Pura Vida!

At first Glance, Samara is a sleepy fishing village on the Nicoya Peninsula of Costa Rica. With a three-mile beach, horseshoe bay, four restaurants, an internet cafe, a supermarket and a noisy upstairs bar, the town seemed too tiny to be interesting for longer than a night or two. Tim and I stopped a local woman and asked where we could find tacos. "Tacos? Traditional Costa Rican Food? You cannot find that here. There are no traditional restaurants in town, just the Spanish place and the Italians with their pizza." She told us. "But I recommend that you try the Organic Foods store and thier restraunt around the corner. They are two blocks away at what we call the gym."

With bright green walls, and a green metal fence surrounding, the gym is one city block of bliss. Two American couples have recently relocated to Samara and have added to it what they would like in a town: an organic food store, a health-conscious restaurant, a massage hut and a local farmers market every Friday.

As we strolled into the farmers market, we quickly spotted the two American couples, and six other booths of local residents with crepes, cheeses, vegetables, smoothies, hummus and honey. I started a conversation with a tan elderly man at his hummus stand. He quickly switched from my Spanish to English and I heard a note of New York in his voice. His bright blue eyes sparkled as he told me his story of moving to Costa Rica five years ago, becoming healthy, and losing 110 pounds. He showed me an 8x10 photo of his former self to illustrate.

"That's fantastic!" I told him, "You essentially lost me!"

We laughed for a while and I basked in his glow: a mix of healthy, grateful and Pura Vida.

'Pura Vida' is an expression used in Costa Rica that means as many things as Aloha does in the Hawaiian Islands. In Spanish, ‘Pura Vida’ translates to ‘Pure Life’. But more than a life unclouded, down there it means ‘Enjoy Life.’ Do what you want to do most with it, enjoy every day, savor the good stuff and be sure to allow yourself plenty of good stuff.
While purchasing organic carrots and cucumber to use in the hummus, I met another man, John, an artist who has also relocated from the states and has lived in Samara for a week.

Why Costa Rica? It all started when his 26 year old daughter asked to put in a CD. He resisted her music choice until she gave the disclaimer of "Dad, if you don't like it, I will take it out. Just try it."

The CD turned out to be Jack Johnson, singing lullabies and melodies about priorities other than the 9 to 5, about an easy going style of life, about following what makes you happy and realizing that all you need is within yourself. An instant resonance with these themes led John to view Johnson's surf movies, seek out surf spots, and eventually end up on this beach here in Costa Rica.

When John told his family he was moving out of the country, they were not supportive. Rather than seeing what this move was to John, his daughter focused on how it would affect her.

"Why would you leave me?" She asked.

"I am not leaving you. You can come down and visit anytime." John explained. "But I need to do this for me. I want out of the rat race. And I am inspired down there." His daughter did not understand, and was unhappy with his choice. But in time, that may fade.

John's story was a beautiful reminder to me that I cannot make everyone happy, and if I am to make anyone happy, I have got to start with myself. Others may not understand or support a different lifestyle, or a giant life change. They may say they are unhappy with a choice. But it is my responsibility to do what I need to do to be happy, to enjoy my life. They have the same responsibility for their own happiness. Rather that comes with eating a diet of raw fruits and vegetables, deciding to not be a lawyer anymore and switching to painting for a living, relocating to a place your family has never heard of, or simply eating more tomatoes, you have to listen to your heart and go forward and - Pura Vida - enjoy life!

Returning to the United States from Costa Rica, our Customs and Border Patrol check was in Houston. Cold and hungry off the first of three planes and relying on my tan for warmth, I approached the Customs Official.

"Good Morning!" I said, holding out my passport and immigration form.

"What countries have you visited?" He asked.

"Costa Rica," I told him.

"What was the purpose of your trip?" He asked

"To play." I said, smiling.

"Define play." He said.

I stared at him, searching for a hint of a smile or a crinkle of the eye to tell me he was joking. He wasn’t.

As I fumbled for a response, the official asked in a monotone voice, "To play the guitar? To play the flute? You must be more specific."

"You know, play. As in: fun, enjoyment. As in: life’s a game."

"No." he said, staring darkly at me. "I don’t know."

Obviously, I thought, but bit my tongue.

He moved right along. "You have no bags?"

"No checked bags." I motioned. "Just the backpack."

"No bags?" he asked again.

"Not even a guitar." I said. The official didn’t respond or smile, he just slammed his stamp down on the immigration form and handed back my passport. Oooooookay then.

I chose to see the situation as funny, laughing as I boarded the escalator. Define play. If you really need a definition, are you enjoying life? Back in the United States, Pura Vida seemed a rare concept within the hurried lifestyle, serious tone, sparse vacations, and focus on productivity over enjoyment.

As I look back over our two weeks in Costa Rica, I see plenty of play: climbing trees, squishing through a rainforest in mud boots (complete with sound affects), jumping off five waterfalls, giggling into shore on warm waves and howling back at monkeys. It’s the newness and joy that I not only live for, but it’s also how I live. It is my version of Pura Vida: planning another trip while on a journey, exploring possibilities, living big, learning about the landscapes within myself and others, learning new languages and new ways to enjoy life.

The Fall

I leaned over the wooden platform on shaky legs and peered over the edge of the 170 foot waterfall. Adrenaline and excitement made my heart pound in my head. The guide waved up at me from the rocks below, but he was just a tiny spec, an ant, a blur through the spray and mist. I took a deep breath and began my long descent towards him with one giant backwards leap.

The thing I love best about rappelling has nothing to do with the tight harness, the nifty knots, or the gear. It has nothing to do with a series of gorgeous waterfalls or the vibrant jungle zooming past. And oddly enough, it has little to do with the adrenaline The thing I love best about rappelling is that you have to let go in order to move forward.

If I hold the rope tightly to my right side, I am stalled, dangling 169 feet up, at birds eye level. In order to go down, I have to let loose with my grip so that the rope can burn past my palm and through my caribeaner device to slide me down.

To start the game, I have to bend my knees and push off the platform, take a leap of trust and literally let go to fall out into thin air and falling water. Thirty feet down, my shoes hit the wet rock wall and I struggled to find traction so that I could leap out again in order to fall away from the rock face and not scrape down on it. I suppose this is controlled falling. As controlled as a tiny river canyon buried in the rain forest jungle can be. I laughed out loud as the waterfall thundered on my helmet and shoulders. Several leaps later, my feet finally landed on terra firma, and I stood on wobbly legs and watched the others follow suit. The more they clenched the rope and clung, the more stuck they became, the less they allowed themselves to more forward.

When they were so tightly attached, their fear multiplied and escalated almost instantly. That 170 feet of space in between two solid locations could be terrifying, or it could be the most fun part of the experience depending on how playful the rappelers were and how much they allowed themselves to let go. One woman gripped too tightly and became paralyzed one third of the way down. She fought and screamed and hyperventilated and dramatized. I guess that is an option. Not everyone can embrace the sensation and keep moving forward. One thing's for certain however, if you leap, you have got to be ready, you have got to have trust, and you've got to let go.

That leap of faith is a rush, for certain. It is the epitome of going for it, just doing it, and making things happen. We all have points in our lives where we are standing on that platform, looking far out into the abyss at what we want, where we want to go. In order to get to what we want, we have to leave what we no longer want. This platform can be many things: a lifestyle, a location, a relationship, a habit, or even a career.

There was no way to choose a route to fall over the waterfall. I couldn't plan where my feet would land on the wet rock, nor how many leaps would take me to the pool below. I just had to believe I could do this, trust that the "how" would work itself out and know that if I would let go and leap I could get there.

When I think back in my life to all the leaps I have made, it has always worked out in the end. Sometimes the space between, the unknown, the fall, has been longer than 170 feet, but I have always been okay.

Hours of jumping and leaping and falling and woo-hooing later, I was more comfortable with letting go of the rope and going with the flow. I started to play with how far I could jump out off the platforms, how long I could stand on the vertical rock wall in the middle of each waterfall and admire the view from the cliff face while I was there. The last waterfall was 90 feet and I was wishing there were 5 more falls below it. Being comfortable to play with the unknown, I hooked into the rope, turned around backwards and without hesitation leapt into space, knowing it was not only going to be okay, it was going to be fantastic fun!

Liquid Joy

The gravel is sharp and painful under the bare soles of our feet as we enter the jungle corridor to the ocean. I am wishing my reach was just an inch longer to comfortably tuck the 8 foot surf board under my arm. On land, I am a little too little to carry this board. I glance only breifly at the sharp thorned branches of the Intimacy trees and walk on, trusting my timid steps will be safe from harm. Under the last tree we pass, a mother and her daughter sit with a dark monkey looking down at them. My steps quicken as the cooridor opens to the expanse of the sea.

The board that was so cumbersome and awkward on land instantly becomes part of me in the ocean. I put on its leash and we stroll into the waist high water. The waves have a high frequency but are smaller than during my thrashing this morning. Tim and I join a dozen other surfers walking our boards out in the ocean. The farther out we walk, the longer of a ride we will have back to the shore. There are too many waves to paddle through, so I form my own style of gripping the board, pushing down on the side of it to stabalize as a wave hits, breathing out slowly so that the water that crashes repeately over my head does not enter my lungs. Its a silly game: five steps forward and a wave pushes me back three, my toes trailing in the sand like anchors, fighing the tide.

Then, there is a break, and no waves are forming to come towards me and I know it is time. I climb on and begin to paddle forward. The sound of rushing water grows louder behind me as a new wave approaches and chooses to pick me up and take me with it. Suddenly, I have speed. I am zooming along the top of a foam pile. Seizing the opportunity, I pop up, and with arms out, regain balance. And I fly forward, no longer fighting the waves but joining them. Squealing with laughter at the mix of speed and delight, I glance over to see Tim sharing the experience. Then the shore approaches, the shallows rise up and I hop off only to turn around and start the game all over again.

At one point, I wondered what I was doing out there. I was watching these tan boys with shoulder length hair and tv worthy abs ride these big waves cresting over thier heads. They zoomed right at me, right by me. It was surreal, like being in a surf movie. One man jumped off the very top of a wave, his board arching up into the air, out of control and at dangerous speed. Others dove down to avoid being hit when it sliced into the sea. I reminded myself that this was one of those sports where people of all skill levels could be out on the same day and still have fun. And up until that moment of consciousness, I really had been comfortable with the height of the waves, thier speed and depth.

What was I doing out here? Having a grand time, that's what.

The sun neared us, turning the water into liquid joy. I laughed and sputtered out sea water and dove more. The waves turned to crimson and the bright orb of the backlit sun caught the curling crests making the sand in them glisten. I was getting tired. The moon grew brighter as it pulled light from the setting sun. Likewise, the waves grew bigger and more pushy as the sea pulled energy and effort from my body.

Finally it was down to the one last glowing sunset wave. I giggled the entire ride in to shore. I felt like I wanted to thank the sea, buy her flowers, send her hand-written thank you cards, sing her praises in my natural high. Tim and I followed six other exhaused happy surfers heading for the cooridor, the wet sand beneath us turning to pink glass in the fading light.