A Welcome Change of Scenery

As we entered week two of our Central American getaway, I couldn’t help but feel a little restless. Our daily routine of eating, reading, sun-bathing, and swimming had begun to lose its luster. Our home base, the quaint surf village of Popoyo, had plenty of rustic charm, however was relatively lacking in things to do to pass the time.  It wasn’t long before we had seen and tasted basically all there was to offer. Ana had been able to break up the days with long beach walks and daily surf sessions, but with a frustratingly pronounced flare up of my back and hip pain, I was really beginning to feel the monotony wear on my happiness.

Luckily, we’d been able to hitch a ride to a series of spectacular warm-water tide pools a mile or so up the coast, where we collected precious seashells and marveled at a variety of cute aquatic creatures, but that was about it. Without a car or the ability to confidently operate a motorbike, we were, for all intents and purposes, “stuck like Chuck.” 

Salvation came in the way of a Facebook message from my old pal “Nica Greg.” “Hey brother, Hary, Joe and I are taking a boat trip tomorrow to look for some waves up the coast to celebrate my birthday,” it read. “Let me know if you and Ana would like to join.” Within seconds of receiving the invite, I’d already drafted a hasty reply. “Count us in! Let me know the plan, hermano!” For the next hour, I was on the edge of my seat, awaiting further instructions.

When I finally heard the “ping” from my phone about an hour later, I was excited to learn that he’d be by bright and early, at 5:30 AM, to pick us up. Because of the draining sun rays and general lack of post-dusk activities available to us, this posed no problem. Like a married couple of 40+ years, we were generally tucked in before 9PM anyways. In preparation for our adventure, we raided the nearby corner store to pick up some snacks and iced coffee. That was the plan, anyway.

At 4:45 AM, my alarm blared. Groggily, we arose from bed and began preparations for our excursion. While I practiced some yoga to stretch my locked up muscles, Ana made her way to the kitchen we shared with the other guest at the Club Surf Popoyo to secure some food, and most importantly, caffeine.

Less than a minute later, she returned with a horrified look on her face—it turns out the kitchen was locked until 7:15AM! I tried to conceal my despair, assuring my love that there was sure to be somewhere along the way to our boat where we could find something to fill our bellies and jump start our nervous systems. Whether or not she actually believed me or not, Ana took it in stride. What a trooper, I thought.

At 5:30AM, Greg rocked up in his Nicaraguan-ready Toyota 4-Runner. After parking, he strode up our driveway with a coffee mug in hand and a bright smile on his face. For a brief moment, I eyed his java supply with barely concealed envy. “Buenos dias amigos,” he said cheerfully, his Spanish tinged with a native Georgian twang. “Ready to find some waves?” After we exchanged pleasantries, I made it a point to wish the stocky, sun-leathered retired Army Ranger a Happy Birthday. “Feliz cumpleaños! How ya feelin’ today?”

He brushed strands of greying locks from his stony, yet handsome face and replied. “About as good as a 62 year-old can, although I got quite an unexpected wake-up call this morning!” He then went on to tell us how his Nicaraguan girlfriend had hired a full-piece Mariachi band to enter their home at 3:45AM for a very early, and very Nicaraguan, birthday surprise. 

We all chuckled as Greg began to load our boards onto the roof. Before I opened to door to get in the car, I noticed a crude depiction of a penis and testicles drawn by finger in the dirt covering the window. Must be Hary’s handiwork, I thought with amusement.

And there he sat, in the backseat, all ninety-five pounds of him. The 13 year-old Nicaraguan ripper had a painfully sleepy look on his face, as though he’d just been administered 100mgs of medical grade Ketamine—a far cry from the mischievous hellion I’d met the previous summer. “Que pasa Hary?! Psyched for the mission?” He grunted and directed his gaze back to his Instagram feed, where Italo Ferreira was flying through another acrobatic full-rotation air reverse onscreen.

In the front passenger seat sat Joe Taylor, an expat kneeboarder from Newport Beach who’d moved to Nicaragua three years prior with his wife. On the 15 minute drive to the beach where we were to launch the boat, we all, save Hary, chatted excitedly about the day ahead. The plan was to scope out a couple nearby waves that were likely to have some swell, but with the hellacious Nicaraguan Spring winds, there would be no guarantees.

Speaking of guarantees, my promises of caffeinated deliverance failed miserably when we found every corner store along the way to be shuttered. It looked like we would have to go without, but luckily, our excitement for the mission at hand trumped our disappointment. We pulled up a dirt road that led to a picturesque beach littered with brightly colored boats and mangy beach mutts fighting in the sand. We were greeted by our captain while a handful of his helpful assistants loaded our boards into the boat. At this point, the stiff offshore breeze began to howl, but there was no turning back now. “Vamanos,” said our guide, and we all piled in the modest panga.

As we motored past an offshore reef that was beginning to show it’s fangs, Hary, who had woken up a bit by now, wanted to let Greg know that he had a special birthday surprise in store for him. “For my present, Greg, I’m going to give you one big air-reverse! You will love it!” Greg just smiled and shook his head. The two have a very special relationship. Like most Nicaraguan boys his age, Hary is at a critical juncture in his young life. The allure of the party lifestyle that surrounds local children in touristy areas such as Popoyo can take kids like himself down the wrong path, and being the top rated competitive surfer in the country for his age, he has a lot to lose. 

As we motored our way North, we passed a stunning cliffside reminiscent of Scott’s Creek, and a series of empty beaches that stretched for miles. While the scenery was pretty, the wind had turned ugly. Nevertheless, we were thrilled, twenty minutes later, to find a reasonably uncrowded cobblestone A-Frame break that, despite the wind, still offered some incredible rides. I was so stoked to finally get a chance to unload some pent-up aggression, and for the next couple hours we sunk our teeth into some extremely serviceable surf. I even scored a sweet tube-ride.

When all was said and done, we were all thoroughly licked. While the ride there was relatively smooth, our way home was against the ferocious wind. By the time we got back to the beach where we launched our boat, I felt like a drowned rat. Hary, on the other hand, had crawled into Greg’s spacious board bag, where he emerged, completely dry. After the captain beached the boat, we trudged wearily to a beachfront palapa for some traditional Nicaraguan lunch and finally, some coffee.