Great snorkeling near our anchorage in Agua Verde.

I hate to sound like a foodie, but the thought of fresh goat cheese made the 13-mile, two-hour motor to Agua Verde seem like a good idea. No, make that a great idea, especially since there was no wind and we had to motor anyway. We don’t usually carry cheese on board: our refrigerator is small; we don’t eat a lot of cow cheese anymore for health reasons; goat cheese is expensive and goes bad quickly without refrigeration . . . After reading about the goats, a great many quesadillas, lasagna, mushroom omelets, and other cheesy treats were on our mind. We were happy to arrive in the tiny oasis village of Agua Verde.

A street in Agua Verde

But first, we had to anchor. And the preferred anchorage was full. Hmph. So we made our way across the bay to a secondary anchorage which was guarded from northerly swells only by a forty-foot tall guano-capped rock pinnacle surrounded by rocky shelves and seawater. There was room for two boats, and we were the second to arrive. The first was a forest green junk whose owners we had met back in Isla San Francisco, and we were happy to see them again.
It wasn’t long before the two men had conjured up a campfire rendezvous for later in the evening, so Wade spent the afternoon helping to gather firewood. After watching a herd of goats wander up and over the cliff, we both rowed ashore with our fresh triggerfish ceviche and rum to share. A few pina coladas, hotdogs and tostadas later, we made it back to the boat without falling overboard, and slept in until late the next morning.

You never know who will show up at a beach campfire.

The following day we hiked the length of the beach and slipped along the cliff base at low tide, ending up on the northern strand, an isthmus between the mainland and a prominent cliffhead. As we meandered along the shore, a great brown beast lunged from the brush at Carla, then rolled on its back and whined an apology. Thus we were introduced to a young mutt, a year-old pup with eager eyes, a wagging tail, a nice new collar, and prominent ribs. This sweet creature accompanied us on our walk for the rest of the day.

Led by the pooch, we scrambled the cliff and ascended the rocky promontory overlooking the bay. After a couple of phone calls, taking advantage of our altitude to capture a cell tower, we clattered back down and, instead of returning along the beach, we took a dirt road that went inland and we hoped would lead back to the small village.

Every now and then we stopped to talk, or take a drink, or check our heading, and the dog would scoot over and sit in the wafer of shade cast by our bodies on the scorched dirt. She gladly drank from Carla’s hand when offered water, and we are pretty sure she survives at least partly on lizards, for we saw her hunt and jump for them several times, pouncing like a coyote. As we climbed over the high point on the road, passing the concrete-encased spring which waters the town, our bold canine leader behaved more and more like a youngster. By the time we were walking the dusty streets looking for one of the small home markets where fresh food and staples are sold, she was glued to Wade’s side, rolling over submissively whenever one of the older town dogs approached, legs stiff, ears forward, heads cocked.

We went to a couple of houses before finding one that had fresh produce and tortillas, but no goat cheese. We were told first to go to Miguelito’s, or was it Juan’s? As we left the second store with our tomatoes and avocados and tortillas, a man walked up and greeted us warmly. After a round of hellos, he exchanged a rapid-fire set of sentences with those who were gathered around the door. Then, he turned to us.

“You want goat cheese? Yes we have it! Here it is, I show you.” And he pulled out a five pound hunk of beautiful crumbly quesa fresca, unwrapped it with a flourish, and motioned us back inside the store. From what we could gather, the others were under the impression that the cheese was being held for somebody in particular. Being nobody at all, we only bought one-half kilo, hoping not to inconvenience anyone while buying too much of their cheese. Agua Verde is 25 miles by a rough dirt road to Highway 1, and another 30 miles more after that to a real market.

We walked back through the small village, admiring the bougainvillea and palms and other flowering plants that shielded the small houses from the sun, and found our way at last to the goat dairy, where cabras of all ages were resting among palm trees. The dog needed not the stiff-legged, ears-forward approach of the mothers to know she had to slink around the compound rather than go through it with us.

When we returned to the dingy, the sliver of cobble shore was in cliff-shade. We ate our small lunch and gave our guide the rest of Carla’s water. When we pushed off, the pup started to follow, but obediently returned to the beach after a few shouts in espanol. As we rowed away she stood on the pebbles, front paws in the water, head tilted to one side, her bony ribs outlined by shadows. Just as we started to feel guilty, a few kids scrambled and frolicked their way over the first dune, and the dog gave us one last look over her shoulder before bounding up the beach to meet her newest best friends.

The goat cheese was salty and mild. We cut open one of our fresh avocadoes and spread crackers with the cheese and the creamy green paste, and it was good. The cheese was even better in the homemade lasagna and focaccia that we cooked up later that night. As the earth spun around and covered the sun with its horizon, a herd of thirty or so goats made their way up the cliff facing us, following a belled leader who stopped at a narrow spot until the herd scattered and went around it. The leader brought up the rear, as it did all three nights we were there.

Instead of wondering where they came from and what life was like here in this remote oasis, we talked about all that we had seen: the goat farm and the tidy bright houses, the gravity-fed water and the plant-lined dirt streets, the helpful people and our canine friend, hoping aloud that she made it home safely, for she was beloved, we were sure of it. We held hands as the stars brightened. Aboard our small vessel we had everything we could ever want.

Goat cheese lasagna and focaccia. Happy sailors!