My wife and I got married in Costa Rica near Bahila Ballena, along the southern coast of the Nicoya Peninsula.
We took a commercial airliner from Los Angeles to the capital city of San José, and then caught a twin engine, turbo prop airplane to a tiny airport in the village of Tambor. We landed on a coastal runway that was basically a single stretch of asphalt on a beach that was surrounded by towering mountains and the lush greenery of a tropical rain-forest. It was thrilling and exotic.
What wasn’t so thrilling and exotic was me. I could sense myself sticking out like a sore thumb with the word turista stamped on my thumbnail, so to transform myself into one of the laid-back locals—or ticos as they’re called—I bought a puka shell necklace from a street vendor and immediately blended in.
“Pura vida!” I declared awkwardly with no approval from local strangers.
“You look like a shithead,” said my fiancé as the homemade trinket began to pinch the hairs on the back of my neck.
Not only was she jealous of my uncanny ability to adapt, but I think she was still a little upset from the argument we had had before the trip. I was scheduled to play golf with my two brothers on the morning of the wedding and my fiancé claimed that my booking a tee time on the most important day of our lives was an act of disrespect.
“It doesn’t just send a negative message to our guests,” she argued, “It sets a bad precedent for the rest of our marriage.”
“Call me selfish,” I replied, “but there’s no way I’m coming all the way to Costa Rica without playing a round of golf with my hermanos.”
By the time we got to our spectacular honeymoon suite on the second floor of the playa resort, all was forgotten. We quickly unpacked and got settled in. Apart from the wedding attire, our wardrobes consisted mainly of casual beach wear. I had one collared garment in my suitcase and that was my favorite golf shirt, which I hung in an empty closet next to the standing shower.
For the next few days before the nuptials, our group went hiking, biking, deep sea fishing, surfing, zip lining, off-roading, snorkeling, kayaking, and horseback riding. It was all well and good as far as vacation activities go but to be honest, none of it really resonated with me. The safe, prepackaged adventures made me feel like nothing more than just another paying customer from that perpetual herd of mindless tourists. I felt unworthy of the puka shell necklace that dangled from my neck, and every hair that it continued to yank from my nape was a reminder that I had failed to earn my stripes as an honorary tico.
Soon the wedding day was upon us, the ceremony and reception of which were set to take place on the beach. I woke up that Saturday morning feeling blessed with the heavenly approval of a clear blue sky. I had prayed for it religiously because any rainfall that morning would’ve put a damper on our special day … and I’m not just talking about the round of golf but the wedding, too. I was so excited to get out on the golf course that I texted my brothers and told them to meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes, even though we still had an hour before our tee time. I took a quick shower and started getting ready—a little deodorant here, lots of sunblock there. I put on my shorts and my golf shirt and started brushing my hair. The damn necklace was pinching me harder than before. It was almost burning. I tried twisting my neck and shrugging my shoulders but I couldn’t shake the irritation.
The pinching got worse and I finally gave in. All right, necklace! I get it! You win! I’m an imposter! I took the damn thing off and tossed it in the sink. When I went from brushing my hair to brushing my teeth, I felt my right shoulder go numb.
“Jesus, what is this?” I thought, “Am I having a stroke or something? What the hell’s going on?”
I felt something crawl across my back and I whipped off my shirt and tossed it on the bathroom floor. The mirror reflected nothing on my upper torso, but when I looked down at my shirt, I saw something moving underneath. Now maybe it was just fear, because I’ve heard that the eye and the mind don’t always see eye-to-mind under circumstances of traumatic shock. Or maybe it was just a reaction to the venom, but when I witnessed that hideous creature emerging from my crumpled shirt on the floor, I didn’t just see a large scorpion. I saw a prehistoric lobster.
I screamed for my fiancé and she practically fell out of the bed.
“Jesus! What the hell are you yelling about?!”
“Come in here!”
“Why do you sound like a little bitch crying right now?!”
“’Cause I’m gonna die!”
“What?!”
I took a drinking glass from the counter and I placed it over the scorpion. My fiancé walked into the bathroom and I said, “Look in that glass!” She looked down and reacted with a deafening shriek that was almost as intense as the shrill I had delivered moments before.
“Call 911!” I told her. “Do they have 911 here?!”
My fiancé called the front desk in a panic. She explained the situation and then quickly hung up. “They’re sending help!” I broke out in a cold sweat and I could feel the poison spreading from my shoulder throughout the rest of my numbing body. I was getting queasy. I was surely going to die.
A minute later, there was a knock on the door and I remember thinking that the prompt arrival by the staff was a clear confirmation that I was surely going to die. Only life-threatening situations are cause for such urgency. The door swung open and it was my brother Henry.
“I heard a woman screaming,” he said with concern.
“He was stung by a scorpion!” cried my fiancé.
My brother’s face went slack, which was not a good thing. He’s a military man. He’s traveled the earth and seen a lot of the crazy shit in this world, so to watch his hardened face deflate like that upon hearing the word “scorpion” further convinced me that I was surely going to die. He stepped into the bathroom to get a glimpse of the caged animal and when he returned, the only comment he could muster was a defeat-ed, “Fuhhhhhhck.”
Yep, I was a goner, and on my wedding day of all days. I was going to say “adieu” before I could say “I do.” Immediately my death-by-scorpion-life began to flash before my watery eyes and the visions culminated with a group of friends and family gathered around my grave. The tombstone read: RIP — HERE LIES AN ENGAGED MAN, and I could already hear my mother commenting with her usual disappointment, “The man was not a closer. I can’t tell you how many things he started and never finished.”
My fiancé snapped me out of it by shouting, “Here comes a guy!” We looked out the window and saw one of the room service employees approaching in the distance. He was carrying a small plate and walking with a gait that conveyed absolutely no sense of urgency. Sauntering from side to side, he even stopped at one point to check his pockets like he had forgotten something—probably his weed.
“What the fuck?!” I yelled. “Where’s the response unit?! I was expecting an army from The Red Cross! Maybe a chopper back to The States!” Henry stepped out on the balcony and flagged him down in a frenzied state but the guy maintained his original pace, which was somewhere between “slower than Christmas” and “slower than two snails fucking in molasses in slow motion.” When the guy finally arrived, he presented me with a small plate containing lime wedges and caramel candies.
“What the hell is this?” I asked, “My last meal?”
The guy talked the same way that he walked—verrry slowwwwly. “The umm, limón is for you to rub on the sting, and the dulce is you know, for you to chew so you don’t eat your tongue. In case you have uhh, what do you call it? Allergic reaction.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Just eat these and rub the limón,” he repeated and I popped a couple of caramels in my mouth and applied lime wedges to my right shoulder with doubtful reluctance. I couldn’t believe this was the first aid kit for a scorpion bite: a citrus bath and a sweet treat, but I was rubbing and chewing like crazy and everybody watched me like I was performing one final demonstration of my keen motor skills.
Word of my situation got out quickly and soon my brother Joseph was there with a second employee—a female carrying a glass of milk. She offered it to me and told me that drinking it would coat my stomach and slow down the poison. I’m lactose intolerant but at that point I figured what the hell? Might as well have explosive diarrhea one last time before I croak. If it turns out that I’m also scorpion-intolerant, at least I’ll go out with a bang.
I gulped down the milk and a guy who looked like the Central American version of the Crocodile Hunter barged in looking for the scorpion. We pointed him in the direction of the offending party and he returned with the hideous arachnid pinched between a pair of rusty pliers. Fully extended in a moribund state, the stretched out prehistoric lobster now looked like a medieval dragon to me, and when everyone commented on its size, the scorpion hunter said, “The bigger the escorpión, the smaller the venom. This is nothing. Is like a bee sting.”
After the scorp wrangler took off, it was obvious that I was not surely going to die. There was no allergic reaction to the toxin, no inflammatory response, no respiratory issues, no big deal. The only side effect I suffered came courtesy of the milk, but even a case of mud butt was enough to scare our wedding guests from that point on into shaking out their clothes and shoes before putting them on. My best man was so paranoid he even shook out his flip flops. I had already been stung so I was immune to the terror. Sixty minutes after the incident, I was out on the golf course a happy golfer. And a mere six hours after that, I was a happily married man.
We said our “I do’s” on a bluff overlooking the Pacific and the reception took place on a secluded beach below. The Dorados we caught on our deep-sea fishing expedition a couple of days before provided most of the wedding menu: the chef made pan-seared Dorado with sautéed vegetables, grilled mahi-mahi tacos, and the best damn ceviche I’ve ever tasted. Something about catching it yourself enhances the flavor tenfold. You would think we also had Dorado wedding cake but we didn’t. We had flan, and all of this was served on long tables along a stretch of sand that doubled as our dining room, and later our dance floor. It was lit by bonfires, bamboo torches, and the burning batons of a fire dancing troupe that entertained us throughout dinner with vibrant tribal dances. After we ate, there was a colorful band of musicians that played marimba music while costumed dancers performed traditional folk dances. Once they were done, the DJ took over, and then it was our turn to trip the light fantastic. The music played and the party raged as we danced along the shore, under a canopy of stars that was further enhanced by an impressive firework display at the end of the night.
Throughout that entire magical evening, and for the remainder of our stay, I was referred to as the Scorpion King by our guests and even some of the staff members. At first, I was embarrassed by the title but then I embraced it with pride. After all, I had been stung multiple times by a large tropical arthropod and had lived to tell the tale, which I was happy to recount to anyone who would listen. Every time I told the story, I grew more and more regretful about not keeping the dead scorpion as a memento. I felt like I had missed an opportunity to properly memorialize the occasion by either preserving the carcass in a cool paper weight or having it bronzed into a kickass belt buckle.
When our trip was winding down, I did the next best thing: I found a tattoo artist named Arnulfo in a beach town called Santa Teresa. I told him my story and an hour later I had a beautiful tattoo on my back of a curled scorpion, poised to strike. He included the date and the location and when he completed the work, he told me, “Now you don’t forget your wedding day.”
“Right,” I agreed.
“And if things no work out with your wife, you tell your new chica ‘that’s the day I got stung by an alacrán in Costa Rica.’” He laughed like a braying donkey and I smiled politely. I reached for my shirt and out of nowhere, his big paw slapped my fresh ink with a hearty thwack. “Now you’re a tico!” he added. “Pura vida!”
I looked at him with tears forming in my eyes and a forced a grin that I’m certain failed to hide the excruciating pain emanating from my neck and shoulders. I don’t know what hurt more: the fresh wound on my back, the fresh slap on top of it, or the goddamn puka shell necklace that was still ripping the goddamn hairs out of my neck.
