Costa Rica: Volume Four

If you've been reading the blog, you'll have seen most of the images I care to share from our trip to Costa Rica earlier this month. Food, friends, an English pub in the jungle, off-road exploring in our rental truck, early a.m. surf sessions and an assortment of animals. I feel as though I've done my best to describe our experience, albeit brief, however I hope I haven't made it seem any better or worse than it was. The surf did not suck, the food was fantastic, the beer was bad, the price of things was pretty high (relatively speaking), the weather was wonderful (although I do recommend renting a room with an air conditioning unit), the wildlife was both interesting and entertaining, and the crowds, while they could be quite kookie at times, were more than manageable. So that's that, and what follows are the final photos from our fifteen day surfari to Costa Rica's Guanacaste Peninsula. Enjoy.

Costa Rica: Volume Three

Prior to Costa Rica, I'd never stayed at a "surf hotel." To be honest, I'm not really sure what makes something a surf hotel?! The availability of shitty rental surfboards and overpriced instruction? Or perhaps it's the ease of access and relatively consistent surf that makes a hotel within walking distance, a "surf hotel." Whatever the case, this would be my first and probably only experience in one of these establishments. Now, I'm not suggesting the hotel - which was more like a collection of two-story beach bungalows surrounded on all sides by tall palm trees and narrow walkways - was a bad place to stay. Quite the contrary. It was excellent. They kept our room clean, provided fresh towels when we wanted them, disposed of our poop covered toilet paper and even collected all of the empty beer cans and water bottles we accumulated each day. But what this establishment lacked, in my opinion, was authenticity. Catering to a crowd of kooks, there was little in the way of Costa Rican culture - replaced instead by overpriced alcoholic beverages, internet access and live music most nights. Sigh.

Costa Rica: Volume Two

I could feel the wind on my back that morning. It was 5:15am and we had already eaten; toast with peanut butter, english muffins and Oreos. Coffee of course. We were walking the quarter-mile from our bungalow to the beach, logs tucked beneath our arms and sunscreen smeared all over the place. The sun hadn't even cracked the horizon when we paddled out to a peak about 100 feet in front of us. The wind, which would blow offshore all morning, was starting to pick up. The first few disappeared into some dark corner toward the back of my brain. The good and bad blending together as we took advantage of our early arrival. Karissa stayed ashore to snap a few photos, while Chris, Rena and I shared shoulder high sets until the sun showed itself and a crowd of hungover hooligans stumbled from shore to sea.

Surfing my BN Lightweight was rather difficult in these kind of conditions; the concave nose and lack of weight made catching waves more arduous than you might imagine. I made do, though, and soon found myself dropping in a lot later than I would have otherwise, making long, slow bottom turns and trying not to trim too high, as the wind would blow me out the back. Chris dove in deep aboard his nine-foot Dave Johnson, laying flat toward the front so as to gain additional entry speed. It worked well. And as the morning progressed, we became increasingly comfortable fighting the wind in our face.

Costa Rica: Volume One

"I've sorta fallen in like with this place," Chris said as we sat, staring at the ocean from the luxury of our air conditioned rental car, ten days into a fifteen day surf excursion to Costa Rica. This would be the only day we didn't surf (ed. note: not true), having spent the night prior at the Black Sheep pub; an English establishment that acts like a time machine in the midst of the jungle. Our early a.m. routine had been interrupted by many beers and more than one gin and tonic. This trip was different than our other adventures, though, as we were staying in a rather nice "surf hotel" some 100 meters from a beach break groomed by offshore winds from sun up till sometime around ten. Crowded after eight, we had decided to surf from first light till our arms expired, and then head back to the house for breakfast. A routine that was working, until today. With only a few hours remaining before our rental was due for return, Chris, Rena, Karissa and I explored the surrounding area, searching for surf, drinking beer at tiny bars and filling the back of our Toyota Fortuner with food and water for the rest of the week.