Interlude: Manuel Antonio

Jacó (pronounced Ha-COH!) having been just short of disastrous, Roy and I cut out after our first full day, grabbing a quick breakfast and catching a bus south to Quepos, with an eye towards escaping to nearby Manuel Antonio, home to a national park and a long stretch of beach that, although reputed to be beautiful, does not typically offer much in the way of surf, which is probably why I'd left it off our itinerary to begin with.

I should mention that at this point a situation was developing. Namely, during my last days in Puerto Viejo, my shortboard had developed a terminal crack, width-wise across the top. Such a tear across the middle of a board may technically be repaired, but the board will forevermore lack structural integrity and the perfectly contoured surface necessary to glide gracefully across the water, and when it comes to grace, I cannot afford any disadvantage. I'd not-so-secretly secretly hoped to snap this board in half my last day riding in the Caribbean, as it would have been easier to travel to the Pacific side with a lighter board bag. Alas, it held up, and I turned my attention to breaking it in Jacó.

See, Jacó is a lot of things, but it's not an expensive place to buy a board, and so while there I perused the many surf shops and tried my damnedest to break the old gal, to no avail. Rather than ditch the still-functional board, which had given so much and asked so little, I determined I would rather spend my money in a less reprehensible economy further down the coast, perhaps Dominical. Regardless, I was excited at the prospect at getting a new board, preferably something a little longer, narrower and faster. I had already written off my little South Coaster.

So, imagine my surprise when we arrived at Manual Antonio's Playa Espadilla and that little board gave me some quick action on waves that startled me with their speed and strength. The beach is a long stretch of soft sand set against dense, muddy forest growth and peppered with lodges and quasi-resorts, some built into the hillside; definitely a welcome change from the somewhat trashed, rocky coastline of Jaco. Normally, the waves are good for swimmers and beginnin surfers, but at the time we went out they were picking up what proved to be a strong several days' worth of soutern swell that slammed the Pacific coast, giving Roy many a reason to swear like a sailor. To Roy's credit, he didn't give up, and after a brief interlude resting on the beach, he came back out into the rough waters with me to attempt some more rides. Of course, I tried to convince him that this ocean was easy-going and not at all dangerous, so he would persevere and grow to love this hobby that has me so obsessed, but he saw through my ruse just in time to get out before a series of bruisers came rolling through. I knew I could survive the spin cycle, but thought for sure my little board was toast. But like me, scarred and with a crooked nose (some minor repair work in puerto viejo--too long a story to get into here), she held tight, and survived to ride again.

Roy and I, on the other hand, were plenty sore from several days of travel and surf, so when we strolled along the extraordinary beach to find a series of massage tables set up at 25 bucks a pop, we were glad to lie down and enjoy the sunset while strong French thumbs kneaded the knots away. Had we to do it over, we definitely would spend more than a day in the heaven known for reasons beyond me as Manuel Antonio. But renowned "surf ghetto" Dominical awaited to the south, and so with testimonials of "gnarly surf" and "laid back atmosphere" dancing around my brain, we got up early the next morning and set out for the bus terminal at Quepos, rejuvenated, in love again with the green idea of Costa Rica, and ready for adventure in what would prove successively more and more remote locales.