoe, including their food for two nights in a tent. The researcher insisted they would be surprised at his 'tent' accommodations: "like nothing you've seen" he pronounced as he explained their route.

Sara had never liked bugs, but she was slowly overcoming her aversion in the insect-filled forest of Costa Rica. Or maybe she was conquering her dislike because of the abundance of other wildlife or because of Grissom's enthusiastic response to anything that moved. Or because she was determined to change more than one thing about her life.

Just as quickly as she felt the cold water on her skin, he pointed to the river's bank. A dozen colorful birds, "Roseate spoonbills," he said.

The cove where the birds waded was so calm it mirrored their pink bodies with reflective images. Grissom lifted his paddle as they both watched the birds. Sara clicked several photographs as one bird lifted its head in their direction and, quickly, like a small squadron of brightly painted airplanes, they lifted and flew into the trees.

For an hour, they drifted in the faded red canoe. Sara had been concerned with its beaten condition, but the others insisted it was safe, made of unsinkable material, so she had gotten in and paddled across the river before agreeing to this river trip. They floated so near the bank that she stretched her arm and touched grasses with her hand. Most of the time, they did not converse in long talks or dialogues but pointed to flashes of fish or green backed herons or ducks or storks along the river. Occasionally, they saw monkeys—capuchins flying through trees—and one caiman, a smaller alligator looking reptile, sunning on the bank.

Sara spotted the marker for the collection site. "There's our crime scene!" Her crime reference was made to their former professions which, as both had discovered in the rainforest of Costa Rica, was not much different from research in the most biological diverse place on earth. Except less dead humans.

They veered the boat to a dead-end circle of water surrounded by a wall of tall grasses; Sara said: "It feels as though we passed through the eye of a needle."

Grissom pointed, "That looks like a path," his finger traveled upward. "I do think we've found our tent."

Sara's eyes followed. She grinned. There was something she liked about the French researcher's idea of a tent. Set high in several trees was an enclosed cabin—a tree house with canvas and net sides tied closed. A long hooked pole leaned against one of the trees and Grissom used it to pull a sliding ladder to the ground.

He grinned, saying, "Your bed, my dear," pointing upward.

She climbed, unfastened a trap door and pushed it up. She looked down. "You are not going to believe this!"

By the time he got to the opening, Sara was walking around the wood floored tent, rolling up canvas shades to provide light and air. Two large platforms were built into one corner. A canvas curtain shielded a chemical toilet in another corner. Folded against one wall was a hammock large enough for two and a plastic bucket was hooked to a pulley device for hauling things from the ground.

"Look!" Sara held up the bucket. "We bring our stuff up in this!" She turned around after raising the last canvas cover. "I feel like Jane!"

For a moment, Grissom was confused before saying "Tarzan." He did the same as Sara—walking around the room, lifting the top of several containers to find canned food, water purification equipment, rain gear. "This is beautiful—leave it to the French to put something like this in the middle of a wetlands jungle!"

Sara snickered, thinking Grissom was one of the few people she knew who would think a tent in trees and a chemical toilet was "beautiful."

They carried the waterproof duffle bags to the pulley rope and pulled them to the tree house. Grissom set out the collection kits and went in search of ants while Sara set about collecting and purifying water and preparing food. They had brought tea and coffee, fruit, cooked beans and tortillas and she worked the gas powered coil to heat water and beans. Looking out the screens of the tree house, Sara could watch Grissom as he following a trail of recently trampled grass, stooping as he worked, lost in his concentration. Sara had to occasionally pinch herself to know this wasn't a dream, and as she set the small kettle aside and emptied beans into a skillet, she shook her head and grinned. She could see Grissom's hat among the tall grasses as he stood and looked in her direction.

He whistled as he returned and as he filled the bucket with water. "Do I shower before coming up?"

Sara opened the trap door, "Your beans are hot—eat first, shower second." When she saw him, she changed her mind. "Shower—I'll be down."

The shower consisted of wetting one's skin, applying a little liquid soap, then rinsing as quickly as possible, and keeping one's mouth closed while doing so. Their towels consisted of a three-foot square of very thin fabric that wicked water but didn't really dry the skin. Sara stuffed their clothes into the bucket and climbed the ladder with the towel tucked around her waist; Grissom didn't bother to wrap his towel any where but around his neck as he scrambled up the ladder behind her.

"I love beans," he announced, "but I love Sara more!" His hand moved to her butt.

She threw a shirt in his direction, "Dress for dinner, dear," she said, "it's already cold."

Rolling beans in a tortilla would never be sexy except in a tree house in the middle of wetlands and adding a chunk of mango to the roll seemed to add to desire in this unusual, very private setting. Grissom caught a glimpse of a bare leg as he wiped plates and closed up their food in a metal box. The sun was setting as Sara stretched the hammock across the room, unrolled sleeping bags and spread them across the braided netting.

Around them, sunset seem to bring life to the grasses, river, and trees as birds and frogs and monkeys and whatever called the river, marshes, and wet forest home returned for the night. Sara slid her arms around Grissom and pressed her face against his shoulder.

"We were meant for this—for now," she said. Sara closed her eyes and put her mouth on his neck, tasting the heat and the slightly salty taste of his skin.

He led her to the padded hammock and held the edge while she scooted across the bedding. "There's not an artificial light in miles," he said and the way he said the words, so seriously, sent a shiver through Sara. He lowered himself beside her and kissed the soft places of her throat, her breasts, her belly, and her thighs.

As they made love, slowly with the familiarity of long-time lovers, the sun gradually disappeared, the sounds around them quieted to the night calls of birds and croaking frogs, and the river water swept by with its unhurried current. Somewhere outside the tree house a mystifying scent floated from some unseen flowers.

Grissom smiled, touched her face with his fingertip, traced the rim of her jaw, her lips, and nose, and then he kissed each place he had touched. Every moment seemed to be amplified by the pulsing world around them; made more vivid, made more real, stimulated by their hearts and the natural rhythms of nature.

After the eloquent words of lovemaking, communicating more than sex, providing some promising and optimistic words simmering in adrenaline, they both drifted into sleep. If either dreamed, and neither remembered the next morning, it was of a life sprung free, held in the lushness of where they were, feeling content, feeling alive.

When Grissom woke, the sun was showing a sliver of its golden dome in the east. The cool night air had tightened their hold on each other and he wrapped the sleeping bag more securely around their naked bodies. Sara stirred, breathed deeply, and settled beside him, her breathe tickling his chest. He could feel her hands on his back, feel her body stretched next to his. He knew he loved this woman; he felt life had erupted in him again. He wished for the thick book of poetry, but thought of two lines from a poet older than Shakespeare, "Lovers don't finally meet somewhere; they are in each other all along."

He stayed until Sara's breathing indicated she had fallen into a deep sleep, then he slipped out of the hammock, stretching and working his muscles from the unaccustomed sleeping arrangement before pulling on his clothes. He washed his face and worked with the little heat ring until he got it going and heated water.

"What are you doing?" Sara asked from the hammock, her voice muffled by sleep.

"I'm making you tea—and providing you hot water to wash your face," he said. He dipped a corner of her towel into a bowl and poured water from the kettle on it.

As he handed the towel to her, he realized there was no terror in her eyes, no depression casting a shadow on her face. She was beautiful.

"Kiss me, Sara," he said. "We have ants to find!"