A Veces Tengo Miedo del Mar

Trip Start Aug 08, 2008

Trip End Oct 12, 2008

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Where I stayed

Kaya's Place Puerto Viejo

(Puerto Viejo hotels)

Flag of Costa Rica Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica
Saturday, September 13, 2008

Some of the girls decided to get up to watch the sun rise today (not me; I only woke up because they were banging around so much; then I quickly went back to sleep) but it was raining at that hour. By the time I got up it was merely overcast, and by the time Lydia got off the phone with Aventuras Bravas, it was partly sunny.

Our surfing coach was a nineteen-year-old local named Gerald. After we walked to their "offices" on the main road of town and paid for our lessons, they loaded us and the boards into the bed of the truck and drove to the beach. Gerald gave us a quick demonstration of how to stand up on the board, then led us out into the water. That was it; no release forms, no safety lectures, no further discussion of technique besides paddle, push up, stand. No wetsuits or rash guards, either, which meant a painful rest of the weekend for Lydia's belly.

Who needs seatbelts?

I felt unexpectedly anxious gazing through the haze at the clear blue surf. I've taken a few surfing lessons before, and I've been bodysurfing for years. But the ocean has always terrified me. When I was a kid, my parents would take me to Main Beach in Laguna, where stiff breezes and a steep incline combine to create some of the fastest-breaking waves in the tri-county area. They're usually a few feet high and often break right onto the shore; no surfing is ever allowed. Initially I had no fear of them, but I clearly remember the day one of them nearly swallowed me; one minute my feet were dry, the next I was completely submerged.

My fear was reinforced by a safety video I watched at the Sea Camp where I learned to snorkel. There was a clip of a young ex-surfer who had dived into a wave and broken his neck on a sandbar; he was now a quadriplegic who painted pictures with a paintbrush between his teeth. It was meant as a specific warning against diving into the surf, but I took it as an illustration of what can happen to anyone who turns his back on the waves, neglects to shuffle his feet in stingray territory, or otherwise forgets that this is Poseidon's world; we're just playing in it.

It is with equal clarity, however, that I remember the first time I braved the gentle swells at Corona Del Mar and swam all the way out past the breakers by myself

The island from which they dive. Scary!

. The fear that had shot through my nerves and crackled in my toes and fingertips turned to raw energy, and then to elation. I might always be at a disadvantage against the water, but I was at least a worthy foe. I got it into my head then that I wanted to stand up on the waves, like those fearless, sun-bronzed teenage boys at Newport. When I developed a crush on one such boy, I finally went for it. But I didn't make much progress with my surfing coach, whose teaching technique consisted of periodically observing that I was falling a lot, and that women usually had more trouble with the pop-up than men, because we were "hippy." Deflated, I gave up until six years later, when I was living in Boston and took my boyfriend to my hometown for a visit. At his behest, we took a lesson together, and I finally got up on the board a few times. It was the most incredible feeling. I was hooked again.

Unfortunately, I still live in Boston, so surfing opportunities are scarce. I didn't want to miss out on this one.

Gerald seemed pretty taken with Lydia; he spent most of his time with her. I managed to catch one small wave standing up, and a bigger one on which I only got up to my knees. But before long I began feeling inexplicably breathless. Gerald brought us back in to shore and walked us down to a place where the waves would be "better;" I assumed he meant "smaller," since we were all wiping out before we could pop up on at least nine out of ten attempts

The surfers

. But when we got down the beach, the waves were quite a bit bigger. I still hadn't caught my breath.

That was how it always started, when I was a kid with asthma. I'd be running down the soccer field or around the track, and I'd be suddenly a little more tired and out of breath than I thought I should be. I usually ignored it, figuring I was just out of shape and needed to push myself harder. That was when I'd get the tightness in my chest, the wax paper feeling in my throat, like I was breathing through a kazoo. From there it was a steep roll downhill unless I had my inhaler, and I haven't had a current prescription for one of those in almost ten years. So, standing thigh-deep in the surf, as Gerald beckoned us into the nearly three-foot curl, I made a difficult decision. I sat out the rest of the lesson.

For a while, I just sat on my board and watched Sarah and Lydia paddle, push, and tumble in the surf. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sand-colored crab not two inches wide, legs included, scuttle out of a thumb-width hole in the sand. He froze when he saw me, and I did the same, both of us probably pondering the same question, "Is that thing dangerous?" He apparently decided not to take the chance, and disappeared back into his hole. Other crabs began to emerge from other holes, each eyeing me with palpable wariness, tensed and ready to beat a hasty retreat if I so much as twitched

Catching the wave

. A larger crab picked a fight with a smaller one, who quickly ceded his hole. The tide came in and filled the openings, and the crabs dug themselves out again and again.

It's difficult to observe animals objectively. We tend to anthropomorphize those for which we develop a particular fondness, ascribing emotions and motives far more complex than they are capable of having. Conversely, when we regard an animal as food we tend to dismiss as instinct and reflex those actions that might in fact indicate a level of intelligence and capacity for suffering above those beings we have already deemed worthy of protection, such as infants or the mentally retarded.

When I chose to give up factory-farmed animal products, I did so because I believed no halfway sentient being should endure those conditions, not because I believed raising and slaughtering animals was inherently wrong. But the more I repeat my position, the more it begins to sound like something a nineteenth-century Southern plantation owner would say in regard to his slaves. "They're happy here," he might insist. "They wouldn't survive on their own, and I take good care of them. It's the natural way of things." Of course, I wouldn't demean the cause of the abolitionists by suggesting that it was merely equal to the animal rights crusade

Sarah gets up

. I do believe that humans have a higher consciousness than other animals, and that consciousness is the measuring stick by which we ought to distinguish those life forms we may use however we see fit (plants, at the very least) from those we must treat compassionately (pets, I suppose) to those we must grant complete freedom from our interference (perhaps more than just other people.) From what I've read in my geeky psych mags, however, the question of what, exactly, consciousness is, is far from settled. That makes it a bit difficult to draw lines in the sand.

Alli came over and asked to borrow my board, but quickly gave up. She then got us playing softball with driftwood bats and coconut balls. We decided a homerun was when you shattered the coconut; by those facile standards, even I put Big Papi to shame. Alli reminds me of my old college roommate, Liz. It's just not possible to hang out with her and be bored.

Gerald took us to his favorite lunch spot, an outdoor patio hidden behind the trees called Lidia's. (Coincidence, I'm sure.) I had another vegetarian casado-I'm still not tired of rice and beans-and on the waitress's recommendation, a guanabana smoothie. This time it tasted less tart and lemony, more like coconut and banana.

After lunch, we hiked up a twisting, unmarked path to a cliff from which we could see for miles

That's me, I swear

. He pointed out the island (more like a boulder with some grass growing on top) off which he and his friends liked to dive. He and his friends are a lot gutsier than I am. Although we established this both through that story and the fact that he made this trek barefoot, over sharp coral, while I could still feel the branches through my inch-thick sandal soles, he felt the need to rub it in by telling us there was a snake hanging over our heads (there wasn't. But we fell for it, and freaked out appropriately.)

We did a little shopping on the way back to the hostel, where I took yet another cold shower and got dressed up to go out. My legs look like they've been through the shredder; between the scratches from being tackled on the Tarzan swing last week, the sunburn, the board rashes on my knees, the constellation of bug bites, and a cluster of mysterious bruises, I definitely fit Caitlin's characterization of our group, a "bunch of rough-and-tumble girls." We had dinner at a place called Chile Rojo, which had a lot of international cuisine that was much better than what we ate last night, plus two-for-one happy hour drinks (good thing, too, because they weren't very strong.)

There was a mediocre musician finishing up when we arrived, who then walked around collecting tips

Lydia's poor belly!

. As we were finishing our food, a fire baton juggler set up outside. I really enjoyed his routine; I left the table and stood out front to watch him until our dessert came. The most exciting entertainment of the evening, however, was when a crab, perhaps six inches across, found his way into the restaurant. (It wouldn't have been difficult; the place had only three walls and was across the street from the beach.) The fire juggler, who was inside collecting tips, valiantly scooped up the crab in his beanie and walked around with it, posing for pictures and probably hoping to collect more tips. I slipped him a grand, about two bucks American.

After dinner we met Gerald and his friends at their "pre-party" hangout, a bar called Tex-Mex. My liver only had room for one more drink, but I made it count; that was the best mojito I've ever had in my life. Eventually the weary old over-25ers made our way back to the hostel, while Alli and Lydia danced into the night.