The driver, who also turned out to be the rafting guide, was exactly on time the next morning, at the brutal-for-vacation hour of 7. Scooping up two other couples on the way, we raced northwest on the Pan-American Highway, then took secondary roads and, finally, a treacherous deep-in-the-jungle dirt road. Twenty minutes from the river we would be rafting, the driver slowed to pick up another man who seemed to appear out of nowhere. He was the driver who would move the van from the head of the river to its tail and pick us up a few hours later.

I know how to swim — not well, but I can — but I had never been whitewater rafting. In fact, I'm terrified of water, especially "Deliverance"-style rapids. Hoping to conquer my fear before I die, I signed up.

Arriving at the base of the Talamanca Mountain Range just miles from the Costa Rica border, we were greeted by guards who let us through the gate that would lead us to the churning Chiriquí Viejo — a river that would soon no longer exist as I was seeing it. Construction is underway to dam it for hydroelectric power to support development spurred by a Panamanian policy that encourages foreign settlement. For a $300,000 investment in Panamanian banks, business or real estate, Americans can gain citizenship – and a long list of benefits that include no taxes on foreign earned income, fewer business regulations and a high quality of living for less than in the U.S.

My rafting partners were American and Swiss. There was Alan, an Oklahoma State University electrical engineering professor who had grown up in Panama; his wife, Karen; Priska, a university researcher; and Thomas, a horticultural economist. All had rafted previously. I was the newbie.

I'd signed up for the introductory, sissy version of whitewater rafting: Class 2 rapids. But the previous night's rains had elevated the waters to a Class 3. I was nervous when I strapped on my life vest and helmet, and the circling birds didn't help. They weren't any of the country's exotic 940 identified species of bird. They were vultures.

I got in anyway, willing myself to stay in the boat as we plowed our way through the serpentine, foaming waters and observed the lizards, birds and monkeys our multitasking guide was spotting as he expertly steered our inflatable raft. Half of the paying customers had fallen into the river by the time we pulled over to a sandy inlet for a lunch of ham sandwiches. I wasn't one of them.

What's the saying? "No swimming within an hour of eating"? That's about how long it was when our dinghy, back on the water after lunch, nearly capsized and jettisoned me almost 50 feet downstream. Tiny, our guide, earned a good tip for fishing me out with a rope before my head made contact with a boulder. Although my unplanned, boat-free ride down the river was terrifying when it happened, once I was safely back onboard, I realized I had had a fantastic time.

Our journey ended at the Costa Rican border about four hours after we'd first pushed off from the muddy shore, cascading through rocky rapids, under trees filled with squirrel monkeys and rocks populated with preening birds, the names of which I'll never know. This is, of course, where Panama's own tourist journey begins, piggybacking on the hugely successful eco-tourism trade of its northern neighbor, which is built on the same sort of lush tropical paradise that Panama is now trying to leverage.

After a 90-minute van ride in wet jeans, I was actually looking forward to Valle Escondido, where I made a bee line for the sauna and a thorough de-pruning. I tried to ignore the Hummer in the country club parking lot when I walked outside and into town.

I was to meet my rafting buddies at 7 for dinner at the place at which I wished I'd been booked — the Panamonte, an old country-style inn housing a spa and Boquete's best restaurant.

It was only 4:30, but I was hoping to book a last-minute snorkel adventure through the local tourist agency. Christmas was just two days away, and, though I already had my hotel reservation booked at an island eco-resort, I was growing anxious about being alone with nothing to do. I wanted distractions. In this fast-growing tourist destination, I was fairly sure a Christmas booking was possible — for a price. And it was, for $90 and a minimum of three people. I planned to ask the Swiss.

Meanwhile, I invested in a backup plan at the local market: a secondhand Janet Evanovich novel (no doubt read by an earlier tourist) and a bottle of Chilean Syrah.

Even the lovely, locally caught trout dinner at the Panamonte wasn't enough to persuade the Swiss to be my substitute family for Christmas.

So midday on Christmas Eve, I made the two-hour journey from Valle Escondido to the coastal town of Boca Chica, where I hitched a ride on a speedboat that would take me to the tiny Cala Mia boutique hotel, off Panama's western Pacific coast. It looked as though it would be just the Syrah and Evanovich and me for Dec. 25.

It wasn't. I spent my day as a sort of international orphan, having breakfast with a Texas couple who were in Panama to shop for beachfront property; hiking the lush island and spotting howler monkeys with a couple from England and then having lunch; and dining on locally caught lobster with a family from Seattle for dinner. I did a fairly good job of distracting myself from the idea that mothers are meant to be with their 6-year-olds on Christmas.

On Cala Mia, it turned out, mothers can't call their 6-year-olds. The 11 cabanas don't have in-room telephones, and there was no cellphone service. Any other time, that would be a perfect antidote to the stress of a working L.A. mom.

The island resort, founded three years ago by a European couple, is run on solar power and supplied, at least in part, with locally grown produce and its own dairy operation. One of the 100, mostly deserted islands that make up the Archipelago de Chiriquí, the sun-dappled island and its warm ocean breeze were a wonderful distraction. I didn't go snorkeling, but I did manage to take a few strolls along the island's private beach and also polish off my Evanovich novel sitting on the private porch of my grass-thatched cabana as I sipped a concoction of rum and pineapple.

All of it was wonderful, though none of it was an adequate substitute for spending Christmas with my boy. I'm happy I went, and I'd do it again. But if I had to do it over, I'd make sure to bring a friend to enjoy the sunsets and surf with me.

susan.carpenter@latimes.com