Misfit Rock

When picking a vacation destination, most prefer some sort of “ease factor” to their travels.

Arriving in a poverty stricken land, hours from a destination with various travels challenges ahead, won’t appeal to the masses. I was 26 and two weeks into a surf trip around Central America, with flexibility and adventurous-enough spirit to make the trip to Nicaragua.

Up with the sun on my 26th birthday, my friends and I loaded up the rental to leave behind tourist-friendly Costa Rica. Once the truck was returned, we boarded a bus with the locals to the Nicaraguan border. Occasional stops allowed for purchases of fried chicken (as fresh as it comes) and bottled water (warm) from street vendors, exchanged through the frames where the bus windows should have been.

Our lone Spanish speaker negotiated an inexpensive taxi ride from the border to Popoyo, the beach community we would call home for the next three weeks. The taxi sputtered along for less than 100 km, kicking dust into the sticky air while passing free-roaming pigs.

We arrived at the cement house known as “Fat Boy Surf Camp” where my friends were staying. Beyond the shrub covered hills were surf breaks for every ability, stretched over miles of untouched sand.

Perhaps Popoyo’s most stunning locale was where Magnific Rock ("Mag Rock") sat, an open-air compound with studios and cabins, home to curious wanderers from all over the globe. The common area opened to a 270 degree view of the Pacific Ocean, with hammocks, a bar and racks of surf boards. A ritzy resort sat a mile to the left and to the right were other hostels and the busiest break, making Mag Rock the central hub for all visitors in the area. Mag Rock was my new home.

I shared a bunk room with a former professional surfer from France ("Papa Franck") and a tattoo artist from Bermuda (Vinnie). We shared meals and drinks and they even took care of me after a surfing accident ended in 30+ stitches and antibiotics as useful as Smarties. Many of Mag Rock’s guests arrive solo, so everyone is eager to get to know each other over dollar beers. One day I surfed with a med student, had lunch with a retired couple from Texas that settled in South American and salsa danced next to a fire with a Nicaraguan man till the sun came up. Yogis, the newly divorced, recovering addicts—everyone—is able to find whatever it is they're searching for in Popoyo.

I arrived feeling lost after cancer. I left refueled and am reenergized every time I see my scars.