Rusty still has the sailing bug. Erica still has the practical “and I have receipts” response. So naturally, they end up in Bocas del Toro, Panama—renting an open-air over-the-water house from Ruperto, an 80-year-old Italian artist who greets them in a weathered leather top hat like he’s the final boss of island charisma.

This place has no interest in your comfort lies: no glass, no screens, kitchen basically a “carport with a cutting board,” and a bathroom where modesty briefly visited… then moved out. And the whole house is drenched in Ruperto’s bold abstract paintings, like you’re sleeping inside someone’s imagination that has opinions.

Then Rusty spots it: a pagoda rising out of the middle of the sound—hand-built, stick by stick, accessed by Ruperto paddling a little John boat like this is just a normal Tuesday. (Meanwhile, Erica and Rusty consider opening a jar an athletic event.)

And because Ruperto is a storyteller, the night takes a turn into Atlantic crossings, a violently seasick hippie, a conveniently memorable topless detail, a squall that steals the mast, and—most devastating of all—Ruperto delivering the line that permanently upgrades Erica’s “hard no” on liveaboard life: “A sailboat is… an object of despair.”

Come for the tropical legend. Stay for the dream getting lovingly executed in one sentence.