“So I was sitting in a penthouse in Acapulco smoking crack with Jimmy, this rich kid American and heir to a Texan oilman. Beautiful women and men with machine guns surrounded us. It was totally intense. ”

I looked over at my buddy, Marshall, and we jointly shook our heads at the absurdity of this story, being told by the most quintessential long-haired, surfer/backpacker Australian bloke I’ve ever run across. He was shirtless and non-chalantly telling this story while quick-chopping vegetables, waving his chef knife in the air to accentuate his points in an aussie slow-drawl.

We were in a cramped and muggy hostel kitchen in Tamarindo, Costa Rica with a handful of fellow surfer / backpackers. We looked at the two other girls who were boiling pasta in the same room and collectively agreed through eye contact that this guy was an idiot. It was time to move on.

Last week, I quit DC and moved up to Boston, settling in a mad rush and jumping on a flight south to Costa Rica and Nicaragua for a two week surfing excursion / end of summer wind down before I start school in September. Marshall and I planned nothing of this trip except our plane tickets so it kept things flexible, if not maddening.

We landed in the west coast city of Liberia and taxied to the surfing town of Tamarindo, which was an easy choice for its beginner waves and touristy night-life, but probably not the best one. With tourism its major industry, it is over-priced and far from authentic, but we have more opportunities to absorb and explore the inner workings of these two countries as the trip progresses.

We spent the first three days learning to surf in the mornings and siesta’ing in the afternoons, generally enjoying life away from reality. Two of the nights were spent in this $14 hostel, meeting the likes of the cracked out Australian and inked up surfers and although interesting conversations were had, lack of aircon, bedbugs, and a lone communal cold water shower and toilet cemented our decision to spend an extra $15 a night to upgrade accommodations for the rest of the trip.

We walk into the room the first night, saw no sheets, stained single bed mattresses, and Marshall’s statement said it all. “Wow, this is a far cry from the Ritz where I stayed in Florida last week for my company-wide meeting.”

“Dude, we can move if you want.” I say.

“Nah,” he said, “let’s give it a shot.”

“Good, let’s go out and get some beers.”

Next morning, we slowly roll out of bed, gnaw on a couple of bananas and chug Gatorade to rehydrate and potassium up our Imperial hangovers from the casino and club. “How much did I lose?”, I ask. “My hands are cut up. Are yours?” “Yeah”, he says. “What happened?”

Marshall grabs his camera (the truest of indicators) and notices pictures taken in a progression down the dark street towards the hostel. “The city lost power last night.”, he says. “We couldn’t find our way home in the dark and had to use the flash to navigate and get inside the hostel gates. Wow.” Our clothes are sprawled on the ground and covered in mud. We conclude it rains a lot in Costa Rica and the streets are slick dark. But the only thing that’s important right now is that we have a 9am surf lesson. It’s 8:55. Andale.

30 minutes later I’m sitting in the water on my board, absorbing the rhythm of the waves as they pass under me and for the first time I feel that ease, that stereotypical connection they say surfers feel with nature, despite sharing it with a thousand other fresh gringos in the busy waters.

My teacher doesn’t stop yelling at me to paddle, paddle, paddle, in his thick Costa Rican accent (which still resonates through my head three days later), and each time he says it I get angrier because I feel like I’m paddling my head off and not going anywhere. My arms are already tired, my chest is rash sore, and I’ve swallowed a gallon of salt water. Despite this, I feel lucky because I stand up and ride my first wave. It feels great. I give Marshall the howie sign, yelling at him that he owes me a cold beer for doing it on my first time, then crash and burn in the foamy aftermath at my lack of concentration.

We did this each morning for three days, each afternoon saying it was our last and then enthusiastically saying the next day, “let’s do this again”. There’s definitely something compelling about surfing.

Marshall’s trip so far has been a little bit rougher. We rented scooter motorbikes yesterday and his camera fell out of his pocket during a ride along the pedestrian filled, pot-holed streets and was never found. Today while surfing, an overeager speedster punk ran into him, causing Marshall’s board fin to break off, slice and wedge into the guys board, causing cash damage to both and ending his day.

We’ve decided Tamarindo has bad karma. So we hopped a bus to Monteverde, a mountainous town in north central Costa Rica known for its rain forest canopy tours, caves and waterfalls. After a couple of days in this area, we venture with fingers crossed into Nicaragua, unchartered Nicaragua, known for it’s beauty, gringo convictions, and US backed government coups. Pura Vida.