Learning to Surf with Crocodiles

Black spikes pierced the water’s surface. Tiny streams weaved between the scales. Droplets exploded between sharp, yellow teeth, as the jaws snapped. A crocodile glided across a breaking wave. Its tail weaved through the roaring white water. At least, that’s how I envisioned it, as I gazed into the black estuary leading into the Pacific Ocean in Playa Tamarindo, Costa Rica.

A few hours earlier, I drifted in and out of crocodile thoughts, as the dust-covered school bus pulled into a parking lot twenty minutes after I’d arrived at Guanacaste Airport, Liberia.

“We’ll be stopped here for five minutes if anyone wants to grab a beer for the rest of the ride,” the tanned bus driver shouted down the aisle. The bus’s axles creaked, the cabin shook and the tires bounced over the dirt road. Humidity smothered the windows. Through the haze, a small supermarket with a doorless doorframe appeared. The wooden sign above the doorframe clung to the plastered wall. Flies buzzed in and out of the facility. The bus’s door creaked open, and the passengers and I filed out onto the dirt-compacted parking lot. As my sandals crushed the dirt below my feet, humidity and sweat wrapped around my arms.

After returning from the Bahamas a few years earlier, I was hooked. Travel was now in my blood. I was still without a travel companion, but I knew I had to get back out on the road as soon as I could. Shortly after the Bahamas, I took my dad’s advice and saw a bit of Canada, exploring the pastel-coloured houses, seaside cliffs and humpback whales in Newfoundland, and then, during the winter, snowboarding the big three in the Canadian Rockies, having burgers and beers at the Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise restaurant and drinking cheap bottles of wine at the Rose & Crown in Banff. There was one place, however, that I knew I had to see as soon as possible, and that place was Costa Rica – even if that meant traveling there solo.

I’d always been drawn to Costa Rica because of the diverse amount of wild life that calls the country home. As an aspiring writer, I grew up fantasizing about writing for National Geographic, trekking through jungles and discovering exotic plants and animals. In the Toronto area, however, the most exotic animals you’ll typically see are squirrels, chipmunks and, if you’re lucky, coyotes. Costa Rica, on the other hand, is filled with monkeys, snakes, leopards, iguanas and crocodiles. So, traveling to Costa Rica wasn’t simply a beach vacation for me; it was a chance to live out that National Geographic dream, and potentially kickstart my life as a travel writer.

I stepped through the shop’s door frame, walked across the grey tiled and dirt-covered floor, and stopped in front of a shelf filled with beer. I gazed at the bottles.

I guess they don’t sell Coors Light here, I thought.

A red and yellow label with what appeared to be an eagle shimmered beneath the store’s fluorescent lights. The word “Imperial” glistened beneath it. I gazed at the words “Cerveza de Costa Rica,” picked up a warm bottle and walked over to the cash.

Well, if I’m going to do a solo trip to Costa Rica, I might as well drink like the locals, I thought. I handed the shopkeeper a few Costa Rican colones, twisted off the bottle cap and stepped back out into the humidity toward the bus. As I sat back in my seat, I took a sip of my beer. The warm carbonation burned my throat. Palm trees bristled on the road side. I smirked.

A tall man with short, blonde hair around my age sat in the seat behind me. His partner, a female with dark black hair and tanned skin, slumped beside him. As I took another sip of my beer, the man leaned forward toward my chair.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

I gulped my beer and turned towards him. The bus lunged into gear, as we rolled back onto the bump-covered dirt roads. The beer sloshed in the bottle.

“Near Toronto in Canada.”

The man’s eyes widened.

“Oh no way! Another Canadian. We’re both from Calgary.”

Wow, small world, I thought, what are the chances of meeting a pair of Canadians during my first hour in Costa Rica?

“Calgary is great,” I said, “I was out there a few months ago visiting Banff. The snowboarding there is incredible.”

“Yeah, Banff is out of this world. We don’t get out there as much as we should even though it’s just a short drive for us.”

“Oh seriously? I feel like, if I lived in Calgary, I’d be out there every weekend.”

The man laughed.

“You think that, but, living close to something magical like Banff, I feel like you tend to take it for granted a bit.”

I pondered for a moment.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s true. I’ve lived near Toronto my entire life, and I’ve never been up the CN Tower.”

“You haven’t been up the CN Tower?” the man gasped.

I shook my head.

“Nope. Never. It’s just one of those things that I’ve just become so used to seeing, that I don’t ever really think about going up it.”

“See, that’s like Banff for us.”

The man turned to his partner, grinned and then turned back to me.

“I’m Riley by the way. This is my girlfriend, Danielle.”

I shook Riley’s hand.

“I’m Trent.”

“What brings you to Costa Rica?” Riley asked.

“I’ve honestly wanted to come here for years, but never had anyone to go with. I want to see some of the wildlife, of course, but I also really want to learn how to surf.”

Riley gaped. He nudged Danielle.

“Me too!” he exclaimed. “We need to make sure we meet up during the trip and surf together.”

I laughed. Dense green trees blurred outside the bus, as we rolled deeper into the Costa Rican jungle.

“Absolutely, assuming we both figure out how to stand up on a board.”

“Oh, we will. Don’t you worry. Are you meeting anyone here?”

I shook my head.

“Nope. I’m here solo.”

Riley and Danielle gawked at me. The bus rattled over the increasingly bumpy dirt road.

“No way,” Riley said, “that’s super cool. I’ve never done a solo trip. What made you want to do that?”

“A few years ago I went on a solo trip for the first time in the Bahamas. It was honestly life changing. I was having a hard time finding people to travel with when I graduated university, but, after going on that trip, I realized I could travel anywhere in the world by myself, and that I didn’t need to rely on anyone to make a trip happen.”

“Man, you are absolutely right. We’re lucky,” Riley said, as he tilted his head towards Danielle, who was now falling asleep, “we have each other to travel with and we love being on the road together, so it’s easy to plan trips together, but trying to wrangle your buddies into going on a trip can definitely be challenging. It’s great to hear you’ve figured out how to get out into the world completely on your own.”

I grinned at Riley, as Danielle slumped against his shoulder.

Solo travel is awesome, I thought, though a part of me wishes I could share these adventures with someone.

For the rest of the ride, Riley and I chatted, as Danielle drifted into a deeper sleep. After a while, the bus rolled into Playa Tamarindo, which is a small surf town located on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica. Palm trees swayed above the bus. Dirt and dust rose into the air, as we cruised further into town. Small surf-inspired shacks lined the roadway. The bus stopped in front of a large, yellow hotel. Riley tapped Danielle on the shoulder, leapt from the brown, vinyl bus chair and looked at me.

“It was great chatting with you,” he said, as he pulled out his iPhone, “What’s your phone number? We’ve got to hang out during our trips.”

“100%,” I said, as I grabbed Riley’s phone, added my name and number, and handed it back to him. “I’m basically just going to sit on the beach, learn how to surf and drink beer all week, so, if you feel like doing any of that, send me a message.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

Riley and Danielle both said bye, edged their way down the narrow bus aisle and stepped out onto the street. The bus driver pulled their luggage out from the back of the bus. I gazed through the dust-covered window, as Riley and Danielle dragged their luggage across the dirt road, strode through the hotel’s rusted metal gate and disappeared behind a set of dense green trees. The bus’s engine roared. The gear shifter clinked. A moment later, the cabin shook, as we continued our journey into town.

For the next thirty minutes, the bus stopped at hotel after hotel, dropping each passenger off. Eventually, the bus pulled down a small, tree-lined road and stopped at the end of a small driveway. A white, two-storey hotel poked through the jungle foliage. The bus’s door creaked open. Humidity wafted into the cabin again.

“Hotel In the Shade,” the bus driver shouted.

My sweat-covered arms clung to the vinyl chair, as I stood, ducked beneath the overhead storage shelf, walked down the aisle, thanked the driver and hopped onto the road. A small cloud of dust rose from beneath my black sandals, as my feet pressed into the dirt road. The smell of earth wafted in the air. My body perspired, as the humidity enveloped me. The driver placed my carry-on luggage bag beside me, hopped back into the bus and started the engine. A moment later, the bus chugged down the road. I stood, stared at the modern-looking white hotel for a minute, and then dragged my luggage down the dirt driveway.

As I approached the small hotel, a woman with dark brown hair in her mid-twenties jumped up from a lawn chair in front of the hotel’s office space, greeted me, checked me into the hotel, and pointed to an exterior set of stairs that led to my room on the second floor. I carried my luggage up the stairs, unlocked the door and stepped into the room. Cold air hit my skin. Sunlight flooded the white walls and sloped ceiling. A large, wooden, modern-looking bed rested in the middle of the room, grey slate tiles covered the floors and a large sliding glass door led out to a balcony. After dropping my backpack onto the bed, I pulled out my GoPro Hero 3 and mounting clamp from my bag, slid the door open and marched onto the balcony. Dense green jungle foliage drooped over the hotel’s roadway below. I grinned.

Costa Rica, I thought, I can’t believe I’m actually here. In the jungle.

After a few minutes, I clamped the GoPro to the balcony’s rail, positioned both the balcony and jungle canopy in the frame, and set a timer. As the GoPro’s timer counted down, I stepped into the frame, leaned against the balcony rail and gazed out at the large green leaves across the way.

Thirty minutes later, I walked past the restaurants, bars and shops along Central Avenue and headed towards Playa Tamarindo’s beach. Iguanas basked in the sun along the concrete sidewalk. Black vultures congregated around piles of garbage bags. As I turned onto Ruta Nacional Secundaria 152, the road that runs along the beach, the sound of waves entranced the road. Tourists and locals carried beach towels, umbrellas and chairs down palm-lined pathways towards the sand. A number of shops with bright-coloured surfboards started to appear, offering surfboard rentals and lessons. As I walked further down the road, I noted the various surf shops and their prices, gazed at the old, lumpy wax on every surfboard and gulped.

Tomorrow’s the day I learn to surf, I thought, as I watched a tanned, shirtless surfer with wavy brown hair carry a surfboard across the asphalt road barefoot.

I trekked across the road and headed down a pathway with over hanging palm trees where more surfers were traversing. My flip flops sunk into the white and yellow sand. Sun seeped through the palm leaves and grazed my skin. As I reached the end of the pathway, the Pacific Ocean loomed across the horizon. Ten-foot waves rose above the blue water, curled and then thundered onto the shore. White water smothered the sand, as surfers ran into the water, lay on their boards and paddled out in the waves.

Shit, I thought, I’ve never seen waves that big before. I hope I don’t have to learn to surf in waves that size.

As I stepped closer to the ocean’s edge, mist drifted into the air from the crashing waves, landing on my warm skin. The taste of saltwater filled my mouth. After walking for a few minutes, I reached a large estuary running straight through the middle of the beach and out into the ocean.

The estuary in Playa Tamarindo runs from deep in the jungle and mountains. As the estuary runs right into the Pacific Ocean, it creates large river mouth barrels when the swells are pumping, providing both local and tourists with epic surfing opportunities. The estuary, however, is home to one of Costa Rica’s largest and deadliest predators, the saltwater crocodile. Though people surf in Playa Tamarindo’s waters every day, the crocodiles have been known to swim out of the estuary and into the rolling waves. Attacks are rare. However, surfers and swimmers have been attacked before. As I was researching Playa Tamarindo before I embarked on my trip, I actually stumbled on an article about a man recently being attack by a crocodile while surfing. Needless to say, I was a little anxious to not only attempt surfing for the first time, but also share the waters with one of the world’s largest and most powerful predators.

My feet dug into the sand. Sweat formed in my armpits. I scanned the still, dark water along the estuary, as grey clouds and dark jungle foliage loomed above.

Well, I thought, I can’t see any crocodiles. Hopefully Google was wrong and there aren’t that many crocodiles in this estuary because tomorrow’s the day that I finally learn how to surf.

I stared at the estuary for a few more minutes, looking for any ripples or breaks in the water, and then trekked back to my hotel as the sun started to dip behind the grey clouds.

That evening, I wandered over to the outdoor restaurant, Dragonfly, located right beside my hotel. Wooden tables and chairs covered the bamboo framed patio. A large wooden roof canopied above them. Palm trees and string lights surrounded the restaurant. I walked past a few tables filled with other travelers, grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered an Imperial beer. The bartender, a Costa Rican man with tanned skin and a long black pony tail, handed it to me. Condensation soaked the label, as it mushed beneath my thumb.

“Where are you from?” the bartender asked.

I gulped a sip of my beer. Condensation dripped onto my leg.

“Toronto, Canada.”

“Ah, nice. I’ve never been. What brings you to Playa Tamarindo?”

“I’ve always wanted to learn how to surf, and I’ve always wanted to explore Costa Rica, so I figured this was the place to do both.”

The bartender grinned, as he dried a clean beer glass.

“Yes, the surfing here is great. I get up at sunrise every day, ride my bike down to the beach with my board, surf for a few hours, and then come work here in the evenings.”

“Every day?”

“Every day.”

“Wow, I wouldn’t mind a lifestyle like that.”

The bartender laughed.

“Yes, it’s not bad at all,” he said, “I’m Fernando.”

“Trent,” I said, and sipped my beer, “So, is surfing really as hard as they say? I’ve snowboarded most of my life. I’m hoping it’ll be similar to that.”

Fernando set down the clean beer glass, pressed his hands onto the bar top and leaned towards me.

“Ah, yes. Snowboarding will help you with the balance part of surfing, but the real trick to surfing is timing. This is often the most difficult part for people learning to surf. When you’re snowboarding, the mountain is still. You just simply need to stand up and ride down the hill. With surfing, the waves are always moving. The key is to match the ocean’s timing. That’s the only way to truly catch a wave.”

I pondered for a moment. How hard could matching the ocean’s timing be?

“Are you going to take a lesson?” Fernando asked.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I would. You’ll have a lot more fun out there. You want another beer?”

I drank the last sip of my beer, placed the empty bottle on the bar top and nodded. Condensation circled the base of the bottle. Chatter echoed off of the restaurant’s wooden roof, as more diners filled the tables. After a few more beers, I paid my tab. Fernando wished me luck on my surfing adventure. I thanked him, stumbled through the rows of tables and walked down the dirt road beneath the moon, stars and palm trees back to my hotel.

The next morning, I threw on a pair of Vans boardshorts, lathered on some sunscreen, walked to one of the local restaurants as the sun rose over the palm trees, munched on Gallo Pinto, which is a classic Costa Rican breakfast consisting of rice, beans and eggs, and then headed down to the beach strip. The waves crashed and thundered. The row of surf shops popped into view. Their staff members placed surfboards on racks outside of each shop. After walking for a few minutes, I stepped into a shop called Iguana Surf. A tanned Costa Rican man with long flowing hair peered at me from the counter.

“Hola,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

I crept further into the shop. My legs trembled. My feet sweat on my flip flops.

“I’d like to take a surf lesson, please,” I said.

“Have you ever surfed before?”

“Nope.”

“All right,” the man said, as he stepped behind the desk, grabbed an orange and black rash guard, and tossed it to me, “Ben will take you out for an hour. Throw on the rash guard. You’ll be on one of the soft tops, and they can irritate your skin, so it’s best to wear one. You can leave your sandals and other stuff in one of the cubbies over there.”

He nodded towards a small shelving system to the left of the desk. Other people’s belongings overflowed out of the small cubed spaces. I shoved my shoes, t-shirt and backpack into one of the cubbies, pulled on the rash guard and waddled to the entrance of the shop. The rash guard smelled like salt. The damp material clung to my arms, chest and back. A moment later, another tanned man appeared in front of the shop. His long, curly blonde hair drooped down the back of his orange Iguana Surf t-shirt. A turquoise digital watch clung to his wrist.

“You Trent?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m Ben. We’ll take out one of these nine-foot soft tops. Grab whatever one you want and let’s head to the beach.”

I grabbed a large, blue board from the rack and placed it under my armpit. My fingers wrapped around the edge of the foam board. After a row of cars and trucks passed, we stepped across the street. Pebbles dug into my bare feet, as we traversed the asphalt road. The board strained my fingers, arm and shoulder. The sound of the waves grew louder and louder. When my feet hit the sand, a set of large waves crashed into the shore.

“All right, drop the board up here,” Ben said, as we approached the shoreline, “To get up on a wave, you need to first lay down in the centre of your board, and have your toes right at the end of it.”

Ben lay down on the board in the sand.

“When a wave starts rolling in, you’re going to want to do three strong paddles to try and match the wave’s speed.”

Ben started paddling. Sand flung behind him, as his fingertips cut through the beach.

“Then, you want to place both of your hands beneath your chest, push yourself up, bring your back foot up and into the centre of the board, and then pop your other foot ahead of it and onto the centre of the board. As soon as you pop up, bend your knees a bit to maintain balance, and always keep your eyes towards the shore. Got it? Now give it a go.”

Ben hopped up from the board. I stepped beside the board, inhaled and lay down on it. My ribs dug into the soft top.

“All right, let’s see you pop up! Don’t forget to paddle!”

I glided my hands through the sand a few times, pressed into the soft top and popped my feet onto the board. As my feet landed on the deck, my hands extended outwards. I grinned, and then repeated the process over and over and over again.

“Looks like you’ve got the hang of it,” Ben said, “Let’s go test it out in the water. Strap the leash to your left leg since it looks like you’re a goofy rider, and then we’ll get out there.”

I strapped the sand-covered Velcro leash to my ankle, picked up the board and walked towards the shore. The leash dragged in the sand. As the water from the Pacific Ocean slithered across my toes, I surveyed the wave lineup for other surfers and crocodiles.

“Follow me,” Ben said, as he waded into the water. Waves rushed past his waist. I stepped in a few feet, dropped the board on the surface of the water and dragged it alongside me. A wave thundered past me. The current grabbed my legs, yanked them back towards the beach and then pulled them the opposite direction. My quads tensed.

Wow, I thought, I’ve never experienced water this powerful before.

After a few moments, we stopped. The waves around us crumbled into white water. Other surfers caught cleaner waves farther out. I gawked at a surfer gliding across a smooth wave face, as the water curled behind him.

“We’ll start by learning how to catch some white water. Hop on the board and lay on it just like we did on the beach.”

I slid onto the board. The board rocked and rolled across the water’s surface. Saltwater splashed into my mouth. I shimmied my body until my toes touched the end of the board, and waited.

“Here we go!” Ben shouted. “Start paddling when I say to.”

My heart raced. My palms clenched the side of the board.

“Three, two, one! Paddle!”

Ben shoved the board toward the shore. My hands dug into the water, as I paddled as hard as I could. A loud roar sounded from behind me. A second later, white water surrounded the board, accelerating it towards the beach.

“Pop up! Pop up!” Ben screamed.

I pressed my hands into the board and jumped up onto the soft top. As soon as my feet landed, the board slipped out from underneath me. My body slammed into the saltwater. Beneath the surface, the current tossed and flipped me above the ocean floor. I covered my face, as the surfboard flailed around the water. After the wave fully passed, I surfaced.

That was wild, I thought, I almost had it!

I yanked my board back to me using the leash. The set continued to roll through. Wave after wave smashed into the board and I, as I waded back to Ben.

“Good try,” he said, “Let’s give it another go.”

For the next hour, Ben continued to push my board, while I tried paddling and standing on white water waves. I missed waves or wiped out over and over and over again. Ben looked at his watch. I didn’t know what time it was, but the hour lesson had to be almost over. As I watched a surfer farther out in the lineup catch an unbroken wave, I hopped back onto the board and prepared for the incoming white water. As the familiar roar filled my ears, Ben gave my board a push again. I paddled. As soon as the wave grabbed my board, I popped up. My feet landed right in the centre of the deck. After a moment, I realized I was gliding along the water toward shore. I beamed, as the board edged closer and closer to the sand.

As the white water dispersed, the board sunk beneath the water. I hopped off, yanked my board in and sped back out towards Ben, and then caught a few more white-water waves before the lesson ended. As we trekked out of the water, I dragged my board onto the sand, wrapped the leash around the tail and fins, and smirked.

I fucking love surfing, I thought, as I dropped off the board back at the shop, grabbed my belongings and gazed out at the waves in the distance, and I also think I deserve a beer.

Upon returning to my hotel, I popped into Dragonfly next door, plunked down into one of the whicker bar stools and grinned. Fernando dried a glass with a towel, as he walked over to me.

“So,” he said, “how was your first time surfing?”

“It was awesome,” I beamed, “a lot harder than I thought, but I’m definitely addicted to the feeling of gliding along the ocean.”

Fernando placed a beer on the bar top. The bottle sweat in the humidity. Condensation pooled around its base.

“It’s a good feeling for sure.”

For the next few hours, I drank celebratory beers, powered through a post surfing meal and daydreamed about getting back into Tamarindo’s crocodile-infested waters.

As grey light blanketed Tamarindo’s dirt-compacted streets the next morning, I shimmied past a few iguanas and vultures, as I trekked down towards the Pacific Ocean. The ocean roared before I could see it. A man rode his bicycle past me. His surfboard clung to a makeshift rack attached to his bike’s frame. As I neared Iguana Surf Shop, the ocean came into view. Large, powerful waves spiked above the horizon, slashed at the air as they peaked, and then chomped down onto the ocean floor. The ocean’s roar rumbled up onto the road. A group of surfers sat just past the impact zone, waiting for more waves to slither in. I gulped.

Maybe surfing by myself today isn’t the smartest move, I thought. The waves seemed powerful yesterday, but this looks like a whole other level. The water looks pretty dark too with the grey clouds overhead. How the hell am I supposed to see a crocodile if it’s out in the surf?

These thoughts spun in my head, as another waved clamped down on the shore. The sound grumbled through my body.

I wish I had someone here to surf with me, I sighed.

A few moments later, I stepped into Iguana Surf Shop, rented a foam longboard, left my sandals in one of the cubbies, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Asphalt pressed into my feet, as I lugged my board across the road. When my feet pressed into the sand, the ocean’s growl trembled through my calves. The closer I stepped, the stronger the tremble became. When I reached the shoreline, I dropped my board on the sand, stepped to an area of the sand where the water had just receded back into the ocean, and gazed out at the breaking waves. Palm trees and jungle leaves rattled overhead. The dark estuary loomed to the right. A large wave cracked and snapped into the water. White wash exploded towards shore. The water rushed up onto the sand, grabbed my ankles and pulled me toward the dark ocean. My core tensed. My palms sweat.

You can do this, Trent. You were in here surfing with the instructor yesterday. There are other surfers out there in the lineup too. Just give it a go for a few minutes and see how tough and scary it is.

After I studied the waves and scanned for crocodiles for a few more minutes, I picked up my board, trudged across the damp sand and stepped into the water. The board’s foam dug into my ribs. White water grabbed my feet. I plunked the board onto the water and paddled. A wave broke, slammed into my face and knocked me off my board. A wall of water rushed over me. My board whiplashed towards shore. I covered my face with my hands.

A few more waves tossed me around before I was able to grab hold of my board and hop back on. Panting, I tried paddling out towards the lineup. As more waves broke, I hopped off my board, flipped it upside down, held it by the nose over my head, waited for the waves to pass, flipped it back over, hopped back on and continued to paddle, just as my instructor taught me. To my surprise, this technique worked, allowing me to hold my ground during the onslaught of heavy white water. After several minutes of paddling out, my arms burned. The unbroken, curling waves sparkled in the distance. A surfer popped up and rode a wave along the horizon.

There’s no way I’ll make it out that far, I thought, and those waves look way too powerful for me anyways. I guess I’ll have to try and catch the white water like I did in my lesson yesterday.

I tried to sit on my board like the pro surfers out in the real lineup. My legs dangled in the crocodile-infested water. The swell shuffled my board around. I swung my arms and attempted to steady myself, and then fell in. Saltwater entered my nostrils and mouth. Salt simmered on my tongue. I clambered back on top of my board and lay there. The sand-encrusted wax scraped against my rash guard.

After catching my breath, I peered over my shoulder toward the lineup. A massive wave curled along the horizon. The wall of water accelerated toward me. Its glassy face suddenly crumbled into white water.

This is it, I thought.

As the wave crumbled into thundering white water, I turned toward shore, and paddled and paddled and paddled. The roar grew louder. Water sprayed my back. As I continued to paddle, the board all of a sudden started to glide. The wave caught me. For a moment, I stopped paddling. After realizing that this was the feeling of actually catching a wave, I pressed my hands into the top of the board and popped up. My feet landed on the wax-covered deck. My hands sprung up into the air. For a few magical seconds that felt like minutes, I glided across the Pacific Ocean, surfing with crocodiles.

The white water fizzled out. My board lost momentum. I hopped into the water, climbed back on my board, and paddled back out. My exhausted arms burned, but my desire to ride another wave burned harder. A few minutes later, another wall of white water thundered towards shore. I paddled and paddled and paddled, waited until I felt the wave catch my board, and then popped up, gliding towards shore again.

After catching waves throughout the afternoon, I headed into town for a celebratory beer. I invited my new friends, Riley and Danielle, to join me. When they arrived, I told them about my surf lesson, my day out in the water by myself, and how I finally started to understand what it meant to “catch a wave.”

After drinking some beers together, Riley insisted that we go surfing together as soon as possible. I couldn’t believe it. After travelling alone and heading out into the ocean solo, I finally found someone that would not only surf with me, but also brave the crocodile-infested waters. We clanked beer bottles and agreed to meet at Iguana Surf Shop in two days.

After spending a day at Palo Verde National Park and witnessing Costa Rica’s saltwater crocodiles up close, I blitzed out of bed the next morning as the sun rose above Playa Tamarindo, devoured my rice, bean and egg breakfast, and headed down to Iguana Surf Shop to meet Riley. He stood there when I arrived, gazing across the road at the breaking waves like I’d done two days before. As I felt confident from my previous day’s session, I rented a seven-foot funboard instead of the longboard I’d been learning on. The board felt light under my arm compared to the longboard. The fibreglass deck also felt less forgiving than the foamboard. After we both rented our boards, we crossed the road and headed toward the beach.

The familiar rumble of waves vibrated through my feet, as we trudged across the sand. A group of surfers sat out in the lineup. After scanning the waves for crocodiles, we stepped out into the water with our boards. The undertow gripped our legs. White water rushed past us. I tossed my funboard on the water and climbed on. Unlike the foam longboard, which felt like laying on a dock, the funboard jostled around the water. Every small wave knocked the board, threatening to toss me into the crocodile-infested water at any point.

After stabilizing myself, I glanced toward the horizon, watched as a wave broke in the distance, and started to paddle. The white water roared behind me. My arms burned. The white water caught my board, just as it had two days before. Within seconds, I popped up and glided along the ocean on my slightly shorter rental board.

After catching a few more waves, Riley and I chatted, as we rested on our boards and bobbed around in the surf.

“You should get out there and catch one of the unbroken waves,” he said, as he pointed towards a surfer carving across a green wave face in the distance.

My chest tensed. The wave thundered in the distance, as its face crumbled.

“I don’t think I’m ready yet,” I said.

“Sure you are,” Riley said and grinned, “it’s probably just like riding the white water.”

I gazed out along the horizon, as another wave rose above the crocodile-infested water. I grinned. A few days earlier I was afraid to try surfing because of the potential for crocodiles in the water. Now, I was contemplating where my next surf trip would be, and when I’d be able to catch an unbroken wave.

“Someday,” I said, “but not today.”

That evening, I popped into Dragonfly for a celebratory beer and to reminisce about my first ever surf trip. My arms and legs ached from paddling and fighting the current. Sea salt crunched, as I ran my hand through my dark brown hair. Fernando placed a beer on the bar top in front of me. Wooden, overhead fans whirled, as the thick, humid jungle air wrapped around my skin and formed condensation on my glass.

“So, how was your trip to Costa Rica?” Fernando asked.

I sipped my beer.

“It was great,” I said, “Made some friends, learned how to surf and even saw some crocodiles out in Palo Verde National Park.”

“Did you get to experience any of Tamarindo’s nightlife?”

“Not really. I’m here by myself, so I didn’t really feel too safe going out anywhere later in the night.”

Fernando gaped. His black ponytail whirled as he turned toward me. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

“You haven’t experienced the night life? Oh, you’ve got to come out with me.”

I laughed.

“I can’t,” I said, “this is my last night here.”

“Then we go tonight. I’m almost done my shift. I’ll take you into town to experience one of the bars. You’ve got to before you leave. I’ve got my motorcycle here. I’ll drive you in.”

Insects hummed and buzzed in the jungle leaves. People chatted, as they walked by the restaurant and headed towards town. My heart raced. I wasn’t a fan of motorcycles, let alone driving on one through jungle roads with someone I just met less than a week ago. I gazed out at the large tropical trees that draped over the dirt road. An orange glow glistened above their leaves, as the sun dropped behind the ocean.

“Let me think about it as I finish my beer,” I said.

As Fernando wiped up the bar top, cleaned glasses and covered the beer taps, I reminisced about staring out at the crocodile-infested estuary that feeds into Playa Tamarindo’s surf break on my first evening in Costa Rica, panicking at the thought of crocodiles gliding across the waves, while I attempted to surf. I also thought about the days, despite struggling through the undertow, white water and crocodile-infested thoughts, that I’d actually learnt how to surf. As I finished my last sip of beer, I smirked. Fernando turned off Dragonfly’s lights and approached me.

“You coming?”

I followed Fernando out of the bar. His motorcycle rested on the red dirt road. Palm leaves shadowed the bike from the streetlight’s orange glow. Fernando sat on his bike. I hopped on the back of the seat. A jungle breeze grazed my board shorts and bare calves. My flip flops rested above the exhaust pipes. As the smell of earth from the dirt road entered my nostrils, the bike’s engine roared.