Living in Costa Rica

The sun was still high in the clear blue sky as I strolled barefoot down the dirt road to the beach, trying in vain to avoid the loose stones and rubble, jagged underfoot. Everything changes when the dirt road ends. I reach the white sand and linger for a few moments, drinking in the lapping waves and swaying palms, and curling the delicate grains between my toes. The work day is left behind and the barely-present ocean breeze tickles my face, gently blowing strands of sun-bleached hair out of my eyes.

I can tell from the moment that I pass El Pescador what type of waves I can expect that day. The waiters are busily preparing tables for happy hour as the frothy white water breaks around the fishing boats anchored at this part of the beach. The waves should be quite still here – when the spray buffets the wooden boats from side to side I know the surf will be ravenous.

Yesterday the ocean was rough and unforgiving, as the insistent wind caused the usually perfect waves to break in every which direction, separating me from my board with thunderous force. Most of the time I managed to keep a firm grip, but was caught off guard on a few occasions as a towering wall of water forced me under, pummelling me into the surf, my board lurching out of grasp.

Time plays in slow motion as the ocean consumes you, ears filled with the silence of water. There is nothing to be done but wait to be spat back out again, as you gasp for air and inhale salt water instead, then a sharp tug of the leash around your ankle as the surfboard gathers speed and yanks you into the frothy depths once more.

Today the waves are a little choppy but it doesn’t matter – I catch every single one – the ocean is on my side. Any surfer, even the really talented ones, will usually concede that that some days are better than others. Surfing is about connecting with the elements, the wind and the waves, mind and body. I have such frustrating moments at times, when I ache to show off my increasing skills to a group of wobbly beginners that can’t stand up yet, but my board turns into a bar of soap, capriciously (and embarrassingly) slipping out from under me.

Today is different though, the energy clicks and every wave I want is mine, speeding me exhilaratingly towards the shore. Chris (my surfing buddy) and I are as close to the river mouth as we have ever been – we generally try to stay a little further down since finding out about the creatures that dwell in the river.

On very rare occasions and never at this time of year, crocodiles have been observed in the ocean here when the strong October rains fill up the fresh water and the river spills its banks, bringing with it one or two of the normally freshwater reptiles. I think I would rather come face to face with a shark while on my board. Although that’s not a prospect that exactly thrills me, more people die each year from rouge coconuts falling from trees than are gruesomely savaged by a shark – I don’t know about crocodiles though.

Arms and legs tired and aching I retire from the surf and say farewell to Chris. The tide is on its way out and the beautiful beach is rippled by the retreating waves. Little crabs scamper sideways in the wet sand and the shells that I step past suddenly come alive as delicate legs sprout out from under them and they scurry to take cover from my imposing shadow. My footprints leave a mark that is washed away moments later, a fleeting memory erased by the waves; I’m only passing through here after all.

The Beach Club is warming up and the mosquitoes beginning to pester. Blond haired gringos giggle and sip cocktails, their wrists bearing the stamp of an all-inclusive bracelet. The lazy palms that fringe the shore are accentuated by a setting sun, the sky a tapestry of pinks and oranges. The boats bob up and down and the fading daylight casts shadows; surfers walking by are mere silhouettes against the backdrop as they pass with their boards under arm.

My skin is chocolate brown in this light and darkening a shade every day. I never lie in the sun; it’s just too hot for that, but despite religiously slathering myself with thick, white, gloopy sun block and wearing a rash guard, the penetrating rays filters through.

Two tourists are taking photos of a prehistoric-looking pelican that has landed near their sun loungers. He eyes them beadily and then flaps his wings, accelerating towards them as they shriek in fear and rapidly pull back to their chairs. I stop for a moment and stare out at the ocean, the warm air caresses my skin. My lips sting with the salt and my body aches. My knees are bruised like a teenage boys, and the wound on my foot oozes open. My hair is crispy and dry, my throat parched, and I struggle to hold up my board. I’m physically tired and wholly content… I’ve never felt more alive.

Becoming a Local

I am fast becoming a local in a small seaside town on the Northern Pacific coast of Costa Rica. I get a discount in the supermarket. The weary vendors that plod along the beach in the gruelling heat selling coconuts, animal shaped whistles, full body massages and jewellery made out of shells have stopped lighting up when I walk past; they know I won’t buy anything. The lethargic man with leathery skin who slumps beneath the leafy shade of the same palm tree each day no longer lifts his gaze; even the local insect population has stopped biting me, savagely insistent upon my arrival, they now prefer the blood of the pasty-legged tourists, fresh off the plane.

I’m learning to read the waves and work out which way they will break. I plan my entire day around the rise and fall of the tide and know that a few moments of flat are followed by a crescendo of ravenous water. I can sense how long it will take for the rain drops to fall when the lightning flickers on the horizon and, from the shape and colour of the clouds, calculate how much time I have to walk to the store and pick up my groceries before the torrential rain converts the dusty road into a river of slushy mud.

The surfaces of the streets here are impossibly badly laid. The thirsty earth is dehydrated and cracks open in the punishing midday sun, a dust cloud enveloping pedestrians when a passing 4x4 skims by. It’s even worse when the Heavens open and the going becomes treacherously slippery. I desperately struggle not to dislocate a knee or fall over ungraciously on my behind, as the backs of my legs get splattered with sodden earth.

It’s not recommended to leave anything unattended on the beach, not even flip flops, so I fully experience the loose rubble, sharp beneath my toes, or the soft squelch as I slip and slide my way barefoot to the beach, surfboard tucked under arm and dodging shards of broken beer bottles, pot holes and monkey excrement. From their deafening call it’s easy to see why howler monkeys win the award for loudest land mammal on earth; their eerie lament can be heard for up to three kilometres away.

It’s ladies’ night tonight at Sharky’s and again on Saturday I believe. I have never been but I know their timetable, I walk past the sign every day. The few times that I’ve been out to bars here have left me with little desire to go back. They’re full of lecherous locals drivelling over and praying on drunken tourists and the music pumps distortedly and crackly out of large blown speakers.

My hair has been bleached a funny colour and my ribs are permanently black and blue from the pummelling I take in the ocean. I eat a whole avocado every day and my favourite snack is spicy refried beans spread over crunchy crackers, instead of the marmite on toast I devour when I’m visiting my family in the UK, or when they send me care packages abroad. I’ve had marmite posted to me around the world – that quintessentially English spread that represents a little jar of black gold for me, even if most people find it vehemently repulsive.

If I leave anything out on the counter the resident colony of ants will arm an invasion; I’m getting pretty good at clearing up after myself speedily now. I’m even getting used to the grating screech of the fan and the sand that gets in my bed sheets and all my important electrical items. I am mesmerized by the geckos as they patter across the walls or stop dead, suckered to the spot on the ceiling when they sense that I am watching. The bull frogs croaking in the undergrowth don’t frighten me anymore and the daily power cut is no longer cause for alarm, even my tenuous internet connection as reliable as an English summer fails to get me flustered these days. I think I’m becoming a local.