The Hitchhiker in Panama (Love and Wanderlust Book 1) Read online

  The Hitchhiker In Panama

  A Love and Wanderlust Novel

  Liz Alden

  THE HITCHHIKER IN PANAMA

  Copyright ©2021 Liz Alden

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-954705-01-2

  Published byLiz Alden

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

  First Edition

  Cover Design by E Stokes Creative

  Developmental Editor: Tiffany Tyer

  Copy Editor: Kaitlin Severini

  Proofreader: David G Brown, Darling Axe Editing

  To my husband.

  There is no one else I could have circumnavigated the globe with. Twenty-five days at sea? We make it look easy.

  To everyone who said I should write a book: this is not what you had in mind. Thank you for encouraging me anyway.

  Have you read the prequel short story,

  The Night in Lover’s Bay?

  See how Marcella met the crew of Eik and started on her adventure. It’s available to subscribers of my newsletter for free. Sign up and get your copy.

  The Love and Wanderlust Series

  The Night in Lover’s Bay (prequel short story)

  The Hitchhiker in Panama

  The Sailor in Polynesia

  The Chef in the Mediterranean (Fall 2021)

  About The Hitchhiker in Panama

  A backpacker with big plans. A flirty and insatiable sailor. Will a change in the tide bring a shift of fate?

  This is my chance! Finally, I can shake off the hold of my overprotective mother, not to mention career obligations, and have a real adventure.

  Backpacking through the Panama Canal.

  Embracing my wanderlust.

  It sounds like sheer bliss.

  Then . . . I meet Eivind—a sexy, charismatic sailor who invites me aboard his vessel with the promise of breathtaking scenery and tantalizing nights as we sail to far-off ports.

  Twenty-five days at sea. The prospect is equal parts terrifying and thrilling. Can I convince myself to let go and sail headlong into limitless possibilities? Or will I embark on a journey to heartbreak?

  The Hitchhiker in Panama features an Australian backpacker, a Norwegian sailor, and the forced proximity of a sailboat. Full of adventure and slow-burn steam, this standalone will take you to exotic tropical destinations with plenty of flirty attraction between these two travelers.

  The Love and Wanderlust series is contemporary romance for everyone who wants their wanderlust to continue into the happily-ever-after.

  The Love and Wanderlust Series by Liz Alden:

  The Night in Lover’s Bay (prequel short story)

  The Hitchhiker in Panama

  The Sailor in Polynesia

  The Chef in the Mediterranean (Fall 2021)

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Also by Liz Alden

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One

  My cabdriver was trying to abandon me in the jungles of Panama.

  Or at least that was what I thought when I woke up.

  “Señorita, estamos aquí.”

  I lifted my head and blinked lazily out the rear passenger-side window. When the view didn’t make sense, I blinked harder and rubbed my eyes, trying to forestall panic.

  There was nothing but jungle. I’d been traveling for nearly forty hours: three flights beginning in my native Sydney, a nap in a hostel, a train, and now my taxi was trying to dump me in the middle of the Panamanian jungle.

  “Oh no,” I murmured.

  “Señorita.” My driver pointed out the other side of the car.

  There was my hotel, a small concrete building with a sign that read “Hotel & Marina.” I grinned sheepishly at him through the rearview mirror and mumbled “Gracias” as I opened the door and climbed out. He waited while I grabbed both of my backpacks from the trunk, and as soon as I shut the door, he was bumping down the gravel road again.

  I stared up at the building, my stomach a jumble of emotions. Planning this trip had seemed so easy: with a click or a scroll of my mouse, I could be in Buenos Aires, Svalbard, or Thailand. Now, with the actual adventure staring me in the face, I was terrified.

  Hola. Me llamo Lila Ryan. Tengo reserva de hotel.

  Tengo reserva de hotel.

  I took a deep breath and pushed the door open. A middle-aged woman sat at the front desk and smiled as I approached and dropped my backpacks down at my feet.

  “Hola,” I warbled. “Me llamo Lila Ryan. Tengo . . . tengo res . . .” I blew out a breath of frustration and my cheeks heated.

  “Hola, Lila. My name is Paula.” Her English was perfect, with a beautiful accent. My tension faded away and I grinned.

  “Hi. Sorry.” I put my hands to my burning cheeks. “My cabdriver didn’t speak any English, and my Spanish is obviously terrible.”

  “That is okay. The yachties are mostly English-speakers, so I get a lot of practice.”

  While Paula checked me in, we chatted about the marina amenities and my upcoming adventure. The knowledge that I was in the right place and had a bed to sleep in tonight took the pressure off, and with the adrenaline of travel winding down, I was getting sleepy.

  “Here.” Paula handed me my room key. “I have upgraded you to marina view instead of jungle view. For inspiration.”

  She directed me to the stairs and I climbed, half-heartedly dragging my stuff behind me. I opened the door to my small room and dumped my backpacks on the bed.

  The room was expensive, more than I’d budgeted for, but here in the marina there was only one option, and I had to be in the marina.

  I poked around the room until I got to the window. Finally I saw what I’d come here for. Below my second-story window, the marina docks extended out into the water and the masts of hundreds of sailboats rose like trees in a forest. The stress of travel, the worries over missed flights and overslept alar
ms, the words of my mother telling me that taking three months to travel alone on a budget would never work . . . it all washed away.

  One of these boats would take me on the first leg of my adventure: through the Panama Canal.

  It was five in the morning and still black outside, but thanks to too much napping, my body was replenished and ready for the day to begin. I dressed, ate a muesli bar, and slipped out of my room, mindful of possible neighbors, and exited the hotel through the back.

  I inhaled deeply, breathing in the scents of Panama: the humidity, the salt air, and a refreshing vegetation smell. The marina and hotel were far enough away from the dirty, smoggy city of Colón to avoid the stench, and I could breathe deeply out here.

  Paula had assured me the area here was safe and that there were twenty-four-hour security guards, even though the marina was remote. I turned left and walked along the water’s edge on the dock, enjoying the morning stillness. After half an hour of wandering the shore, the darkness began to change. Twilight drew a silhouette on my left, the jungle still steeped in shadows, but the sky was lightening above it.

  I avoided walking in the trees, and instead I found an area where sailboats of every shape and size were stored on dry land. It was surreal to see the undersides of the boats, like viewing an iceberg beneath the waterline. The air was deathly still and quiet, as if I’d wandered into a graveyard of steel and fiberglass.

  Eventually I made my way back to the docks. The sun glinted over the tops of the masts and all around me people were beginning their day, climbing down from their boats or opening hatches, doing all sorts of boat-life things.

  Most of the sailors were older than I was—spry pensioners who gave me a parade of smiles and polite hellos as I walked up and down the docks. I meandered, wondering about each boat and its story.

  There were small sailboats with cluttered decks and shiny wood, and luxurious catamarans that made me think of the pictures my best friend Dani had taken on her trip to Greece when we were sixteen—a trip my mother had forbidden me to go on.

  Someone caught my eye up ahead, a young man walking down the dock, coming all the way from the end. I tried to focus on the sailboats, but I kept glancing at him, and the closer he got, the more I liked what I saw. He was broad and fair-skinned, dressed casually in a T-shirt and shorts that showed more thigh than not—very European fashion.

  When he was just a few boats away, our eyes met. His lips grew into a sly grin, and my heart skipped a beat. I looked away, but just before we passed, my eyes caught his again.

  “God morgen.” His voice was low, accented, and even though I knew it was a simple greeting, I blushed and forced myself not to glance back. Definitely European.

  Ah, what a wonderful distraction to my morning.

  I kept walking, hoping to see the guy again on my way back to the shore, but he didn’t return. On the next pier, I was startled by a noise up ahead of me. It began deep and guttural, resonating through the jungle and crescendoing to a roar. The kind of sound that made humans know they were prey.

  I froze, listening intently, though no one else seemed to be concerned.

  “Howler monkeys,” came a voice to my right. A balding man with glasses and a goatee was sitting in his boat with a tablet and a mug of coffee.

  “Seriously?” I was stunned. “They sound like dinosaurs.” The howls continued, the monkeys answering one another from tree to tree. “Should I be worried?”

  He grinned at me. “Nah, they don’t come out of the jungle—you’re just fine. But if you’d like a cup of coffee . . . ?” He gestured with his mug.

  I bit my lip, torn between the prospect of sheltering from a hypothetical monkey attack and the safety factor of climbing into a boat with a random man. Just as I was about to make an excuse, a woman’s head poked up from inside the boat.

  “Hello there, dear.” She gingerly held a pot of steaming coffee while she climbed out of the boat. “Peter’s offering some caffeine, eh?” She winked at me while refilling her partner’s mug.

  “Yes, I’d love some.”

  The woman gestured me over and showed me how to climb onto the boat. Her white pixie-cut hair, weathered skin, and heavy laugh lines around her eyes pointed to a happy life out of doors. She smiled so much, she had tan lines in her laugh lines.

  “Welcome to Silver Lining. This is Peter, I’m Edith, and here’s your mug.”

  “Thanks. I’m Lila.”

  “Lila,” Edith repeated, settling down onto a cushioned bench. “Lila with an accent. Are you an Aussie?”

  “I am, good ear. Are you . . . ?” I hedged, unsure whether they were Canadian or American.

  “Canadians,” Edith confirmed. “But this boat’s been our home for, oh, eight years now?”

  Peter, who had returned his attention to his tablet, nodded.

  “Where’s your boat?” Edith asked.

  “I don’t have one, actually. I read online about how boats going through the canal sometimes need extra crew members, and that if I came here, I might find a ride.”

  “Oof, I hope you aren’t in a rush. The season hasn’t quite picked up around here yet. It’s still early. How much time do you have?”

  “I’m pretty flexible,” I said. “After the canal I’ll be making my way south, backpacking for a while.”

  “How fun. Back in my day, we didn’t do that, what do you call it? A gap year?”

  “A gap year,” Peter agreed.

  “You know,” Edith said, “parents’ house, college, marriage.”

  I smiled into my mug. “Did you always know you were going to go on a sailing adventure together?”

  “Not at all. My kids were appalled when I told them I was taking off with my new husband”—she gestured to Peter— “to go sailing. But when the kids are grown, what’s to stop us? It’ll be grandkids soon, and then our health will deteriorate. Best to go now.”

  Peter interrupted us. “How long have you been backpacking?”

  “This is my first stop, so I’m just getting started.”

  “How exciting. How did you choose here?”

  “I had just graduated uni, and I was excited for life to start—you know, a good career, marriage, kids—but also . . . I’ve never been anywhere. And it’s been pointed out that my viewpoint may be a little”—I chewed on my lip while trying to think of a nicer term— “narrow-minded.”

  “Your parents?” Edith guessed.

  “Yeah, nah. My parents aren’t big travelers either. They’ve never done anything like this, which is part of the appeal. I wanted to get away, but I only had a few months to work and earn some money. I have a limited budget, so I chose Latin America.”

  As we sipped our coffees, I asked Peter and Edith a million questions about their boat and their travels. They told me stories beyond my wildest dreams, of native tribes in the islands and mega-yacht neighbors, until we were interrupted by a crackling sound downstairs.

  Edith jumped up. “Time for the net. Why don’t we listen in and then you can join us for breakfast, Lila?”

  I had read about the VHF net on a blog post while I was planning my trip. Every morning boaters swapped check-ins, reports, and announcements over the radio, including social activities, field trips, and buy-sell-trade offers. It was similar to listening to the morning news on your local radio station but interactive. I was depending on it to be my key to finding a boat that needed a crew member.

  “Oh, I was going to listen in at the office. Paula said I could announce that I was available to crew.”

  “Just do it here. No need to fuss.” Edith waved her hand and led me downstairs. The interior of Silver Lining was small and dark; I had to let my eyes adjust to get my bearings. The only light filtered in from the doorway I’d just come down, but Edith quickly moved to open the curtains above our heads.

  I pivoted around and took their boat in, the small kitchen on the left, a dining booth to my right, all the things that made it a home: a swinging basket of oranges, apples, and
cucumbers; a laptop in a thick case as if prepared to survive a nuclear war; a wall hanging, a maze of black-and-red fabric with visible stitches around the edges forming the shape of an animal with a tail—maybe a monkey?

  Edith pointed out a radio with a variety of dials and showed me how to press the button to talk. We then listened to the net together, with Edith taking notes: dominoes today at four, a bus to the shopping mall on Tuesdays, swap meet Friday.

  Finally the controller got to my part. “Next up, is there anyone listening who is in need of additional crew members to go through the canal, or anyone wanting to join a boat?”

  I pressed the button, my fingers shaking. “Lila.”

  “Go ahead, Lila.”

  “Hello. My name is Lila. I arrived yesterday and I am staying at the hotel. I am looking to crew through the Panama Canal as soon as possible.”

  “Excellent, thank you, Lila,” they responded. “Anyone else?” There were a few moments of silence. I crossed my fingers and closed my eyes, hoping that someone would chime in about needing crew and I would be lucky enough to get a lead on my first day. “Nothing heard. Lila, there are boats coming and going every day, and it’s just starting to get busy here. Good luck, and we’ll check in with you tomorrow. Moving on . . .”