Emancipate yourself from mental slavery…

This was one of the first things Larry said to me, coffee-stained teeth showing, eyes a little wide. Larry had disheveled white hair, white beard, and work clothes that were worn and faded from the Costa-Rican sun – but well-cared for. I thought he was a bit crazy, at the time. Of course you need to live next to food – my twenty-something mind thought – why would you live where there was no food?

“When the economy goes bad, they will no longer ship food to many places… you need to live where you can grow your own food!”

This was a decade ago. I spent three months in Costa Rica surfing – a little bit of adventure before starting a graduate program.

Larry lived with his Tica wife, Lupe. Lupe and Marisol (sisters), ran a little posada in the village of Domincal on the Pacific coast. Larry looked like he could be in his early sixties – he was literally getting long in the tooth – but he was fit and wiry. I occasionally spoke with Larry, he seemed to spend his time gardening, repairing the posada, and working on various projects. I thought he had that slightly-crazed ex-pat vibe, but he didn’t share the beer-gut and perma-sunburn that most older gringo-men seemed to carry around.
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It’s over?

An entire year has gone by?

I haven’t written here for seven months?!?

The big news: I paid off the last of my credit card debt on October 1. Even though I became distracted – and pulled in several directions – I managed to keep somewhat of a budget.

I’m not quite ready to drive to South America yet (well, I am – but my finances still need more work…) – so the frugal living continues.

I suppose it’s time for a budget update? A plan for dealing with the new economy we find ourselves in the last few months? Maybe a surf trip or three?

Soon enough… just need to stop my messing around…

Sometimes the best made plans go awry. Like this travel blog. Due to a number of external (and internal) forces, I have not been keeping up on this. Plenty of good old-fashioned pen-and-paper writing has occurred – it just needs to be translated into flying-photon format. Next week (when I´m back in the cold, coastal, far northern California climate), I´m going to start this travel article from the beginning. It will make sense when I get there. Until then, I´ll post a couple of pieces.

5:30 am. No alarm – tried to sleep in – awake anyways. Today is a day off from surfing. After five consecutive days of overhead-or-better surf, I need a break (and a chance for my shoulder injury to heal a bit).

I´m awake – and there´s something natural about checking the surf – so I walk.

The surf doesn´t look much smaller than yesterday – but it is a lot less consistent. Like yesterday – there is a huge pack in the water already.

La Bocana looks great. This may be the option for the remaining days of smaller swell (beside the fact that there are a lot less people surfing there).
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I´m working.

I´m inside a small office which has two steel doors and plexiglass windows cover two walls. My office is inside the hold of a large container ship. My office doors are typical ship´s bulkhead doors.

Friends stop by, women stop by – trying to get me to go out. Women from my past. Unknown women who seem familiar to me.

Outside my office windows – there is a beach inside the cargo hold of the ship. A beach with an ocean (and small waves). Hundreds of people line the beach. I step outside of my office to see.
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Playa Tunco is the banana smoothie of surf towns. Delicious and soothing if day after day is spent frying in the sun and exhausting oneself in the surf. However, with no surf for me today – I´m craving something a tad spicier than banana smoothie.

Besides, if I´m not going to get my surf stoke today – I´d prefer to get away from the non-stop multi-cultural brobonics-fest that occurs here 24/7. Tunco is a lot like Huntington Beach before it became “gentrified” – nothing but surf shops, dive bars and head shops. It´s only interesting for a couple days unless you´re surfing or high (or both). The tourist women? They were only here for the “beach party”. Nothing but a sausage-fest here now.

I´m on a cultural mission today. Destination: San Salvador

Secondary mission: Find the return bus to La Libertad.
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El Mangle´has been overrun with Brazilians. Last year, Canadians were everywhere – no Brazilians. This year, the exact opposite.

I really enjoy the atmosphere at el Mangle´. There seems to be an endless supply of quirky characters hanging out in the common area (myself included). The sorority-like orphanage volunteers from last year? They were here in force again this year – some of the same faces. They were here for the beach party – Tunco must be on the internet bulletin-board party-circuit.

This year, there are Brazilians everywhere – 5 crammed into 2 rooms in Mangle´. Roberto is the patriarch – the fittest 48-year-old you´ll ever meet – drinking from his fancy metal mate´cup. Conejo is a young guy (mid twenties) – who like Roberto – speaks some español and some ingles. The other three speak only Portuguese – and while one will smile and nod towards me, the other two seem too cool to bother. (Maybe this is only perception – that Brazillians, with their aggressive mannerisms, appear unfriendly if no verbal communication occurs.)
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The lonely cry of the Peruvian Leafcutter filled the air…

I was dreaming (nightmaring?) I had to get up and go to work. I was tired and hitting the snooze button…

I woke up in the dark with my alarm going off.

5:00am

Time to get up, make instant coffee, break-fast with a Cliff Bar, stretch, and be in the water for the 5:40am sunrise.

Alarm off.

5:00 am in El Salvador has a pleasant climate. A breeze was coming in through my north-facing window, nice and cool and in the high 60´s.

North wind? The wind is offshore this morning.

Coffee.

Get up, find a mug in the community pile – and mix it strong – about one quarter instant coffee, three quarters water. The trick is to drink as much as you can as fast as possible – instant coffee tastes like mierda.

Power down the bar (and glad that it´s chocolate chip to cut the aftertaste of the coffee), chase it down with a juice-in-the-box. Manzanillo today.

More wax on the board? Nah, I´ll finally do it tomorrow… tomorrow… tomorrow…
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It´s not the heat – it´s the humidity.

For some reason, neither feels bad right now.

Maybe that additional year in far northern coastal California has given me new perspective. Lying in a hammock, all pores open, sweating, feverish…

All the open pores feel like they are exhaling (not panting) – outgassing all of the pollution, sickness, and stress associated with the last several months of work.

I feel as if I´m slowly deflating.
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View from my door

I woke up as the plane was making it´s final descent, and would you mind putting your seat into the upright position please?

My brain was filled with sand, my cold felt a lot worse – and worst of all I had missed getting the immigration paperwork.

Looking out the window, I could see point after point with swell wrapping in perfectly. The swell lines could be seen to the horizon in the low morning light. Suddenly, I didn´t feel so bad.

Somehow, I made it through customs. The officer would ask me a question in Spanish – which made no sense to me in my foggy state. As I stared at him, trying to remember mi español - I heard another part of my brain control my mouth and say “dos semanas“.
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Friday was my last day of work. Actually, it was only a half day – I was leaving at noon to carpool to San Francisco International to catch the red-eye to San Salvador, El Salvador. Two weeks of surf to remember what not working feels like.

There was too much unfinished business to actually leave work. (What kind of sick statement is that?!?)

I had one more major meeting to attend – to deal with, among other things, my supervisor situation.

This was what I did NOT say during that meeting…
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