After a vague plan to meet some local guy known as Spider for lessons collapses with him not showing up, I join all siblings but Mia for lessons at Tamarindo Surf School. A nice amount of irony ensues: Adam’s oft-criticized hunching of his back makes him one of the most adept surfers while Scott “I think I don’t need a lesson because I already know how to surf” Iseman lags behind. For anyone looking to learn and possessing a modicum of athletic ability, I’d recommend just renting a board and copying real surfers to figure out the gist of surfing. I’ll probably buy a board if I ever live near decent waves, but I’m not going to immerse myself in adulation of surf culture anytime soon.
Next are games with the locals. My dad and I are aided by 2 other Americans studying here as we introduce ticos to ultimate Frisbee. Results are mixed at best, with all starting out really bad and about half improving to the lower side of mediocre. I then switch to a sport at which even the 12-year-olds are kicking my ass: futbol. The only thing I do to at all compete is dive at the ball/feet of better players, kicking the ball hard in the general direction of my teammates all of the few times I’m lucky enough to get it.
A few familial feuds and a trip to a bar wrap up the day. Most notable was a fellow Philadelphian we find well into the process of drinking himself talkative. He seems happy at first, but within a few more drinks he’s explaining that his trip south is part of a long process recommended by his much more successful sister to help him get over a broken engagement. We discuss objectivism and whether a hot waitress is wearing underwear for a while, and we’ll call it an evening on that note.