roadtrip

My dad was an aging surfer, a 16 year old grom stuck in the increasingly arthritic body of man in his mid-fifties. Still searching for the perfect wave. He had dragged his wife and two kids around the US, from Cape Hatteras to California, but it wasn't enough. The old man had read about this place in Central America, with third-world charm and first-rate waves. In the summer after 6th grade, my life would change forever.

We landed on the tarmac of Nicaragua's international airport. If Costa Rica was third-world in the early nineties, Nicaragua was a good bit lower. As we were shuttling to the singular gate, a small twin-engine prop was ablaze in the grassy infield to my right, a few shoeless locals harmlessly throwing buckets of water on the red-hot fuselage. A few moments after the plane eased to a rest, armed men in full combat fatigues entered the plane with semi-automatic rifles drawn. They checked each passengers' ticket, even small children. At just 12 years old, and having never flown on a plane before (prior trips were all roadtrips), I stared in disbelief. After a few minutes of studying the armed men march up and down the aisle, they left just as quickly as they had appeared. A few moments later and were taking off, passing the burning prop plane on our left this time, as the shoeless locals sat despondent in the grass nearby watching the metal burn and embers flicker.

Costa Rica was a welcome sight. We rented a 4 cylinder Toyota and set out on our vacation. We spent the next two weeks exploring the entire country, from the beaches of Playa Hermosa to the bubbling lava of Volcan' Arenal. Our travels took us to Guanacaste, where we watched a parade of young children on horseback, dressed in colorful costumes and intricate headpieces, expertly guiding their equines down a dirt road. We passed town after town, each with an identical small field situated in the center of town, with two soccer goals and hordes of children running and jumping and laughing and being, well, children. The country was small but vast, with a culture and customs and food that I had never imagined. Rice and beans with breakfast? A fried egg with dinner? An offer of an Imperial cerveza for a boy who had yet to sprout a single facial hair? It was fascinating, and scary, and amazing. I was out of the country, out of my comfort zone... and I loved it.

When we were boarding the plane back to the US, I knew... this was the only the beginning.