I’d never met a crocodile charmer before; didn’t know there was such a thing until one sweltering day on the Tarcoles River. The winding ecosystem is home to about two thousand of the prehistoric beasts, as well as a smattering of untamed bird species, and we wanted to see it all. As our boat puttered down the shallow, murky river, a brown pelican coasted beside us, before a flap of its expansive wings and it was gone. Probably trying to escape the blistering sun; the skin on my arms was beginning to cook like pork crackling. ‘Has anyone ever fallen in?’ someone called out. Our guide Ricardo flashed a cheeky smile, exposing overlapping teeth. ‘Only half of my tours.’ Our driver Louis turned around in laid-back agreement—his tanned skin stretching across his cheeks. Warm wind blew off mud flats, bringing with it an earthy scent. From their viewing platform along the side of the riverbank, grey herons eyed us wearily; they’d seen it all before. Ricardo—master of bird species—called out each bird’s name as if pointing out his cousins at a family reunion. Costa Ricans are proud of their natural wonders; they are taught to respect it. One enthusiastic local told me, ‘Everything in nature is connected. As humans, we have no right to interfere with that.’ An American voice boomed out, ‘Where are the crocodiles?’ Ricardo shrugged, ‘It’s nature. We have no control over it.’ He wasn’t worried: Ricardo knew these waters; he knew the movements of the animals within. He knew the cold-blooded reptiles needed to sun themselves like solar panels in order to have the energy to hunt at night. Our vessel had been meandering along the twists and turns of the river for the last hour when we rounded a bend and entered a skinny, depthless waterway. Here the muddy banks were met with overhanging mangroves—the roots dangling down, straining to reach the low tide. A few metres along, Ricardo pulled out a grubby flannel, leaned over the side of the boat and whacked it against the water’s surface. A light spray flicked up, landing on my arm; I could almost hear my skin sizzle. ‘The largest crocodile on this river lives in these parts,’ he told us as he continued to slap at the water. We all gazed out—the glint of expectation heightening our senses. ‘How big is he?’ yelled a hopeful voice. ‘About 4 metres. We call him Tornado because he got in a fight with another crocodile a few years ago. Held the other crocodile’s tail in his mouth and spun him around like a washing machine. Ended up taking a chunk of tail with him.’ If gasps weren’t audible, they were definitely in our minds. Whack, whack, whack—eyes dart around, skimming the top of the water. ‘Over there!’ a man screamed and heads swivelled: a mound of leathery skin bobbed up near the shoreline. Without a word Louis kicked the motor into action. The boat knocked into the bank, and we all rushed to one side—Tornado’s head rested on the mud, wrapped in its thick mottled mask; his knotted bulk dissolving into the water. He opened an eye casually, as if to ask, ‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been waiting.’ Taking this as an invitation, Louis jumped out of the boat, brandishing a fish in one hand. His feet sank into the sticky mud; flecks of it splattered up to his knee. We watched in awe and fear. ‘What’s he doing!?’ ‘Is he crazy?’ ‘Oh my god.’ Louis walked slowly through the mud, towards the idle creature; our breaths caught in our throats. A foot away from Tornado’s staunch jaw—a scattering of ivory teeth dotted along—Louis bent down, so close he could’ve smelled the croc’s last meal. Ever so calmly, he slid his hand into the water, underneath the crocodile’s head, and gently lifted it up. Dense silence permeated. Tornado opened an eye again, and time stopped as they exchanged a moment of understanding. In the same way a master rewards his dog, Louis held out the fish and the reptile’s jaw clamped around it, before he vanished back underneath, satisfied and charmed.