Casado Chronicles

Our road through southern Costa Rica, Spring 2023.

Our road through southern Costa Rica, 2023. 

Pavones’ mid-section, pulled-back view.  You don’t leave the jungle til you're in the water.

I hang on tight to the sink bowl and try to avoid my friend's toothbrush as I empty my stomach and the last of the arroz con pollo I had for dinner down the drain. I shudder, rinse myself off, and head back to bed where the process will start over--a few minutes of comfort, followed by gripping stomach pain, wicked nausea, and then a sprint back to the bathroom. 

Waves of illness pulsed through me like the sets hitting the point—first stacking up outside, then bending in and unloading their energy, and finally receding and washing away for the lull. In my feverish sleep in between bouts I actually dreamt of being in the lineup at the point, jockeying with the crowd and contending with rogue sets. It was only food poisoning, something almost unavoidable in the tropics, but any illness that powerful will have you questioning your reasons. So what exactly were we searching for at the edge of the Costa Rican jungle, and what did we eventually find? Well, as always it was none of those things that you imagine before you visit a place, but it was better because it was real and infinitely more true and interesting. 

Our road to southern Costa Rica was fairly simple, really. About as straightforward as a surf trip plan could be, and was executed as such. The plan was to spend 2 weeks in the country with the primary target of Pavones—the reeling black-sand reverse-rincon in the jungle at the southern end of Costa Rica. To get there is a proper mission, so a couple nights were allocated to surfing beachbreaks nearer the capital city as a stopover on the way down. It was all set and tied in ribbon at least a month in advance. It all went according to plan too—the southern hemisphere awoke from a sleepy early season and started shouting swell northward, our group logistics came together easily, and the cost was competitive with one week of staying at an inclusive resort. It was my first time in Costa Rica and I was surprised by how much more civilized, developed and gentle this place was compared to Oaxaca. 

  We paid for this lack of stress with a lack of swell and serviceable corners at Playa Hermosa though. We spent the first few days huddled way too comfortably in an Airbnb nicer than my own house, across the street from a fun beachbreak. We kept giving Playa Hermosa a chance at every tide and wind turn, and it didn’t cease to disappoint us. Eventually, all we could think about were glassy roping walls so we stacked the boards in a great pyramid on the roof of our brand new rental and set off for Pavones. It would be late afternoon when we’d arrive, plenty of time for a surf, and everyone was envisioning some crispy green walls.  South of Golfito and pretty much everything else except Panama, the country opened up and mountains, pastures, and ranch houses flew by the car window. The road turned to dirt and we crossed single lane bridges and wound around hills until we ran parallel to gulf for a few miles, before eventually rolling into the dusty town of Pavones.  Many places on the Path of the Modern Surf Tourist have been overdeveloped and gentrified.  Expensive Cafes, seedy clubs, and trashy hostels line the still-unimproved streets of the modern third world surf town, where new business and foreign money have been dropped on top of the old, inadequate infrastructure.  Not Pavones. Here, horses roam the dirt streets, restaurants are family-owned and offer local fare (usually), and the vibe is distinctly sleepy. Nowhere can escape progress but it seems Pavones has done a good job of resisting it. 

We briefly checked the waves on our way in, but the afternoon breeze was still on it so we decided to check into our Airbnb and come back later. The place was a shithole. Spacious but completely uncared for, complete with unattached screens, barely working appliances, completely open-air third floor, and of course no AC. We ran around for an hour tallying up all the things that were broken or shitty. The owner clearly had put in minimal effort to keep the place in shape but kept it listed on airbnb for a decently high price with the caveat that it was ‘under construction.’  It seemed like a scam to us.  We aren’t complainers, we thought, as we decided that making a complaint to the owner was the right thing to do. We couldn’t waste too much time on it though, as it was getting dark for our evening session. 

The point was nearly flat that evening as we attempted to stand up in the dusk. It would be, luckily, the worst waves of the whole trip, but it still felt like a bummer, a true low point in that moment to have come this far and still after almost a week have no decent waves to show for the trip.  We live in an era of instant satisfaction, and our brains are used to dopamine hits on command. Pull out your phone and with a few taps you can soothe yourself with images of other people scoring barrels, which is probably what we all did that night, in addition to having a few beers to make light of our situation. We all know waves don’t play the same way that tiktoks do, so nobody was completely let down, but it did strike me that we were here complaining about something as trivial as a couple of ripped bug nets and piddly swell. In Playa Hermosa we had watched Second Thoughts, the epic homemade surf film of guys feral camping in indo to score epic reef breaks. The irony of our situation compared to theirs was not lost on us.  

With nothing left to do we walked to dinner. We had to wander until we found a local restaurant that was open, and the second we appeared in front of the 3 patrons inside, we got chirped. Some fried blonde American took one look at us and said, “oh are you guys here for the swell?” With such derisive sarcasm that none of us could even think of what to say, so we all just cold shouldered him. After it appeared that he had left, we roasted the fuck out of him, even though we later realized he was just standing in the dark dusty car park probably within earshot. The dinner turned out to be excellent and affordable, though, so at least we had that going for us. The next morning, things decided to start turning around for us, and we actually did find glassy green walls at the top of the point on the morning low tide. My first view of Pavones was clean green lefts coming towards me, with Shey snagging a set from out the back and racing the sections. A local Tico liked the look of the wave and dropped in ahead of him, bumping his rail on the bottom turn as he went for a shitty flyaway air. 

At that point I may not have realized it, but we had now experienced both types of Pavones localism. There were 2 groups claiming ownership of the wave: expats who had bought land and moved their whole lives here, some many years in the past, and the Costa Ricans who live and raise families there. Both groups have their good and bad reasons for holding it down. There is a solid crew of Costa Rican locals who dominate the point over anyone else. One guy will ride by you whacking the lip backside, leash on his front foot, then switch stance and rip even harder goofy.  Next to them are leathered gringos who fled some faraway hometown for a slice of the tropical dream, because this wave and its environs were just too dreamy to pass up. The history of pavones is unique and responsible for this situation. Normally when you visit a surf spot there are people who are indigenous to that place still living there, who have the most right to localize the lineup if they choose.  Pavones is different because the place was undeveloped jungle until Danny Fowlie, a legendary American smuggler from the 70s, bought the land and built the town. The Costa Ricans only moved there after Fowlie went to jail and his land holdings were empty, when they came and squatted on the open land that was mostly owned by American surfers. There were heated battles, combat with automatic weapons, even, until things were worked out in the later 90’s.  So you’ve got a town that was actually built by expats for expats, where the indigenous actually do (or did, perhaps) not have the legal rights to the land, and everyone wants the set waves.  There is no question who is catching those, though.  The ticos dominate in the water and are affable on land, the expats pick up scraps in the water but will have you believing they’re top dawg when you meet them at the bar. It’s an important distinction in what is a very confusing case of the dumbest game in the world, “who’s more local”. 

After much debate, we decided that we could not find a better accommodation for ourselves, so asking for a refund and bailing to somewhere nicer was not an option.  We would have to swallow pride and price and just deal with the house’s shitty eccentricities. Luckily we had surf to distract us, as the swell rose steadily for the next 3 days until the point was solid head high and connecting. We would surf the early morning low tide glass after an early breakfast of fruit and toast, then come in and eat a full breakfast of eggs, potatoes, and whatever else we could find.  Then, we’d lay around on the sofas sweating and waiting for the midday tide push, when we’d do laps in the swelter and smack burritos on our walks back up the point.  After that, and feeling extra toasty from the afternoon glare, we would rest up for one more quick sesh before dark, when you'd be lucky to snag one off the local pack.  Finally dinner would usually consist of local Casados, which is an enormous plate with everything you could ever need--your choice of meat, rice, beans, salad, and patacones, which are smashed and fried plantains.  And so our days went like that until the swell, along with our arms and pretty much everything else in our bodies gave out and we needed a break. A friend from college who was embedded in the local scene told us that a restaurant would be having a taco night that Friday, which would be an evening consisting of fish tacos and margaritas, along with socializing with locals at a place called the Gypsy Wagon. This was accepted as our distraction from all the surfing.  Taco Night was what we needed. 

Its embarrassing to admit, but we had a recurring problem of driving up to quiet restaurants in our massive SUV with the extra bright LED headlights absolutely shining the fuck out of everyone in attendance at the establishment.  This happened numerous times and we became conscious of it, but never more conscious than in the moment we pulled up to Gypsy Wagon.  Shey’s buddy from Hawaii, Spencer, was crashing with us and had brought some duty free tequila, which we all got into before heading out.  The only person who didn’t was Dylan, the grom of the trip for intents and purposes (his current residence in Isla Vista cemented that fact), so he was elected to drive.  With 5 buzzed idiots all providing conflicting instructions at once, Dylan was rightly ticked while we high beamed everyone at the Gypsy Wagon. Eventually we figured our shit out and parked and entered the establishment.   Apparently while I was ordering, a guy decided to tell the rest of the crew that he'd be “paddling around all of them,” next time he saw them in the water.  We later realized it was the same guy who had chirped us on our first night, which earned him the name ‘ChirpBah” and the ire of everyone for the rest of the trip. Of course it turned out we had mutual friends, so we spent the rest of the night chirping him back.  After the Tacos and margs had run dry, which didn't take long, the crowd migrated to Beach Bar, which was across the dirt road and down a narrow muddy path into the forest that fronts the beach.  There, a rickety wooden palapa had been outfitted with a fridge and was blasting Latin music.  And that was our night, dancing away the crust of too many hours in the water with the strange faces of the rural tropical night.  We tried to drink enough beer to make our hips work, to get them to swivel to the bopping reggaeton, but we realized what deep down we knew all along--that no amount of alcohol could teach us to move like that.  The fact that Dylan lived in IV meant that this was actually a light night of drinking for him, so he was luckily in condition to get us home as we all bullshitted the night away.  

Shey, out. 

The perfect representation of taco night: Blurred, tilted, and moving to the music. Just how we remember it. 

We allocated 2 days to non-surf activity, which mostly consisted of sitting on the couches and reading, but also included “nature activities”. A walk up the Rio Claro actually proved to be beautiful.  As we went, the houses fell away and the banks rose steeply and the verdant green jungle hung over. We trudged through knee deep water while basilisks (aka the Jesus Christ lizard, known for running across water to escape predators), spiders, parrots and toucans scurried through the bush. The water was probably 70F but offered the only refreshment from the heat we felt the whole time we were in pavones. The next day was for punta baba, our name for the southerly terminus of the road and civilization south of pavones, where the coast faces the pacific. We walked south along the beach in search of something—waterfalls, waves, maybe, but found neither. It was the truly hottest, most humid shit I’ve ever felt, and the closest I’ve been to the equator as well.  Steep cliffs drop the raw jungle straight onto the beach there, where unfiltered pacific juice unloads onto jagged low-tide reefs. The scenery was exquisite, the humidity truly breathtaking, but the most shocking scene was at our feet. Large and small, chunks, grains, bottles, plastic of every kind was everywhere.  It seemed to be as endless as the beach. We couldn’t tell if it came from the ocean or the land, but we suspected both.  The beach at Pavones point is adorned with homemade signs instructing everyone to pick up trash and keep it clean, and that beach was noticeably cleaner than this one.  The country’s tourism dollar depends on this area being thought of as an untouched natural landscape, and the amount of trash really made us wonder whether that was true, or if it suffers from the same lack of sanitation infrastructure as the rest of Central America.  We loaded up a trash bag without even making a dent, and drove home in the ac. 

Rio Claro and Punta Baba

I gave up on checking Surfline for forecasts, but in my head I assumed the swell that was predicted for the end of our stay to be similar to the prior one, which was fun but not too impressive. So, as it began to fill in I underestimated it. In the morning I brought out my small wave board and was overmatched by the current and crowd. During midday I was perfectly in sync with the head high walls on my 5’8 round pin. I returned home and lazed all afternoon. I didn’t think much of the waves until we got back to the point in the evening to find the size had doubled. Proper 10ft sets heaved through the outside and squeezed their way around the corner. The local crew was on it, catching every set. Now Pavones had my attention. I surfed bareback and caught a couple solid ones on the outside, and then fought for a head high screamer through the cove at dusk. Each wave I caught I thought ‘that was my best wave of the trip’. 

I was ready for it the next morning, mentally at least. I didn’t really have a plan for attacking it when I thought the waves would be best, I figured I’d just walk down by myself and catch a few in the morning glass, expecting a thick crowd like the day before. What I found, though, was that the locals seemed to be waiting for lower tide, meaning much of the lineup was open. The higher tide was holding the current back, and making the paddle from the beach to the top of the cove pretty manageable.   Most of the crowd was waiting further in, where the section slows and is easy to make. I sat outside of them, where the outside wall finally tapers off after heaving down the line from the top in one fluid motion. While I was waiting outside the pack, Nico flew by me on a set wave from outside. He trimmed smoothly through the overhead pocket, setting up the inside section.  I took off late on the next one and got the smoothest butter drop I’ve ever felt on a wave that size. I highlined as the wall stood up, dropped when it slowed down, paced my bottom turn around the section and fanged it under the lip. I heard hoots as I came freefalling down, then went back and did it again and again and again. Nico was on the beach when I made it in from my wave. We were buzzing and wanted one more, so we walked back up to the rivermouth and went right back out to where we caught our last ones. Not even 5 minutes of waiting and another set was there—flawless 10ft faces. Bluebirds. I was deeper so I went for the first one. I wrapped turns starting on the meaty wall of the top section, and kept going until I was at the boats at the bottom again. Nico was on the next one, and came in right after me. 2 sets in a row we rode waves back to back, each over 300 yards, and it all hit us in that moment. We hugged and I tried to take it all in. 

We called it for that session and ate breakfast. Ethan and Shey were getting ready to surf for midday, but I needed time to rest before going back out.  Back at the house I was feeling a little salty that no one was there to film our best waves, so I tried to find the handicams we brought, but couldn’t. I came back down to the point, slightly unprepared but completely satisfied with my surfing after that morning. I rode some fun waves on my self-shaped quad dubbed the wormhole due to the fact that a bug had actually chewed a hole clear through the deck of it when it was a foam blank sitting in my yard at my old house in Montecito. Maybe those waves would’ve been epic if I’d had my other board, but nothing could compare to that morning. The water had turned sandy brown, the low tide had shrunk the sets somewhat, and the wind was ruffling the face. Mainly I watched Ethan do laps and catch some of the best waves I’ve ever seen him ride. I would’ve filmed him too but It was too hard with just my phone. It was still absolutely pumping, but my trip had peaked and I knew it. We all convened back at the house and went to a new spot for dinner. Everything about the restaurant appeared fine to me, similar to all the other places we’d eaten. The other guys ordered steak plates and I got pork chop. The food all seemed fine to me while I was eating, but the other guys complained that their steak wasn’t that good. I didn’t think much of it and went to bed. We had arranged to boat across the gulf to some rights in the morning, so we rested up. 

The local boatmen use a tractor to launch the homemade fiberglass panga through the shorebreak at the bottom of pavones, the very spot where Nico and I were finishing our rides 24 hours earlier. A 2x4 was balanced between the transom of the panga and the front of the tractor, which pushed the boat into the shorebreak while we all loaded in. Captain Enrique ripped the chord of his Yamaha 40 just once, and we were off. Pavones looked dreamy, blue and offshore and reeling as we started across the Golfo Dulce. Mata palo, the main spot on that side of the bay, held solid size but completely no organization for most of the time we spent there. It was a lazy session for all of us, I didn’t even care that I was finally going frontside. I caught a good last one and called it a session, but felt a knot in my stomach on my paddle back to the boat. I had to aqua dump one in the channel before climbing back aboard. I thought I was just tired and hungry when we got back, but after dinner and rest I realized that something else was wrong. I started visiting the bathroom frequently, and my stomach was clearly upset. That’s all I thought it would be, but once I went to bed, the nausea hit.  It didn’t take long for me to be in and out of the bathroom all night. And that was it for my trip.

So what did we find? What did we learn?  Despite any letdowns, our trip truly was complete.  Maybe we didn't film on the best day, or become welcomed into the local scene with open arms, stay in the finest ranch house Pavones could offer, or be spat from warm barrels with no one around, but it doesn't matter because those moments don't stick you anyways. There were plenty of blissful sunsets and many elevating highlines but those are just our momentary pleasures, like an ice cream in that staggering heat.  They are the juice that makes the whole squeeze worth it, but they also disappear quickly like a sugar rush.  What we’ll be left with are the feeling of satisfaction for making it that far south, for finding your place in the crowd at the point and in the dusty wild west town, and finding our way into a couple screaming lefts; plus, gratitude for having utmost freedom with a group of friends new and old, for being able to watch the Macaws float over the trees as you wait for the next set, and for surviving gut wrenching illness.  Those are the things that stick with you, and why the road always calls you back. 

You think I was kidding about the 2x4?

PEDACITOS

The little fragments you may or may not remember