Forested hills rise steeply from the shores of Golfo Dulce in southern Costa Rica. Cecropia leaves catch the light; a ginger flower burns red in the shadowed understory.
We glide past them, our boat rising and falling on the low Pacific swell. The captain suddenly slows the engine to a crawl, and the mechanical hum recedes. For a moment, all I hear is the soft rush of water against the hull. Then, a sharp exhalation — the brief burst of air as a bottlenose dolphin surfaces to breathe.
Three … seven … a dozen silhouettes break the surface, fins arcing through the morning light. Some swim so close to the boat I can see the faint gray brushstrokes along their flanks.
This is Golfo Dulce: the Sweet Gulf.




