Thrill Ride In The
Rainforest Of Costa Rica Has A Painful End
By BOB FALLSTROM -
H&R Community News Editor
On a rainy November morning in the Costa
Rica rainforest in Central America, I
pretended to be Tarzan - and suffered the
consequences.
I paid for this foolishness with nine
fractured ribs and a punctured lung, four
weeks in hospitals plus a lengthy recovery
process. During recuperation in Decatur, Dr.
Gregory Totel discovered I had a fractured
iliac wing near my right hip, hampering my
ability to walk.
I was going on 83 years old at the time of
this catastrophe. The fascinated doctors and
nurses I encountered considered me either
crazy or a daredevil. "Hey, that guy in 3180
is a curious case," the nurses agreed.
A tough guy? No, I'm a lucky survivor.
Here's how it came about:
I was a member of Linda Roberts' Best Trips
Ever group on a Panama Canal cruise on the
Holland America Line's Zuiderdam ship. Costa
Rica was the last stop before two days of
sailing to Fort Lauderdale, Fla., the exit
point.
The ship docked at Limon on the east coast
of Costa Rica. An optional adventure, priced
at $139, was a zip-line ride. It consists of
a pulley suspended on a cable mounted on an
incline. A person, propelled by gravity,
zips Tarzan-like from top to bottom in a
series of platforms. It is considered safe;
it is considered great fun. It is becoming
widely accepted as a thrill ride.
I was outfitted in a helmet and a series of
safety locks. To tell the truth, I was
terrified as I climbed a rickety ladder to
the take-off spot. Then I was in the air,
too scared to worry. I made the first
platform in fine shape and took off toward
the next platform. No problem - until I was
near the platform. Nobody was there to grab
me.
What to do? I drifted backwards. I thought:
I hope the cable holds and somebody will
reel me in.
And then, simultaneously, there was a loud
electrical POP! and intense pain.
My reaction: Somebody shot me in the back!
A 26-year-old man from Indiana had smashed
into me. He had been sent mistakenly. He had
nowhere to go. "Hold on," he commanded,
"they'll get us."
I don't remember the rescue effort. Somehow,
I was lying on the platform, unable to get
up. Luckily, there was a car, I was dragged
into it. Then we crawled down the steep,
muddy trail to reach the ship.
It was a short journey from there to the
Limon Hospital, which seemed to be Third
World. I was plopped in the emergency room
with a screaming woman having a baby.
Comatose people were all around me. After
X-rays, a doctor pushed a tube into my
chest, pounding, pounding, pounding with his
full force as I gasped. The pain
intensified.
It was decided to airlift me to a private
hospital in San Jose, the capital city. It
was still raining. No flights. I was
transported to San Jose in an auto, a
three-hour ride on bump, bump, bumpy roads.
Julie Fallstrom, my daughter-in-law, came
from Florida to take charge. It took a week
to clear the red tape for an airlift to the
United States. Meanwhile, I was immobilized
in bed by speak-no-English doctors and
speak-no-English cute, young nurses.
Now there was another scary ride. An
ambulance, siren blaring, transported me to
the airport and a Lear jet ride to Leesburg,
Fla. It was rush hour. The ambulance roared
down the center of the two-lane road. I
watched fearfully through the back window.
Cars scrambled from all directions trying to
overtake the ambulance or get out of the
way. It was exactly like those wild chase
scenes you see on TV.
We made it!
A one-week stay in the Leesburg Regional
Medical Center followed. Then it was two
weeks in the Ohme Rehab Center in Leesburg
before I was allowed to come back to Decatur
and continue rehab at Decatur Memorial
Hospital.
Tarzan has been grounded. Thankfully, it was
not permanent.
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