Costa Rica Snapshot #1: Take the Leopard for a Ride
Take the Leopard for a Ride
I'm finally settled on my surfboard with one hand resting on my leg, the other one stirring blue water for balance. Both arms feel a not so familiar burn, having paddled through a set of of waves that looked smaller from the shore. You just can't replicate that beautiful burn anywhere but in a roiling ocean, which is deadset on throwing you and your 7-foot flotation device back up the beach before you reach blue waters again.
The waves look small from the shore, but try to "duck dive" them and your perspective changes. It's the difference between seeing the leopard at the zoo and having a blur of claws, jaws, and fur pounce on you from a treebranch.
So I ducked some wild waves. That's how I'm floating here comfortably for the moment, waiting for the next set to roll in.
I won't bore you with the travel from Houston to Tamarindo, Costa Rica. Assume that there was mild adversity, a few cultural mishaps, and that I took a big plane, a small plane, maybe a taxi, certainly walked a rocky patch of concrete or three before I arrived on the beach with my two friends, but we don't have time for that now. I'm trying hard to get comfortable (or at least look comfortable) on this rented surfboard--ten bucks at the beachfront surf shop and not a bad Manual board by any means--but the last time I paddled out was several months ago in San Diego. I'm a little rusty. And breathless. My arms are cross-examining my life choices with each attempted duck dive, and several are merely attempts. Anything short of the right form or effort means another extra 30 seconds of paddling, an eternity that my body despises, but in the back of my mind, I don't begrudge the extra opportunity to pound the weakness out of my lungs and feeble limbs. Spending this much time away from the ocean will do that to a surfer's body, though I wouldn't dare call myself that.
Surfer.
I'm more of a paddler/stander. Sure, I can paddle onto a wave and stand up on a board, but there is a striking difference between what I do before on the deck of my Manual before I tumble back into the Pacific whitewash and what the surfers are doing around me. I can spot the leopard and grab him by the tail, but the surfer can tame the leopard and take him for a ride. Would that I could leopard-tame a word with half the skill of a surfer on the wave.
Tomorrow: snapblog two--Pura Vida in the Lineup
I'm finally settled on my surfboard with one hand resting on my leg, the other one stirring blue water for balance. Both arms feel a not so familiar burn, having paddled through a set of of waves that looked smaller from the shore. You just can't replicate that beautiful burn anywhere but in a roiling ocean, which is deadset on throwing you and your 7-foot flotation device back up the beach before you reach blue waters again.
The waves look small from the shore, but try to "duck dive" them and your perspective changes. It's the difference between seeing the leopard at the zoo and having a blur of claws, jaws, and fur pounce on you from a treebranch.
So I ducked some wild waves. That's how I'm floating here comfortably for the moment, waiting for the next set to roll in.
I won't bore you with the travel from Houston to Tamarindo, Costa Rica. Assume that there was mild adversity, a few cultural mishaps, and that I took a big plane, a small plane, maybe a taxi, certainly walked a rocky patch of concrete or three before I arrived on the beach with my two friends, but we don't have time for that now. I'm trying hard to get comfortable (or at least look comfortable) on this rented surfboard--ten bucks at the beachfront surf shop and not a bad Manual board by any means--but the last time I paddled out was several months ago in San Diego. I'm a little rusty. And breathless. My arms are cross-examining my life choices with each attempted duck dive, and several are merely attempts. Anything short of the right form or effort means another extra 30 seconds of paddling, an eternity that my body despises, but in the back of my mind, I don't begrudge the extra opportunity to pound the weakness out of my lungs and feeble limbs. Spending this much time away from the ocean will do that to a surfer's body, though I wouldn't dare call myself that.
Surfer.
I'm more of a paddler/stander. Sure, I can paddle onto a wave and stand up on a board, but there is a striking difference between what I do before on the deck of my Manual before I tumble back into the Pacific whitewash and what the surfers are doing around me. I can spot the leopard and grab him by the tail, but the surfer can tame the leopard and take him for a ride. Would that I could leopard-tame a word with half the skill of a surfer on the wave.
Tomorrow: snapblog two--Pura Vida in the Lineup
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