Day 3: Costa Rica

Day 3 had been sort of set aside as a day we'd do the canopy tour which includes hiking and zip lining in the jungle. While this sounded appealing, I'd also decided I wanted to spend at least one more day surfing and I hoped to fish as well; 3 major excursions and only 2 days left. I mentioned my dilemma to Judith (the bungalow manager/concierge) who said that most boats would be booked and full this late in the game but that she thought 2 guys from Florida, coincidentally staying in bungalow 13 (my lucky number), had booked a full day trip (1/2 days are often an option) and that there might be room on the boat. She said she'd talk to them and gauge their interest in letting another guest tag along.

She got back to me later that day and said that they wouldn't mind me joining and that they would split the $550 fee with me. The canopy tour was the cheaper alternative ($65), but never having been sport fishing, I opted for the latter (come to think of it, I've been zip lining and hiking aplenty, but never in a jungle - still, catching dinner for the evening sounded much more rewarding than being eaten alive by mosquitoes --it rains every day in the rain forest, who knew?).

I was fishing with strangers, but didn't care - I scored a fishing trip and life was good. Judith arranged for us to meet the night before (day 2) for drinks at her place before dinner. (Picture: headed to Judith's to meet fishing buddies before night out in Jaco)

Almost immediately after meeting them Rich and Neil insisted that I NOT pay them to come on the trip, offered to have me join them for breakfast at their bungalow, have me ride with them to the marina and later insisted that I get to reel in the first bite. I insisted otherwise; offered to pay for my portion, pay them for the ride out, and gently (only gently here) resisted getting the first catch. All futile efforts. I finally convinced them to let ME cook THEM breakfast in exchange for their generosity - we had a deal.

Before heading out they tried to talk me into taking Dramamine, this being my first time out to sea on a fishing boat; much to my chagrin I refused, thinking sea sickness was merely mind over matter.

We were on the water by 7:45/8am and I'd reeled in the first bite by 10 (10-12lb dolphin aka Mahi Mahi). It wasn't until I'd dropped him so many times and he'd knocked himself silly on the deck that he was settled enough for a picture. The guide said he would have been good eating but that because Mahis get to be up to 50lbs out there it was bad form to take such a little one in. I threw him back, washed my hands and then proceeded to vomit and dry heave over the side of the boat for most of the remaining six hours of the trip.

The guys, seeing how sick I was, offered to cancel the trip and head back to shore, but I refused. I was NOT going to be the stow away GIRL that ruined their fishing trip in Costa Rica. I managed to find a spot to fry, er, lie down on the bow of the boat and waited - pulling from Lamaze to breathe through heaving - praying for time to pass more quickly.

Sadly, there was only one other bite that day thanks to the red tide- an even smaller Mahi that got away. Tough luck guys.

That night we met back up at the grand opening of a nearby yoga retreat/bed n breakfast where I met very trendy Canadians who'd relo'd to CR to jump on the real estate boom. There was cool music complete with live drums and the mojitos were delish.

Lessons/Observations from Day 3:

• Chivalry is not dead.
• Sea sickness: Mind over matter? Not so much.

Perfect Timing

Costa Rica: DAY 2

The principles of surfing are quite simple. Our instructor spent all of 20 minutes going over the basics: 1. Safety - varying pointers on how to avoid colliding with another surfer or being beaten by your own board 2. Survival - How not to be pummelled by the waves while paddling out past them on the board a.k.a "how not to drown" 3. The surfboard - its varying parts (nose, rails, tail, and deck) and proper body placement and last 4. "The Hop" onto your feet and proper stance on the board.

After our crash course we are given boards (the bigger the better for beginners) and walk towards the water. Seven students to 3 instructors - each student likely reciting steps in their head "don't do this, do that, turn, turn, paddle, paddle, paddle, paddle and HOP."
Me - I came to surf. All I'm thinking is "Don't drown," as this would litrally impede my surfing. (Picture: Edwin and I on Night 3 @ Yoga Retreat Grand Opening)

We spread out about 100 yards from the shore and look out on the horizon after a long set of unforgiving waves. Eager beginners turn, turn, turn and paddle into a number of missed waves. I luck out and have Edwin, a Rastafarian style surf king by my side. Edwin and I had earlier agreed that he'd only speak to me in English and I to him in Spanish. Conversation in the water is therefore kept to an absolute minimum. Only what is necessary is spoken and in very basic terms. Edwin is calm and speaks in a cool low voice as each wave in a new set approaches, "This is not your wave, Jessica," he repeats; I begin to think he's mistakenly pegged me for an athlete and is waiting for a mammoth wave or worse, maybe he thinks I'm a sissy and is waiting for something perfectly small and manageable. I read his face and can only tell that he is looking for something very specific in my wave and thus far, he hasn't seen it. He smiles and urges, "Patience."

Finally, a wave swells 25 feet from where I lay on my board - my muscles tighten and my body surges with adrenaline. Edwin says in the same cool and unaffected voice, "This is it. This one is yours." He helps me turn the board and I paddle as though my life depends on it (naturally, it probably did). Paddle-paddle-paddle- waiting for the thrust of the wave to tell me when to stand. When the wave grabs hold of the underside of my board, lifts and pushes me forward with surprising force I know this is my cue. I grab the rails and hoist myself into position and find that I, at long last, am surfing.

Not everyone catches their first wave. I got lucky. In fact, I kept getting lucky. Edwin moved on to other students and I rode the waves into shore and paddled back out a number of times, each time waiting patiently for a wave that looked just like the one he'd picked out for me. Somehow I think this is where the magic happens.

All of the safety and survival details are important, don't get me wrong - but taking the wrong wave or getting the right wave too soon or too late ultimately ends in the same frustrating way - wasted energy. Timing is everything. Patience is key. Such is life.

Lessons/Observations from Day 2:

• Patience is key.
• Dreadlocks, while very cool, cannot possibly be sanitary.
  

Turista

As many of you already know - the trip to CR was muy bueno. As intended, the trip offered much needed respite from attachments and stress. The beaches of Costa Rica were the perfect setting in which to reflect - waves crashing against unsullied black sands, small flocks of Macaws flying overhead, surfers dancing on the water's fury, hot surfers... flocks of hot surfers.. er, what was I saying? Oh yes, introspection, reflection and freedom from attachments. Natrally.

The trip really did offer lots of opportunity for reflection not to mention great story material. So much minutia - so little time -- where to begin?

DAY 1

After booking the trip to Costa Rica I was inundated with grave warnings about crime in the San Jose and Jaco areas. "Hide your purse, don't carry more than $50 cash, don't walk the streets alone, don't wear jewelry, ever, etc." The scariest stories were set in the San Jose Airport; it seemed everyone I met knew someone who knew someone that was mugged or, minimally, accosted at this airport. My brother, having just seen "Turista" and irritated with my naivety in taking a trip to such an obviously dangerous place, only said, "If you're kidnapped, I'm not going to promise to put any money in the pot for your safe return." I rejected these heedings as paranoia and ignorance and didn't, for a minute, let them affect me -- or so I thought.

Upon arrival in San Jose we (Brenda, Royl, and I) were to be greeted by a personal driver, Eddie (prearranged on our behalf -- and for our safety -- by the owner of the bungalow), who would take us in a marked van to Hermosa. We were told he'd meet us near the baggage claim and would be identifiable by the sign he would be holding that should list all 3 of our names. We claimed our bags and scanned the room for Eddie. We found Royl who said he'd made contact with the driver - who was nowhere near the baggage claim area and who, instead, stood OUTSIDE waiting with a sign that only named Brenda. So far, 2 violations of our prearranged security measures - suspicious.

"Enrique" led us to an UNMARKED van in the parking lot where he told us that Eddie's car had broken down (likely story) and that he'd been sent in Eddie's place to take us to the bungalow. Now -- this is where the creative imagination I gain so much entertainment from starts to work against me - just a momentary freeze frame and I had us picking cocoa beans for a Panamanian drug cartel or enslaved in the Nicaraguan jungle working a rice field under the butt of a 13 year-old guerrilla's rifle. I turn to Royl and say, "You ride shotgun."

We drove about an hour into the mountains where our van was forced to stop at a "construction" site - eerily reminiscent of a scene from "Proof of Life." While I was sure my overactive imagination was getting the best of me I suspiciously peered at the construction crew over the top of my Cape Cod (the open container law hasn't made its way to Central America) waiting for them to toss their hard hats and charge the van. Instead, the foreman raised his fist into the air- not to signal an ambush - but rather to wave us on. Now in the clear, my face to the open window, I take in a chestful of mountain air and enjoy the sweetness that only narrowly averted disaster brings.

Needless to say, we arrived in Hermosa on time and unharmed. Exhausted from the trip I napped in the hammock underneath the bungalow (it's on stilts). That night we hooked up with Judith and Paolo (resident managers of the bungalow complex) to patio dine in Jaco at a restaurant called "Los Amigos" followed by a night cap at a pub called "Tabacon" (where they had the Spurs game on the big screen).

Lessons Learned on Day 1:

• There's no good seat in a soon-to-be hijacked van.
  
• Despite having CLEP'd out of 12 hrs of Spanish and making every effort to pull from my Hispanic roots- I don't speak the language.

Gone Surfing

Right Click Here to CUE Music

It's finally HERE - and not a moment too soon. Will post if I can - but definitely when I get back. Good luck Ballers; I'll be thinking of you guys on game night!

A win for the team while on vacation would be "Very Nice!!" {Borat voice}

Pura Vida!

Anyone know where I can buy a break?

I can't seem to catch one.

As I rolled, folded and tucked my belongings into my suitcase and the euphoria of my impending trip set in, I heard the whir of an approaching vehicle followed by the sound of a heavy plastic bouncing on the pavement below my apartment window. Though I'm not sure I've ever heard the sound of a side-view mirror hitting the street - somehow, this is EXACTLY what I thought it was. I ran downstairs to my street-parked car where I found both of my side-view mirrors perfectly intact. I scanned the car (in the dark) for any sign of damage. Not seeing any, I headed back upstairs.

Back to packing.

An hour later I went back downstairs to get my camera cord out of the car and catch a reflection off the street ahead. A SIDE VIEW MIRROR LAY ABOUT 6' FROM MY CAR. Panicked I searched the car for damage and found what appears to be a dent/scratch that runs alongside the entire car in 3 different places; the longest scratch/dent (Exhibit B) about 18" long at the rear fender, the 2nd scratch about 3" on the passenger door and the last scratch about 1"somewhere near the front of the vehicle. I rush into the street to fetch the evidence and stand, in pajamas no less, cussing.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

As quickly as my irritation came, however, it left. I chuckled as I leapt 2 stairs at a time up to the apartment; pretty damn impressed with myself to have identified the sound I'd heard earlier as the sound of a side-view mirror hitting the street. I run inside channeling Marissa Tomei a la My Cousin Vinny.



I phone a friend who suggests I call the police (I wasn't sure what city-living protocol is for an incident of this kind - in the small town I recently came from we'd call the police for everything -- and I mean EVERYTHING. Hondo's finest once came out to help me get a trapped squirrel from out of my kitchen pantry, but that's another story). I dial the non-emergency line and change into something presentable and wait. And wait. And wait.

Growing restless I pop the mirror off the part (and the top off a dos equis), looking for a VIN or other trackable number. I find only half of a replacement part number, the other half presumably still attached to the jerk's car. I run a few google searches and come up with only one close match (Honda Civic).

11:40ish: Officer Talksalot arrives and eventually gets around to taking down my side (the only side) of the story -- though not before hitting every possible small-talk topic. As he writes he shuffles his feet and inadvertently kicks a piece of plastic on the ground - the missing link! The piece contains the remaining part numbers, which I later run through google. Hoping to confirm the Civic theory, I come up short. The only vehicle remotely related to a series of numbers like this is the Chevy Astro; an unlikely suspect based on how low my car was hit. Either way, I'm thrilled to have evidence in my hands which will in all likelihood eventually prove to be, well... useless.

No matter- I plan to run by an auto parts shop - see if they can give me an idea as to what kind of car this mirror was once attached to. Then I plan to do a little neighborhood sleuthing - I'm guessing the perp lives in the area and can't easily hide a missing mirror.

I should probably familiarize myself with the citizens arrest procedure, in the miraculous event I actualy track the loser down. I have to say, I'm just a little excited about the remote possibility of my getting to tackle someone.

Right click to CUE the theme song for the post (natrally!)


*

So Corny I Should Be Canned

There is nothing more humbling than parenting a teenage daughter.

For those of you who don't have one of your own - you'll have to take my word for it. For those who can empathize - Solidarity! For Mikie & Ed who have twin daughters - good luck with that.

I'm a pretty 'cool mom.'

Ok, STOP-

I suppose we should acknowledge the irony in my having made a statement like that before I go on. What legitimately "cool" person ever SAYS that they are? Do they? Clearly not as cool as I thought I was before I started to write this post.

"Cool mom," in the eyes of a typical teenaged girl, is an oxymoron. I've come to accept that convincing my daughter that I'm cool is probably alot like convincing W that global warming is real. In fact, now that I think about it, my teen is alot like W. Neither of them want to believe that they're NOT the center of the universe. Neither want to believe that they don't know everything. And both are prone to sweeping messes under the rug. But I digress.

In parenting a teenage girl your mojo is under constant fire. They have no trouble reminding you of how uncool you are, often just when you are feeling your coolest. For example, you listen to the latest COOL music? Not cool. You DON'T dress like the Church Lady from SNL? Not cool. You have a sense of humor and tend to make other kids laugh? Not cool. You youtube, myspace, IM or blog? OMG! STHU! Soooooo not cool.

I do my best to embarrass my daughter, or so she thinks. I say, "Why not have fun with it?" Afterall, this is one of very few things I manage to do with little effort and great reward. Besides, these "embarrassing moments" are rich memories in the making. She often reminds me of the night my girlfriend and I mortified her and her friend (my friend's daughter) when we blasted JT in the car and "brought sexy back" at a stop light. Their pleas for us to stop dancing fell on deaf ears - literally. We had the music blaring and ate up every second we were able to torture them, all in good fun - of course ;).

The bottom line is this: No matter what we do - a teenage daughter cannot have (or at least cannot ADMIT to having) a cool mom. It simply defies the laws of the universe.

When I told my little bundle of hormonal joy that I was thinking of starting a blog she laughed so hard she cried. She laughed the kind of tummy twisting, breath robbing, cheeks cramping laugh that makes you want to laugh along - that is, until you remember it's YOU she's laughing at. She wiped the tears from her cheeks saying, as she caught her breath, "Mom - you're so corny you should be canned."

And perhaps she's right. Maybe someday I'll look back and see how corny and uncool I've been. For now I'll just try to embrace the juxtaposition of being the cool mom of a teenaged girl.

The Sweetest Thing

{Sorry for the delay in post - this should have posted yesterday, but my connection has been down.}

The pool party has come and gone; and as they always do for me, things worked themselves out nicely. I'm happy to report I ended up not having to hire a date *whew*. My unpaid escort was a friend who kindly agreed to be my "huckleberry" for the evening. He was AWESOME company and rose to the occassion like a champ (taking lots of 'boy toy' comments in stride). AND , after weeks of searching, I found a FABULOUS dress just hours before the function! It was like it was handcrafted for a Cinco de Mayo Pool Party- fantastically embroidered and a perfect fit to boot.

Laura wasn't kidding when she joked that her sister's pool looked like something out of MTV Cribs! It was a beautiful home and the perfect setup for a Summer Party. White linens draped the tables outside where the caterer grilled light fare to order. A well done but casual affair. Great party girls!

Oh, I neglected to mention the fully stocked "top shelf" bar with bartender... I thought this element would earn points with my young friend (did I mention he's 20 something? If I recall correctly, open bars are big in this demographic) but he's the kind of guy that makes his own fun. Of course, the open bar didn't hurt nor did all the attention he gleaned from the ladies. He's a fellow people-watcher: so much material, so little time (we laughed so hard my sides hurt--especially when he got 'sniffed' by a hairdresser).

What else is there to say? It was a great night and I was in great company. We could have ended the night there, but then, that would have been the right thing to do.

*See also: "FYI" (prior post)*

I've been told my life is like a sitcom; a fair (and fun) assessment. This evening, like so many other occassions in my life, had the makings of a great story: rich characters (antagonists/protagonists), humor, an impossible dillema, and catharsis - only lacking the sitcom's hallmark harmonious ending. Should we script it, scenes might be called: The Missed Exit, Oscar's Not a Weiner, A Dirty Doctor, Don't Go THERE, A Dip in the Pool, What Goes Down Must Come Up, and of course, Knockin on Heaven's Door {mind out of the gutter please - this refers to what felt like a near-death experience thanks to prior post}.

Good times.

Thanks Splawnie!
Rt Click here to CUE one from the long ride there

FYI

A League of Our Own

So I hear there's no crying in baseball. Surely that doesn't apply to Wednesday night co-ed softball.

I'm not sure when it happened. That is, I'm not sure when it is that I became a full-fledged athlete (read: sore loser) but tonight's loss hurt. It hurt real bad.

Though we were playing the number 1 team (one of 3 tied for first place) we were ready to unleash Operation Domination in full force. Losing was not an option. That is, of course, until we got spanked in the fourth inning with a 12 run rally (I stopped counting at 12 anyway). I asked the ref for mercy but he said the 10 run rule only came into play AFTER the 5th inning... and as I say, it was the top of the 4th. Natrally.

I think the last time I picked up a bat I was 6 and the game was tee-ball. I know the last time I pouted over a team loss was... well, hmmm, NEVER. I've always thought it was more about the game than the win, that it was the journey and not the destination, that in fun games EVERYONE'S a winner - WTH WAS I THINKING!??? It's TOTALLY about the win. The journey gets tiring and soon enough you wanna know "are we there yet?" Not everyone's a winner. Get over it. If it hurts, I'm sorry. If you're scared - get a dog.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not trading in these highlighted locks for a mullet just yet - Hard as I try, I still throw like a girl. I hit like a girl. I run like a girl and yes, I even slide like a girl. But MAN I wanna win.

I suppose if we'd sucked from the start I'd never have gotten my hopes up. But we are actually pretty darn good. We're spirited and play well as a team. We go out there and litrally have a ball. Fun is definitely something we can do. Each Wednesday we meet to warm up at least 2hrs before the game. The rigorous warmup takes place at the park's nearby watering hole. Then of course, there's the post game party. Win or lose - rain or shine - it's on, same place.

In fact, our team captain rallied us all in the dug out after the game to boost our spirits saying, "I'll see you at the bar. LET'S GO DO SOMETHING WE'RE GOOD AT!!!!"*crowd cheers*


"Booze, broads and bullshit. If you got all that, what else do you need?"-Harry Caray