Cari Anna Camera

Landyn had a three-week break in October, and we wanted to take advantage of that abundance of time as much as we possibly could. So we planned a two-week family vacation exploring a new part of Costa Rica and Panama. But we really wanted to hit a third country that last week, as well. But where to go? We needed a place that had interesting things to do, yet we knew our primary focus at that point would be relaxation.

And then we knew: Belize. I have been dying to visit Belize since I was about 15, and Landyn has always really wanted to go too. We actually almost made Belize our very first trip of the semester, but at the last minute switched it to Honduras in order to get scuba certified. Knowing this would be our last opportunity to visit during this year abroad, and compounded by the fact that two of our friends were also going to Belize the last week of break, we booked our tickets with extreme excitement and enthusiasm.

Getting There

Our flight itinerary wasn’t exactly ideal––we got into El Salvador at 6:30am and didn’t board our flight to Belize until 3pm. So we had an entire day to hang out in the airport, which actually wasn’t necessarily a bad thing since Landyn and I both had work we needed to catch up on.

We got into Belize around 4:15. In order to get from the Belize City Airport out to the Cayes (pronounced keys) where we would be staying, there’s a 45-taxi ride to the ferry station, and then a 90-minute ferry boat ride out to the Cayes. The last boat left at 4:45, meaning we wouldn’t make it and subsequently be forced to spend the night in Belize City.

We hadn’t read the greatest things about the city, and the idea of being in temporary limbo until the following morning was very unappealing to us, so we decided to splurge a little and take a puddle jumper out to the Cayes so we could check in that night and get settled in.

Despite my distaste for tiny planes, the 20-minute trip was SO cool. We were able to get a sense of how incredibly clear the water is and catch a glimpse of the area’s complex reef system from above.

We checked into our hostel, grabbed dinner from the overwater restaurant across the street, and kept up our tradition of ordering a national beer as our first beverage.

Ambergris Caye

Although there are dozens of Cayes off the coast of Belize, the two most frequented by tourists are Ambergris Caye and Caye Caulker. Our first five days were in Ambergris Caye, the larger of the two with more activity options.

Our first full day on the island we quickly realized that the popular thing to do was rent a golf cart in order to get around easier. So Landyn and I did just that as we waited for our friend Miranda to arrive from Caye Caulker, where she had been staying for the past few days.

After reuniting with Miranda at the ferry station, we hopped in the golf cart and immediately headed to a spot highly recommended by the locals: Secret Beach. It was a solid 45-minute ride, and I absolutely loved that the trek itself was a destination of sorts. We saw tons of new, unique birds, various landscapes, high-end resorts and mom-and-pop hostels, and picturesque views with every turn of the head.

I don’t know what exactly I was expecting Secret Beach to look like, but it exceeded my every expectation. It looked like something out of a travel magazine: a stretch of pristine, white sand beach with waterfront restaurants and bars, yet not obtrusive enough to ruin its natural beauty.

I mean I had tacos at a picnic table in the ocean…what more could you ask for?!

We hopped over to a neighboring bar where we had cocktails on inner tubes in the water. Again, what more could you ask for?!

We drove back towards the hostel during sunset, already completely in love with Belize as we rounded out day one. Along the way, we stopped at a “must-do” in Ambergris Caye––a restaurant experience called the Truck Stop, where there’s a grouping of about four food trucks all serving diverse menu items, along with a bar. As you make your way towards the tables in the back, there’s an area where they can screen movies on a projector, a pool with a swim-up bar, and an overwater dining area. It’s a super cool spot, and I highly recommend it to anyone traveling to Ambergris Caye. We could have spent a whole day hanging out there!

Our next day we wandered around checking out dive shops and exploring the streets. Sometimes those wandering-around-aimlessly days end up being some of the most fun. Especially when you end up at bars that have waterslides into the ocean, massive beer-itas, and great happy hour specials. This day was devoted to sun, sand, and drinks in our hand.

That night, we hit up a Halloween party that was supposed to be a pretty big deal, according to all of the locals. It was held on the outside deck of a fancy hotel in town. We did not come prepared with any costumes, so we decided to just show up as is. A lot of people don’t dress up for costume parties, anyways, right?

WRONG.

This was hands down the most legitimate Halloween party I have ever attended. There was a red carpet laid on the sidewalk, leading to the hotel’s entrance, and dozens of local residents were lined up along the side of the carpet, admiring the insane costumes. How embarrassing to walk down what essentially was a paparazzi photo op in nothing but a regular tank top.

When we made it inside, I felt even more underdressed. Everyone was in spectacular, intricate, ridiculously detailed costumes. We quickly figured out why: they made it into a competition, and various prizes were awarded for winning various divisions such as “scariest costume,” “sexiest costume,” “best couple costume,” etc. The grand prize was $1,000 to the overall best costume of the night. No wonder everyone went all-out.

Despite our lack of proper attire, we made our mark on the dance floor.

The following day we split up. Miranda went diving, and Landyn and I did a snorkel tour of two famous spots: the Hol Chan Marine Reserve and Shark Ray Alley. Of all the places we’ve snorkeled, this was the absolute best. At Hol Chan Marine Reserve, the water was crystal clear, and we could see all the way down to the bottom, even when depths reached 30 feet. We saw tons of stingrays, fish, spotted eagle rays (for the first time!), and even a nurse shark (also for the first time!).

We then went to the second snorkel site: Shark Ray Alley. From above, it seemed like a random patch of water with no reef formations to be seen. But when the captain started throwing out pieces of chum, we were suddenly engulfed in a swarm of sharks. Some opted to stay in the boat, but Landyn and I both wanted an up-close view. Once we were in the water, the captain threw a chum piece right in front of me to capture on my camera. I gotta say, I dropped the ball a little because as soon as I saw a dozen sharks and two schools of huge fish dart towards me, I flailed. Even so, it was insanely cool to be surrounded so closely by so many creatures.

It was an incredible experience.

*Timeout*

Now, I’d like to back up for a second. Remember how I said we were searching for dive shops the previous day? Well, we were hunting around for good deals, particularly when it came to one specific dive: The Great Blue Hole.

When I was 15 years old, I stumbled across some sort of internet article about Belize and I saw a picture of the Great Blue Hole. I did some research on it, watched videos of people diving into it, and quickly decided that this was absolutely something I wanted to do before I die. It was the first thing I ever put on my bucket list.

*Time in*

So when we planned to go to Belize, this was the very first thing I looked into. Unfortunately, it’s extremely pricey to get out to the Great Blue Hole because it’s 60 miles from the Cayes. Two hours, each way. You are out there. Landyn served as the voice of reason and reminded me that we were at the tail-end of a three-week vacation and really needed to stay on track with our budget. And he was right, of course.

But this was also on my bucket list. And, Miranda was down to do the Great Blue Hole trip too. So after much convincing…

Please, please, please, make this my birthday present AND my Christmas present. Until we’re 30! PLEASE!

…Landyn was on board.

Diving the GBH down to the maximum depth, 40 meters, requires an advanced open water diving certification. Since Landyn and I did not have that, nor did we want to book an additional dive the day before the GBH dive in order to prove to the dive master we could handle being at 40 meters (more $$$), we decided to snorkel over the top of the Great Blue Hole and dive the other two dive sites of the trip. This actually made the trip cheaper for us, too, since we were able to subtract the cost of the oxygen tanks for the GBH.

So the following morning, we were up and out the door of the hostel by 5am. We hiked down the still-cloaked-in-darkness beach and watched as day began to break during our walk. There’s something so tranquil and magical about watching the sun rise over the ocean.

We were outfitted with our gear, met the boat captain, and pushed off from the dock. I popped my trusty Dramamine and tried not to think about how far I would soon be from land. We all know, by now, that I’ve had a few water-related anxieties in my lifetime, and that morning I had to face another: being on a boat, unable to see land in any direction. Thankfully, it didn’t scare me nearly as much as it just filled me with awe and wonder. The ocean is so big. Like massive. Its depth––its power, its expanse––is really something to marvel at.

The early morning cruise was gorgeous.

We even spotted our first sea creatures of the day: a family of dolphins that found great amusement from playing in the boat’s wake.

As we got closer to the Great Blue Hole, the boat slowed and we passed through much shallower waters. Even from the second story of a massive dive yacht, I could see straight to the bottom and saw a sea turtle, nurse sharks, stingrays, and more just passing through. I could not believe how incredibly clear the water was. It looked like something out of a Bachelor date.

After much anticipation, we finally made it to the Great Blue Hole. I was enamored. Although it wasn’t as perfect of a view as you’d get from an airplane above it, it was clear to see the edges of it, and from the very top of the boat, you could see the distinct outline of the circle.

As the deep divers started to get their gear on and Landyn and I searched for our snorkel masks, the captain came down from the cockpit.

“Everyone on this boat is a certified diver here, right? You just aren’t able to go down to 40 meters?”

Landyn, myself, and a younger girl all nodded. There were two other women who were not divers and would be snorkeling all the dive sites that day.

The captain looked at us, looked around the water, and half to us, half to himself said, “There’s no one else out here…”

He looked back at us and said “Screw it. I feel like diving. You guys want to dive it instead? We’ll keep it shallow.”

UM, YES!

That was exactly what we wanted from the beginning––to dive the GBH at our maximum depth. The dive shop clerk had told us this wasn’t possible, as the captain typically never leaves the boat and there were only two other dive masters on board: one taking the deep divers down, and one leading the snorkelers.

Thankfully for us, the captain was super laid back and ready to ditch the boat like a hot potato. I know that would not ordinarily be a good thing, but Landyn and I were ecstatic. I had made peace with the one concession of the day––snorkeling the GBH instead of diving it like I had always wanted––but now I was gonna live out my dream and truly check this off my bucket list.

I tried to keep my expectations very low since I had read a lot of online posts from divers stating that it was rather underwhelming compared to how they thought it would be. I knew it wouldn’t be the same, classic bird’s-eye-views as I had seen online, and I told myself not to get too amped up about it. And I gotta say, that turned out to be a great strategy because I was blown away by how cool the dive was.

It was incredibly spooky to swim out over the hole’s edge and see nothing but a blue abyss. The walls of the hole are limestone, and it’s famous for its stalagmites and stalactites, as the hole was formed from a cave that sunk in on itself.

It was amazing and loved every second of it.

The journey from the Great Blue Hole to our next dive site was an hour long, so we sat on the front bow of the boat as we cruised through the aquamarine waters. I cannot emphasize enough how much of an out-of-body, I-am-not-normally-this-glamorous, how-did-I-end-up-on-a-Bachelor-date, kind of experience this was.

The next site was called Lighthouse Reef Atoll, and it’s recognized as one of the top ten dive sites in the world. It was easy to see why.

We were alongside a gorgeous reef wall, swam through tunnels, and were accompanied by reef sharks (another new aquatic animal sighting!).

Our next stop: Half Moon Caye for lunch. Half Moon Caye is a deserted island with picnic tables, a small ranger station with facilities, and a lookout tower to spot the rare Red-footed Booby birds that flock to Belize for a few months out of the year.

After eating, we trekked down the beach towards the birdwatching tower and Landyn was overjoyed. When we first considered traveling to Belize in August, the Red-footed Booby was a huge selling point for him. He had been waiting months to see these damn birds.

Although I give Landyn shit about his recent uptaking of a traditionally elder person’s hobby, I actually really enjoy birdwatching myself and seeing the Red-footed Booby birds amidst the treetops was a very cool experience.

After lunch, we headed to our last dive site, aptly named “Aquarium.”

As soon as we were under the surface, I felt like I had stepped into a Planet Earth special. It was quiet, and the current swayed the underwater vegetation back and forth, fish meandered right past us as if we weren’t even there, and there was an instant sense of peace and awe. We had dozens of fish, sharks, and even a family of six Spotted Eagle Rays pass us by. It was like sitting alongside the East Australian Current in Finding Nemo.

And then, something happened that Landyn and I had been waiting to see since we first learned to dive: we saw a sea turtle. Now I had seen them on beaches, from the boat, but neither of us had ever seen one during a dive. And it’s different; it’s so different seeing them from their element versus seeing them from above. This turtle also happened to be the most majestic sea turtle in the history of the ocean. It swam toward us, then stopped, and let the ocean naturally take it up to the surface. It ascended like Jesus being resurrected from the grave and, let me tell you, I felt taken to church.

Our two-hour boat ride back to Ambergris Caye happened in the blink of an eye. We took a different way back––one that allowed us to weave around additional deserted islands and it only deepened my appreciation for Belize’s profound, pristine beauty. We sat in the front of the boat, legs dangling off the side, taking the occasional hit of ocean spray and soaking up the sun’s rays as it slowly began to sink lower and lower in the sky.

We arrived back at the dock around 5pm, just before sunset.

On our way home, we stopped for celebratory “Blue Hole Diver” drinks at a bar and recapped the day’s events, each of us trying to pick a favorite dive, a favorite sighting.

Truthfully, I couldn’t really pick a favorite. It was arguably one of the most beautiful days of my life––I rode around on a yacht for 12 hours, plopping in the ocean to see spectacular reef systems and marine life, and ate lunch on a deserted island. As Lizzie McGuire would say, this is what dreams are made of.

We went to bed early, really early, exhausted from the sun, sand, and surf, and I began to reflect. Our day had been the perfect way to close out our time in Ambergris Caye and the perfect way to close out our time with Miranda. The following morning, we would be hopping over to Caye Caulker and Miranda would be hopping on a flight back to Costa Rica. I was so, so glad that we did it––that we splurged for the Great Blue Hole, that we went after what we really wanted, and that we signed up for this whole crazy journey in the first place. And with that, I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

Caye Caulker

The next morning, we took the 8:30am ferry boat from Ambergris Caye to Caye Caulker, Landyn and I’s home for the next two days. Miranda tagged along with us to grab some food and hang out at our hostel before catching the 1:30pm ferry to Belize City where she would ultimately get on her flight back to Costa Rica. Their class was starting the following day, but Landyn was rebellious and agreed to miss the first two days (I swear I didn’t push him [too hard] into it).

After parting ways with Miranda, Landyn and I headed back to our hostel, changed into our swimsuits, and headed to “The Split.”

It’s exactly what it sounds like: a small split, no more than 100 feet across, in the middle of Caye Caulker that divides the island in two.

At The Split, there’s a bar called The Lazy Lizard with tons of lounge chairs, tables, and dive platforms on the water’s edge. This is where Landyn and I planted ourselves for the rest of the evening.

It was the ultimate relaxation station––exactly what you’d want at the very end of a three-week trip.

The next day we dedicated to exploring Caye Caulker. It was very, very different from Ambergris Caye, primarily because it was so much smaller, less populated, and had almost no golf carts zooming around. The island’s slogan is “Go Slow,” and we had the best time wandering about, exploring the small shops and restaurants. What I loved about Caye Caulker is that it seemed that most of the businesses were owned by local Belizeans versus by ex-pats. I felt like less of a tourist here, somehow.

A rain shower moved in during the late afternoon, so we headed back to our hostel to chill.

When there was a break in the rain, we headed to a restaurant Landyn really wanted to try since he had seen tons of excellent reviews for it online. It was called Wish Willy’s, and if you’re ever in Caye Caulker, you must go. Allow me to tell you why.

We showed up at Wish Willy’s and were immediately confused. This place had hundreds of glowing reviews, but the gate we were standing outside of looked like it lead to a regular house––like we were in someone’s backyard and would be yelled at for trespassing at any given moment. Then out of nowhere, a huge man appeared in the lower level kitchen doorway, and hollered, “Hey. Whatcha doing?”

Nervously we said, “Um, hi, is this Wish Willy’s?”

“Sure is.”

“Okay, um, are you open?”

“No, we don’t open for dinner until 6.”

It was only 4:30.

“Oh, okay, sorry, we’ll come back then,” we said, feeling and sounding rather awkward. We turned to go, but Willy wasn’t done with our conversation.

“Well, are you hungry?”

“What?” I was truly perplexed at this point. Partially because I didn’t yet know this man was Willy himself, and partially because that answer seemed obvious.

“Are you hungry right now?” he repeated.

“Well…I mean, yeah,” said Landyn as he let out a why-do-I-always-get-into-these-weird-social-situations sort of laugh.

“Then we are open right now, come on, come on,” said Willy as he strode over to the gate and let us in.

Landyn and I were utterly bewildered. Was this dude opening early just for us? Do people actually do this for other humans?

“Yeah, you guys look hungry. And it’s gonna start raining on our heads soon. So, what can I get you? My menu is on the chalkboard, that is the whole thing, and everything is delicious.”

And it was right then that I fell a little bit in love with Willy. What a delightful human being, taking us in like stray cats in between thunderstorms and feeding us when he wasn’t prepared to do so yet.

After ordering and taking a seat, he came over to chat with us for a while. Willy was a Belizean turned Chicagoan turned back to Belizean. We talked about our travels, our families, and our football teams.

The kindness, compassion, and generosity of Central Americans astounds me at every given turn. But Willy went above and beyond. His fish fillet was also killer.

So, like I said, if you’re ever in Caye Caulker, go see Willy. I can guarantee it’ll be an experience you won’t forget.

The following day, we didn’t have anywhere to be until 1:30 when we would take the ferry to Belize City. We grabbed food and ended up back at The Split for our last beers in paradise and our last swim in the Carribean Sea.

As we began the process of getting to the airport––first the hour-long ferry ride, then a 45-minute taxi ride––I thought about past three weeks. We were exhausted and ready to get back to our home and our dogs, but I was also really going to miss Belize. I already missed my family, and Panama, and all of the adventures we shared together during the first two weeks of our trip. It had been a wild ride and I loved every second of it. But it was time to go home, and I was cool with that too.

Our journey home was uneventful until we neared El Salvador. Intense thunderstorms were rolling through the area, so the last 30 minutes of our flight from BZE to El Salvador was us being tossed like a salad. Subsequently, our flight from El Salvador to San José was delayed twice, with our gate also switched twice.

When we finally made it onto the plane, took off through the storm clouds, and eventually began our descent into Costa Rica, I felt relieved that we were almost there.

Just gotta get through Customs one last time, catch an Uber, and I’ll be sleeping in my own bed before I know it.

Down, down we went, admiring the twinkling lights of the city from above.

Suddenly, without warning, our engines roared, the plane’s nose pointed nearly vertically up, and we were darting back up into the atmosphere. I am not exaggerating when I say I felt the G-force molding my head back into the seat. It was terrifying. We were almost on the ground––what the hell happened?

The captain came over the speaker, apologizing, and explaining that there was dense fog on the ground and we were unable to land. We’d circle until it was clear, and he was hoping it wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.

Landyn whispered over to me, “Liberia here we come,” and I laughed hard as I realized this vacation was ending exactly how it started: dense fog around SJO and an emergency bail on the landing. We were reliving the flight my mom and sister endured coming into Costa Rica. Thankfully our plane had enough fuel to circle above so we did not have to endure a surprise landing in Liberia. What are the odds? What a perfect, unfortunate bookend for the trip.

After we circled for an hour (20 minutes, my ass), we finally landed in the middle of nowhere, not attached to the airport. They shuffled us onto a packed bus and dropped us off right at the doors to Customs.

When we finally made it through, grabbed our luggage, and found our Uber driver, I was incredibly relieved. I was also very aware of the clock––it was 11pm on November 1st. In one hour, it would be my birthday. I have this weird thing about my birthday where I don’t like to be awake to ring it in, but since that was a given from the moment we booked the late-night flight home, I was adamant that we at least not be sitting in an Uber. I think of birthdays how most people think of New Year’s, and I did not want to ring in 24 in the back of some dude’s car.

After a particularly painful ride, we met the dogs in the driveway and walked through our apartment door at 11:56. No critters had taken up residency in our absence. It was exactly how we left it.

I was doing some light unpacking when Landyn emerged from the other room with a big smile on his face.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he said as he swept me up in a big hug and an even bigger kiss.

I felt unbelievably lucky. So indescribably blessed. I had my man and my dogs and there was nothing else I needed. This was exactly how I wanted to end the vacation of a lifetime and simultaneously ring in my next revolution around the sun.

Until next time, friends.

It broke my heart to check out of our gorgeous Ocean Loft hotel. The Fehler tribe was spending one additional night in Bocas del Toro, and we decided that it would be fun for my family to experience staying in a notorious party hostel chain down here, Selina.

We parted ways with Sam, Alyssa, and the kids as they went towards the main water taxi station and we continued on toward Selina’s. After dropping our belongings, we immediately headed to a water taxi booth that would take us to another famed beach in the Bocas province, Red Frog Beach. It was located on another island entirely, and after a 25-minute boat ride and a 15-minute walk through the jungle, we arrived on a pristine, secluded beach.

Knowing we would love to lounge here for the remainder of the day, we invested in some chairs with umbrella shade, bought our first pitcher of rum punch from the bar, and exhaled. This is what vacationing is all about.

The ocean current here was strong, the waves rough and tumultuous. We tumbled like loose objects in the dishwasher, clawing our way up to the surface and laughing in between the next saltwater onslaught.

We had excellent fish tacos on the beach for lunch and afterward decided to set off in search of the famous red frogs local to the area that gave the beach its name. Now, I thought this would be an along-the-beach adventure, so I did not wear shoes. I wanted to enjoy the sensation of walking on sand as much as I could so forget the shoes, right?

Wrong.

We ended up at the very end of the beach, forced to take our walk onto a gravel road. Landyn was the only one who had his sandals with him, as my mom and sister followed my shoe protest. As we walked along, thinking it would just be a short jaunt up the street, Landyn gave his shoes to my mom, the person least down for toughing it out barefoot.

IT WAS HORRIBLE. We tried our best to dodge stones and keep an eye out for bits of glass, carefully selecting the flattest looking sections to place our feet on, tip-toeing in the street like a bunch of idiot tourists. A golf cart passed us twice before finally stopping and offering us a ride to where the best frog-sighting spot was. Anita hurried along behind us, as there wasn’t room for four and she was wearing Landyn’s sandals. When we reached the road which connected to the frog path, we realized there was a shortcut we could have taken just 20 yards from our beach chairs. We could have spared our poor feet a lot of pain.

I’d like to take a moment to point out my own innately stubborn self, for there were multiple times my mom suggested we head back to our chairs to grab our shoes and regroup, but I refused. “I’ve come this far, I’m not going back now.”

Pride is a funny thing. Essential, yet sure to screw you over from time to time. You need just the right dosage. That afternoon, I had too much. Even as I stared down the shortcut path, so close to our belongings, I turned around and headed up the gravel hill, still barefoot. What I didn’t realize was that our journey didn’t stop at the jungle’s edge. Oh no, we needed to trek inside of it to find these frogs.

So, we forged ahead, again without shoes, into a jungle walk that was uphill and somehow even more painful than the road. It was up to this point that we truly had kept our wits about us, but here we became unhinged. Slowly unraveling, then all at once it culminated with all of us yelling at each other in the middle of the jungle.

And then, I saw it. A tiny red being perfectly poised on the end of a leaf.

“Alright, I found it,” I barked at my family.

Nobody could properly take in the beauty and coolness of the tiny crimson creature because we were all way too uncomfortable standing on the rock shards.

Finally, Landyn was over it. “Okay that’s enough, I’m gonna go grab all of our shoes from the beach chairs.” And with that, he took back his sandals and headed out. The rest of us stewed in annoyed silence.

When he returned, we were finally able to enjoy our frog-hunting experience.

We headed back to our hotel around sunset and a wave of sun exhaustion washed over us. What we had thought would be a night of fun at our party hostel turned out to be rather anticlimactic. After dinner, we were all too tired to do any drinking so we hit the hay early.

The next day was our last day in Bocas. We were catching an overnight bus to Panama City so we had until 4:30pm before we needed to be at the water taxi station to take us back to the mainland. So, Landyn, Carly, and I were supposed to all go scuba diving together while my mom hung out reading her book in the sunshine.

However, Landyn had gotten a bad case of traveler’s bug that developed late the previous night and intensified into the morning. We have attributed this fact back to someone using the tap water to make Crystal Light and coffee each day at Ocean Loft when the tap water was not safe for drinking. This may or may not have been the actual cause, but it sure was fun to give my mom shit about it (pun intended).

So Carly and I went by ourselves. Since Carly had no diving experience she did what’s called a Discover Scuba, where they’re supposed to put you in a pool, or other confined water area (like off the end of their dock), and teach you the very bare basics of diving. Then they take you out, plop you in the ocean, and essentially hold your hand as you swim around and explore.

Well, that is not exactly how things went down for us. Carly watched a 20-minute video, and to my shock, we were fitted for gear and taken out on the boat. For some reason, our dive master felt it was a good idea to teach Carly how to breathe using the regulator, how to clear her mask (a super uncomfortable skill that took me quite a few tries to master during our confined dives back when I got certified), and generally how to scuba in the ocean.

I went in first and descended onto a patch of seagrass, and the dive master instructed me to wait there until he came back with my sister. Well it took a while for her to get comfortable with all of the aforementioned skills at the surface, so I was chilling by myself for a solid ten minutes. This was fine with me as I twittered around a little bit and checked out some nearby shells on the ocean floor, but as time ticked on I started to freak myself out a little bit. The visibility in this water was drastically different from the crystal clear Carribean waters I dived in Honduras.

The more I considered this fact, the murkier the water seemed to become. I talked myself off the ledge, took some extra deep breaths, and told my brain to relax. Still, I felt immense relief when I finally saw two humans swimming over to me. After Carly repeated the skills on the ocean floor, we were good to start our dive. At this point, there was no real hand-holding done for poor Carlybear. If anything I think I gave her more support and hand-gestured advice than our diving instructor.

Despite the less-than-supportive leadership, we did have a great dive site and saw tons of beautiful fish, coral and rock formations, and even a stingray burrowing in the sand.

When we surfaced, I asked Carly if she liked it and she couldn’t quite decide. Which, if you’ll remember from my own first time diving in open water, is exactly how I felt. I assured her that after our next one she would feel a lot more confident about it.

The second dive site was really close to our first. As we were about to get in, our dive master informed us that this would be a shipwreck site. Immediately, I felt a little nervous. I had never dived a wreck before, and it wasn’t something I was particularly eager to do because I imagined it would look very creepy.

I’m happy to report that my gut instincts are still spot on.

As we progressed through the dive, I honestly forgot that we were ultimately moving towards a wreck. Suddenly, I noticed a huge, dark object behind Carly and realized what it was. The murky water had obstructed our view of the sunken vessel until we were nearly on top of it.

I pointed behind Carly and watched her gasp through her regulator as I had.

It. Was. So. Spooky.

For whatever reason, all I could think of is the stormy scene in Tarzan where his parents’ ship sinks and they’re washed ashore. I imagined this is what it would have looked like. I found Tarzan’s parents’ old boat.

I didn’t want to go any closer to it. In fact, my first impulse was to shoot right up to the surface and get the hell out of there.

But our dive master swam closer and closer, and like stupid little guppies, we followed. It was a big catamaran that had a net across the bow, like what you see on the romantic Bachelor dates in Bora Bora. I almost threw up in my regulator when he swam underneath it, into the literal darkness and shadows. He motioned for us to follow and I immediately shook my head no. I was panicking. What the hell was lurking in the corners under there? I’m all for experiencing the aquatic marine life but I like to see it coming.

A few deep breaths later I decided that I would be mad at myself if I didn’t do the thing that scared me. Moreover, I knew that Landyn would be so disappointed that he missed a wreck dive, since he had been dying to do one since before we even got certified, and he would kill me if I didn’t take advantage of this opportunity to fully experience it.

So I swam under the damn bow and investigated the barnacle-covered walls and clusters of fish. He then pointed up to the net and motioned for me to swim up through the torn corner. This was double creepy. Something about rising up from the depths of a sunken ship just didn’t sit right with me. But there I was doing the damn thing.

He then had us swim over the top of it, and ultimately through the busted out window into the cockpit. Carly joined us for this portion as she was not about to get left behind all by her lonesome. It was, again, really spooky to be standing in the wreckage with pieces of boat strewn about and the floor caved through. We made our way back out of the cockpit, up and over the top, and became encircled by a school of fish. It was the perfect light-hearted ending to a semi-traumatic dive.

Carly, naturally, needed to take a picture of her touching the butt.

As we closed out our diving experience, Carly said that was a one-and-done for her. Looking back now, I can see why.

We reunited with my mom and Landyn and relayed our harrowing tale, grabbed some lunch, and hung out at our hotel until we needed to head to the water taxi station.

One bumpy boat ride later, and we were back on mainland Panama in Almirante.

We had paid for a service that included our water taxi ride, a shuttle from the Almirante water taxi terminal to the Almirante bus station, and the bus ride from Almirante to Panama City.

However, we were hustled by some guys stating that our “van sometimes had trouble” and they “had no idea when it would be coming.” But, of course, we could pay their friend to take us to the bus station so that we wouldn’t miss our bus. That nonsense really pissed me off, particularly because I have never experienced a glorified shake-down like that at any point in our travels down here, and it was super disappointing to come across it with my family in tow and a bus we needed to catch.

15 minutes of indignation, indecision, and potentially misplaced pride later, we caved and hopped in a taxi and paid the additional cost. After nearly leaving my purse on a chair in the bus station, and what can only be described as a maybe-too-eventful day, we finally got on the bus and were able to relax.

That is until we got onto the mountain roads.

It was the fastest I had ever felt a bus fly through the mountains. We sloshed around side-to-side as the driver barely slowed for the sharp turns. There were numerous times where I truly believed we were going to tip over and roll right down the mountainside.

The silver bullet arrived in Panama City around 4am. We had not booked a hotel for that night since we weren’t supposed to get into the city until 6am, and we had planned to kill time before our hotel check-in for the next night by grabbing some breakfast. This plan was contingent upon a couple of things which ultimately did not happen: the first, that we would get some actual sleep on the bus. The second, that we would arrive in the city when businesses and restaurants were open so we could occupy our time. The third and final wrench to the plan was that the owner of our next hotel (whom I had been messaging the previous day to confirm our arrival) would allow us to check in early.

Again, none of these things happened. The hotel owner gave me the run-around and then stopped responding altogether, we were beyond exhausted at the bus terminal as the wild ride had not been very conducive to quality sleep, and we had nowhere to go since it was still the middle of the night.

This led to an epic debate in the Panama City bus terminal: should we or should we not try to book a hotel room to crash in immediately? Landyn was the only one that had somewhat slept on the silver bullet and therefore couldn’t understand how desperate the rest of us were for a mattress under our bodies. I could exercise zero patience in explaining this to him and reiterating how this was absolutely the best decision for everyone involved. And so we went at it. Fueled by exhaustion and frustration at our strandedness, no sound logic or reason could enter our sphere.

Eventually, we found a deal for a room at a nearby DoubleTree and we jumped on it. We needed comfort and one of those ridiculously delicious cookies ASAP. And when we were finally settled in our room and all of our heads hit the pillows, all was forgiven. For someone who “didn’t see why we needed to find a hotel room to crash in,” Landyn was the first one to pass out cold. Snoring and all. Funny how that goes.

When we rejoined the land of the living around 11am, we all laughed (and apologized) over the early morning’s events.

After we left the homey comfort of our DoubleTree room and checked into our hotel in Casco Viejo, the old, historic district of Panama City, our exploratory journey began.

We spent the next two days wandering around street markets, drinking incredible coffee, and embarking on self-guided walking tours.

One afternoon we took a taxi to the nearby Metropolitan National Park where we hiked up trails to reach some of the most gorgeous views of the canal and the city.

We kept busy but also made time to relax and enjoy the culture and everything Panama City had to offer.

Our third day was arguably our biggest one of the entire trip. Ever since I was young, I had heard my mom talk about how she’d love to see the Panama Canal. When we first began planning this trip and decided we definitely wanted to hop the border over to Bocas del Toro, I quickly advocated for trekking down across the country to Panama City in order for her to see her canal.

Once she researched the different ways to experience it, she decided she really wanted to go on it, go through it, so she graciously bought us all tickets for a boat cruise. She was like a kid on Christmas morning when it came time to meet the shuttle that Tuesday morning. And although she was by far the most passionate about it, we all were enthusiastic and excited to check it out.

After this year I know how incredible and gratifying it feels to check items off your bucket list, so I was most excited for my mom to experience that herself.

And honestly, the tour turned out to be so much cooler and fascinating than we anticipated it would be. There’s something that leaves me filled with awe in knowing I’m looking at (or cruising down) a piece of history. Not to mention crossing over the Continental Divide, hearing how much time and effort went into the canal, the insanely smart ways in which they operate and mandate it, and how it completely transformed Panama as a nation. It was nothing short of extraordinary.

The crew must have noticed the blondie snapping a thousand pictures because they pulled me aside and let us climb up into the captain’s cockpit and take in the views from his balcony.

The tour lasted the entire day, and when it was over we were riding a unique high. A bucket list, we just did a once-in-a-lifetime thing sort of high. It was one of my favorite days from the whole trip.

The next day was a bit of a shitshow. We were all exhausted and hanging by a thread. A jam-packed two-week vacation is no joke. Our activities included visiting Punta Culebra, a nature center associated with the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute, and going to the famous Miraflores Lock in order to track down a t-shirt Anita desperately wanted.

We were tired, snippy, a little bit at each others throats, but ultimately ended the day with a walk through another beautiful part of Casco Viejo.

The key to having successful family vacations is being able to roll with the punches and rebound after things get tense. I must say, my family does this impeccably well.

Our final hurdle: getting to the airport at the crack of dawn on Thursday morning. Carly and my mom were headed back to the Midwest, and Landyn and I were headed to our next adventure: Belize. Landyn and I left first with a departure time of 6am, so we needed to be at the airport early.

Our alarms went off at 2-2:30, and we began the Uber-calling process at 3am. The app wouldn’t allow us to select an SUV option, probably as it was the middle of the night and there were limited drivers, and the first Uber that showed up was a particularly small sedan with crap already in the trunk. We kindly sent him away, explaining it simply would not work. We tried to call another Uber, who drove right past us and didn’t turn around as I chased him down the street, arms flailing. The police were very helpful and hailed us a cab, but the driver was going to charge more than double what Uber was, and we were feeling defiant. Finally, Uber sent us a Toyota Camry and we made it work. There were suitcases and backpacks stuffed everywhere, and the audible scratching of the backend over bumps in the road was unmistakable. But we made it.

Carly and Anita’s flight left an hour and a half after ours, so we went through check-in and security together and then they waited with us at our gate. They stayed with us for as long as possible, until we were literally getting in line to board. I found this so sweet and endearing and it reminded me of how lucky I am to have people to miss so dearly who miss me in return. It seems like this past year has been a blur of equally tearful goodbyes and hellos. Our emotions laid bare in one airport after another.

And it’s hard for me to say goodbye to them, it really is. As we buckled ourselves in on our flight to El Salvador, our layover before reaching Belize, I thought about how much I was going to miss them and how wonderful our trips together truly are––imperfections and all.

Transitioning from having them around to having them leave again is never easy. But this time was eased by the knowledge that we were about to visit a place we had been dying to see.

I closed my eyes as the plane gained traction down the runway and as the wheels lifted up, I let go of my sadness and remembered that this is the cost of living this kind of lifestyle. There are hard goodbyes and sad truths. But it is definitely, always, one hundred percent worth it.

Until next time, friends.

As our beers became increasingly emptier and the minutes ticked by, Landyn and I’s anxiety levels slowly crept upward. We were in a small restaurant attached to the San José airport, awaiting the arrival of my family members. Specifically, my mom, Anita, and my sister, Carly, whose plane was listed as “landing” for over an hour. Why weren’t they calling?

Dozens of other people were waiting inside the restaurant with us, and as we confirmed with each other that all of us were waiting on the same flight, my panic skyrocketed. The plane was listed as landed, yet not a single one of us on the ground had heard from our loved ones aboard.

On a complete hail mary, I decided to call my sister, and to my complete shock, she answered.

“Hey Care.”

As if she had no idea we were waiting on her confirmation that they were alive and well.

“Hi, how are you answering? Why didn’t you call me?”

“Well, we had the flight from hell and had to figure out what’s going on and we literally just got word.”

“I don’t understand, are you on the ground?”

“Oh, we’re on the ground, alright. Cari, we’re in Liberia.”

“WHAT?” I shrieked.

My jaw was on the floor.

Our fellow companions stared at me, Landyn looked at me in alarm, as Carly explained that the severe weather and fog in the area prevented them from landing, their plane didn’t have enough fuel to circle above, and henceforth they were forced to land in Liberia––Costa Rica’s other international airport located in an entirely different region of the country.

“Well….I mean…” I sputtered. “Is there a plan? Are you staying overnight there?”

“No idea yet. The only information they’ve given was in Spanish.”

“Okay, well hang up with me and try to figure out what the hell is going on.”

“Okay sounds good, talk to you soon.”

I stared at the phone, looked up at Landyn who was eager for an explanation to my shrieking.

“Landyn, they landed them in Liberia.”

*cue the same reaction I had to Carly over the phone*

After about four more phone calls with my sister and by teaming up with an incredibly kind woman named Yolanda who was sitting at the table next to us (whose niece was also on the flight now grounded in Liberia), we were able to piece together bits of information to figure out what the hell happened. It turns out that the pilot had tried to land the plane, discovered very close to the ground that there was a supremely dense fog preventing any visibility, and bailed out of the landing at the last second, darting nearly vertically back into the sky. They did not have enough fuel to circle above until the fog cleared like all the other planes were doing, so instead they were forced to push on to Liberia where they were refueling. They planned to fly them back into San José as soon as possible. For a while, the San José airport was closed––nobody was coming or going.

Simultaneously, I was compulsively refreshing the Southwest Airlines website, keeping tabs on the other half of my family also trying to fly into San José. Ultimately their timing worked out perfectly. They were one of the first planes to land after the airport was reopened, and they actually got in 15 minutes ahead of schedule.

Landyn and I game-planned to split up––he would take those family members to get a rental car, possibly check into the hotel, and I would wait at the airport as long as it took for my mom and sister to arrive.

About 30 minutes later, we greeted my cousin, Alyssa, her fianceé, Sam, and their two kids Leo and Calliope, briefly explained the situation, and Landyn accompanied them on the shuttle to the rental car office.

I paced nervously around the exit doors, waiting for some sign of my mom and sister.

When I finally saw them emerge I was overwhelmed with relief. This was not the start to vacation I had been hoping for. Even so, I was incredibly grateful that they were safely on the ground, at the correct airport.

We reunited with the rest of the fam picking up the rental car, headed towards our hotel in San José for the night (since our apartment definitely could not house six additional humans), and hunkered in for the start of family vacation. We hit some turbulence (pun intended) but we made it. Everyone was together.

Irazú

The next morning we hit the ground running––after a delicious, quick breakfast at our hotel we headed towards our first destination: Volcán Irazú.

Irazú is a popular place to visit, yet Landyn and I had not yet been. All of our friends had loved it, so we decided to use Irazú to fulfill the “see a volcano” requirement of our trip. Since we had heard nothing but great things, we were pretty pumped.

And it did not disappoint.

 

I had read online ahead of time that it gets chilly at the volcano’s edge, considering the high altitude (the van had to do some serious uphill climbing), but this was beyond chilly. We froze our asses off, so don’t mind the blue-purple lips in our photographs.

 

If we thought the trek up Irazú was steep, that was nothing compared to our journey back down. We took a different route, and it was a true, Costa-Rican mountain driving experience: narrow roads not wide enough for two cars to pass, drop-off edges on cliffsides with no guard-rails, rough gravel with no pavement in sight, steep slopes, and of course the signature winding path.

Despite the dismal road conditions, the drive itself was beautiful. We wound our way down through the rural outskirts of Cartago, Costa Rica’s original capital city, now a budding agricultural community. We were surrounded by lush greenery, beautifully terraced mountainsides filled with cattle and chickens, and rich, saturated flowers.

As we forged ahead, we came to a halt: the road our GPS wanted us to continue down was roped off, closed for construction. Of course, I thought, the first time I’ve seen road maintenance on one of these desolate drives this entire year, and it’s right now, forcing us to turn around. I was thoroughly annoyed and then quickly relieved that our GPS found a different route. Sometimes that truly does not happen down here; sometimes there is literally only one way to get where you need to go. I was so grateful we weren’t stuck.

Sam pulled into a driveway, turned around, and headed up a steep hill on our new course. We got to the top of the hill, finally hit a patch of level ground, and Sam said “our brakes don’t work.”

“What? What do you mean they don’t work? Are you sure?!” said everyone in the vehicle.

Our brakes had died. And honestly, we might have too if it weren’t for that road being closed––the one that was the steepest, curviest looking one yet––and we hadn’t been rerouted to this level surface, in a mud patch. I’m not one to claim “miracle,” but someone in the universe had to be looking out for us in order for all of those things to perfectly align.

Thankfully, we were surrounded by a small farming community and they helped us push the van to a driveway, out of the middle of the road.

After contacting the rental car company, figuring out how to drop a pin and send them our location, and arranging for our pick-up, I hung up the phone and the entire car seemed to let out a collective sigh. It was going to be at least a 3-hour wait until the new van would reach us, we were all starving, and we had no idea how far it was to the nearest town. But at least we were alive.

Over the course of the next few hours, we proceeded to slowly inch the car closer towards the nearby town. We waited for the brakes to completely cool and when Sam could feel a bit of resistance, we set out ahead of the car, watching for oncoming traffic and hills that would be too steep to rely on the E-brake if need be.

We made it through the tiny village, to the top of the very last hill before entering Pacayas, a city with restaurants and places to relax. That hill was a death wish for a car without brakes, so we parked at the very end of someone’s driveway just before the steep decline began.

After roughly 20 minutes, the occupants of the house came outside––a kind man and his teenage daughter. Landyn and I utilized our Spanglish skills to explain our situation, and our new friend, Pancho, was quick to assure us we were no bother at all in his driveway. He stood outside and made conversation with us for what ended up totaling two hours, sometimes enduring the rain in order to keep up our chit-chatting. He took Landyn on a tour of his expansive property and even gave him a carrot fresh from his garden.

Carly and I joined in for the second half of the tour––a building with automated cattle-milking machines. He sold his dairy products to a huge corporation down here, famous for their ice cream and cheese.

 

I continue to be blown away by the warmth of the Costa Rican people. They are so kind, so empathetic, and so accommodating towards others. It’s something we could use a lot more of in the world.

When our hunger began to slightly supersede our fear of having no brakes and we had a decent amount of brake resistance again, we decided to say screw it and make it down the hill. I don’t think a single one of us breathed the entire time. Thankfully, we made it into Pacayas safely and were able to get food while we (STILL) waited for our new van to arrive.

After what felt like a thousand years, my mom pointed out the restaurant door, saying “is that the guy?”

Sure enough, there was a red-shirted individual driving a massive van. Most of us started yelling and waving our arms, but my sister was like something out of a movie: wordlessly, she sprinted out of the restaurant and around the corner, chasing down the van with her signature speed. A few minutes later, the van pulled up next to ours with Carly riding shotgun.

We had the old van unloaded and the new one packed in under five minutes. We were beyond ready to get out of there, our frustrations at lack of control and wasted time at an all-time high.

We had reservations for the night in Cahuita––about a four-hour drive from where we were currently located. Rather than spend the night in an additional hotel, we decided to say ~F it~ and drive out to Cahuita, despite the dark night swiftly settling in.

And, actually, the drive to Cahuita was rather enjoyable. I think some of the best parts of family vacations happen in the in-between moments, like conversations in the car en route to your next destination. Our day of will-testing and the patience marathon we were forced to run finally came to a close around 10pm as we checked into our hotel in Cahuita, grateful to finally be there and ready to put the day’s events behind us.

Cahuita

Some light background info: for this trip, we decided to head towards the Carribean side of Costa Rica since we had not yet been, and while the Pacific side was enduring its rainiest month of the year, October, this was one of the driest months on the Carribean side.

The biggest city that tourists flock to on the Carribean coast is Puerto Viejo, and we opted to stay just north of it and then just south of it. Cahuita was our northernmost stop.

After checking into our hotel, the boys (Landyn and Sam) went to have a few beers at the Reggae bar down the street, and the children and ladies all crashed.

The following morning, we had to be up and at it fairly early, since we had a tour planned. More light background info: Cahuita is most famous for its picturesque National Park. Just off the coast of the park’s boundary is an expansive, protected reef that offers incredible snorkeling for visitors. Since the reef is considered a protected area, a guide is required by law for all snorkeling activities.

Our guide, Manuel, met us at the boat docks just outside the park’s boundaries, handed out our gear, and set out towards the reef.

It was some of the best snorkeling I personally have ever done. The experience was strikingly similar to scuba diving in that the depth of water and reef quality was the perfect ratio where it was shallow enough to see the coral exceptionally well, and the coral was large and healthy enough that it was easy to see details and its marine life occupants.

 

As for the kids, they were not quite sold on the whole snorkeling thing at first. Leo came around to it fairly quickly, but Calliope never really got on board. Similarly, my mom was enthusiastic about seeing all of the coral, however, did not enjoy watching large fish swim so near her. Overall we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

We snorkeled at two different spots, exploring a large area of the reef system. Our highlights included dozens of fish varieties, a stingray, and Alyssa’s spotting of a nurse shark. After 2 or 3 hours, the tour concluded with our docking on a national park beach, the serving of some fresh fruit, and watching monkeys try to steal said fruit. Although the boat could have taken us back to our original starting location, we opted to walk one of the park’s trails back to the entrance so that we could get more of the park experience.

During our trek, we spotted sloths, monkeys, another stingray along the beach, huge blue morpho butterflies, and tropical birds. The kids were such troopers––they hiked a solid 3 miles with almost no complaints.

 

As our hike came to a close, we put an exclamation point on the closing of a fabulous excursion with some fruity drinks and excellent food at an on-the-water restaurant.

Our next day in Cahuita we started things off with a chocolate tour. Of all the things Landyn and I have done down here during this past year, the only “food” tours we had done were part of class field trips, so this was an exciting departure.

Speaking of field trips, if you’ll think back to my Osa post, you may recall that one of our stops was at an indigenous community which turned out to give us rather creepy, culty vibes. Interestingly enough, the chocolate tour was presented by the same group of indigenous people: the BriBri. Our experience in this BriBri territory was starkly different from our last experience, though. The people here were very open, genuine, and receptive to questions. They even explained their cosmovision and beliefs much differently from the other BriBri sect. It was super informative and interesting, and the fresh chocolate was absolutely delicious.

 

After filling up on lunch post-chocolate tour, Alyssa and Sam headed to Puerto Viejo for a ziplining tour and the Fehler tribe (plus Landyn) took the kiddles to the beach. We had a ridiculous amount of fun.

 

As ominous looking rain clouds loomed overhead in the late afternoon, we decided to head back towards the hotel. We took Leo and Calliope’s little hands and away we went. As we approached a small shop, I heard a familiar voice drifting out of it.

“Isn’t that Sam’s voice?”

Sure enough, when we peered in the entrance we saw Sam and Alyssa.

“Oh hi! What a funny coincidence we ran into you like this! How was ziplining?!”

“Actually, we didn’t end up going. The tour company is closed on Sundays. So we ended up wandering around a little bit, getting some food, and hitting up the shops while we searched for you guys here.”

This was the trip theme we had going: smooth sailing then a speedbump. Some of these speedbumps were significant, like the brakes going out on the side of a mountain, and some were easy to handle, like the ziplining desk being closed. That’s the thing about traveling through Central America––it’s gorgeous and rich in activities, wildlife, and culture––but it is not necessarily made for ease and convenience.

We closed out our time in Cahuita with a family dinner at the town’s best restaurant, and it was one of those really fun meals where it seemed at least one person was laughing the entire time. I couldn’t tell you exactly what was talked about now, but the feeling of complete contentment is what I can still vividly recall. Although we were in for more bumps in the road, it was a time of pure joy and bonding and I remember looking around the table and feeling indescribably grateful to have had some of my favorite people in the world in one of my favorite places in the world.

The next morning, we packed up the van and headed to our next home: Chiquita.

Chiquita

Whereas Cahuita was a half hour north of Puerto Viejo, Chiquita is located about a half hour south of PV.

En route to our next place in Playa Chiquita, we stopped at the Jaguar Rescue Center, a true rehabilitation facility focused on helping injured animals prepare to successfully rejoin their respective ecosystems. They were super knowledgeable, very personable, and I’d highly recommend this to anyone traveling on the Carribean side of Costa Rica.

 

After the JRC we began the search for our next home. “Search” is the exact word for what this process turned into. We rented a tree house type home through Airbnb, and the downfall of that site is that they only provide a rough estimate of where the house is located until your arrival date. Well, even with a pin drop, we could not figure out where the hell this place was. After over an hour of wrong turns down narrow jungle pathways, we finally found what we were looking for: Casa Selva y Mar.

 

After getting settled in, we set out to the beach to soak up the last of the sun’s rays.

There’s nothing quite like drinking a beer in the ocean.

As the sun began to set, we spotted lightning in the distance. We tried to outrun it. We really did. We got out of the water immediately, hurriedly put on our clothes and packed up our towels, but we were no match for the weather. A thunderstorm rolled in and took no prisoners. Halfway back to our house, the sky opened up and we were getting drenched. Another one of those speedbumps, I guess.

The next day we split up again: Alyssa and Sam went up to Puerto Viejo to try their hand at ziplining round two, and the rest of us hopped in a cab to go to the nearby Manzanillo National Wildlife Refuge, a gem nearly touching the border of Panama.

I’m gonna brag about these children again, because we had them hike and walk a solid three miles with us, and they never complained. They remained engaged, inquisitive, and happy little campers despite the shitshow that was finding a good beach to perch ourselves on. They were total rockstars, and we had yet another afternoon of quality bonding time with tons of laughs.

 

Our afternoon plan had been to visit a Great Green Macaw sanctuary since they are some of Landyn and I’s favorite birds and my family had yet to see any. As our time in the sun and surf stretched into the early afternoon hours, we were starting to get anxious about reuniting with Sam and Alyssa, who had the rental car. Unfortunately, they did not have any data nor cellular service while down here, so texting/calling wasn’t an option. We had left a note with the name of the park on the counter in the house, but without a solid maps app that would work on their phone, we were nervous they had gotten lost.

We trudged out of the park and wandered back into the town area, happened to see a public bus at the stop, and knew it was now or never. We needed to get back to the house to change if we were going to make it to the Macaw sanctuary on time. It was our one opportunity to see them as we were headed to Panama the following morning. It truly was a do-or-die scenario. So, we scooped up the kids and got on the bus.

I can’t fully articulate what was so funny and amusing about this, but it was absolutely hysterical. Maybe because of the stressful element. Maybe because we looked so out of place lugging our towels and beach totes and the kids’ life jackets. But we looked at each other and laughed really, really hard once the bus started moving.

It was only a ten-minute ride until we arrived at the road leading to our house. Luckily, as soon as the bus left Manzanillo, Alyssa and Sam arrived back at the house and were, therefore, able to contact us through the WiFi there. We told them we’d need to haul ass once we made it back, and as soon as we were dropped at the end of the excessively long drive we booked it up to Casa Selva y Mar, changed our clothes in approximately three seconds flat, and piled into the van.

We made it to the turnoff for the Macaw sanctuary, a place called the Ara Project, with time to spare. As we snaked our way up the narrow road, we hit a big, steep hill. Sam gave it all the gas he could, but we started rolling backward after making it only halfway up. We all must have had PTSD from the brakes going out because I think I started screaming, my mom chimed in with some “woah, woah, woah”s, and Carly threw open the van door, poised to jump out. It was probably hilarious from the outside looking in.

Thankfully we made it up the hill without issues on our second attempt and arrived at the Ara Project gates right on time.

Our tour guide was wonderfully kind, and after a brief introduction to the basics of Great Green Macaws and, specifically, their history and presence in Costa Rica, we walked up to a lookout point with benches and perches for humans and birds alike. Up here we were amongst high tree branches littered with Macaws. This was the rest of our tour: simply hanging out with the birds, observing them do their thing as they flew around, were fed dinner by the staff, and passed no more than a foot above our heads.

 

It turned out to be one of our favorite activities from the trip. Everyone loved it.

 

Afterward, we grabbed dinner from a soda, a Costa Rican classic which is basically a cross between a regular sit down restaurant and a snack bar, up in Puerto Viejo. We soaked up our last evening in Costa Rica before traveling to Panama. It would be the last time we’d have family visit us here as semi-residents. That was a sobering realization to come to, and it only made me even more appreciative of every second we were spending together down here. It also made me feel a twinge of eagerness to see our cinnabons (the chihuahuas that live on our property) again. Nevertheless, I was beyond excited to ship out to Panama in the morning. We were headed to the last leg of the trip with all eight of us: Bocas del Toro.

Bocas del Toro

The trip to Panama began at 6am when we assembled ourselves and our belongings into the rental car for the last time. We arrived at the border town of Sixaola just before 7 and got in line to pay our Costa Rica exit tax. It was so unofficial looking, we probably would have never realized where to go had we not asked a local.

Once we paid our exit tax fee we waited for the border parking lot to open. Since Sam and Alyssa were flying back to the United States out of San José, versus my mom and sister who would be flying out of Panama City, they decided to keep the rental car for the few days we would be in Bocas and then drive it back to the San José airport upon their departure. After getting all of our belongings out and parking the car, we proceeded to the next stop: Costa Rica immigration. They stamped our passports, double checked that we paid the exit tax, and sent us on our merry way to Panama.

 

There’s something really cool and unique about walking across a border versus flying into a new country or driving. I feel a hyper-awareness about the acts of leaving and arriving, and it’s strange to wave goodbye to Costa Rican border patrol officers and then wave hello to Panamanian border officials five minutes later. It simplifies it somehow, yet there is also an unmistakable novelty air about it. Not to mention this particular border crossing offered stunning views.

 

The Panama customs declaration process took place in what looked like a one-room house. We simply filled out our customs slips and left. Nobody checked the forms for accuracy nor did they check our luggage. We then wandered up the street to the immigration station where they took our fingerprints, took photos of us, double-checked our itinerary and gave us our stamp.

Our next objective: get to the town of Almirante. We hopped in a shuttle and embarked on the hour-long drive. Mid-drive, Leo got car sick and puked on his shorts. I wasn’t feeling so hot either, as our shuttle van did not have A/C and it was a particularly hot morning, so both he and I snacked on those portable applesauce things that Alyssa had in her backpack. Just another speedbump.

Once we arrived in Almirante, after a beautiful drive through the mountains, we boarded a water taxi that would drive us out to the island. Bocas del Toro is an archipelago of islands, and we chose to stay on the biggest one, Isla Colón.

 

We clambered out of the water taxi, grabbed our luggage which was stacked precariously in the back of the boat, and met the driver of our hotel shuttle outside the taxi terminal. We were so close to the finish line on this marathon morning we could taste it. Our place wasn’t quite done being cleaned, so we dropped our belongings and headed out for some exploration and lunch.

The town was everything I had hoped it would be––it had the adorable, tourists-love-it island look with the laidback island feel.

We ate lunch at a restaurant connected with a scuba diving shop, which would spark an idea I’ll come back to.

 

After lunch we hit up the grocery store for some essentials––snacks and booze––and headed back to our hotel.

When they took us upstairs and showed us our place, my jaw truly dropped. The pictures they advertised with on booking.com did NOT do it justice, and it was even cooler than I thought it was going to be.

It was called “Ocean Loft,” and it was truly that. A loft with open access to the ocean air.

 

We spent that afternoon hanging out on the dock; we jumped off the diving board, snorkeled, and enjoyed some adult beverages. Landyn and Sam even jumped off loft into the water, as it was upwards of 15 feet deep.

The next day we hit a destination spot which was one of the biggest reasons why we went to Bocas all together in the first place: Playa Estrella or Starfish Beach. We took a water taxi to the northwest corner of the island and they dropped us off for the day. We had chairs, piña coladas, and lobster they caught right there in the ocean. It does not get any fresher than what we experienced. What more could you ask for from a beach day?!

 

It was these days in Bocas that are some of my fondest memories from the trip because they were just so simple. Don’t get me wrong, I love the adventure tours, the wildlife tours, and hiking national parks. But there is something so pure and enjoyable about a beach day with your family, just having fun and hanging out, that gives me the warm and fuzzies. It was absolutely the perfect way to close out our time together.

The following morning, Sam, Alyssa, and the kiddies headed back to San José. They would stay overnight there and get on a plane back to the States the next day.

And it was really sad to say goodbye to Sam and Alyssa and the kids. Even though we had gotten a lot of quality time in during the previous week, I couldn’t help but feel really sad to see them go. Maybe it’s because I knew I wouldn’t see them in a month on Thanksgiving like my mom and Carly would. Maybe the reality of just how far away I am from my loved ones down here hit me with a jolt.

With modern-day conveniences like texting and FaceTime, I sometimes forget just how removed I am. I forget I’m in a different part of the world. But then they come to visit me, and inevitably have to say goodbye, and I’m reminded of that fact.

I was also sad because I had grown to love the speedbump pattern we had going on. It was a trip with a surplus of crazy stories and eventful happenings, and I was bummed to see it coming to a close.

Thankfully, though, I didn’t have to say goodbye to everybody all at once. The Fehler tribe was continuing on in our family vacay journey. We had one more day in Bocas and then we were headed to Panama City.

And I realize now, I shouldn’t have been sad to see our speedbump-riddled journey go––we had plenty more coming.

Until next time, friends.

 

 

My waterlogged shoes squished against the mildew-covered pavement, hydroplaning precariously, both baling and taking on water with every step.

We walked up to the lawyer’s office, and, for the second time that afternoon, read the dreaded “Se Aquila” sign in the window, the empty, abandoned offices in the background.

As we walked back out into the barrage of precipitation, I watched my spongy shoes and thought about the ridiculous set of circumstances that led us here.

10 Days Earlier

A staff member at UPeace organized a Sunday whale watching trip down in Uvita, the whale-tail beach we went to with my family in March. (Read all about that here)

So, a large group of students decided to make a weekend out of it by renting a party bus down to Manuel Antonio (an hour north of Uvita) on Friday, relax on the beautiful beaches/party on Saturday, and then get picked up by the school’s buses headed to Uvita on Sunday morning.

Thus, our weekend began with a 3.5-hour bus ride to Manuel Antonio consisting of unofficial group karaoke sessions and lots of pregaming.

We spent our Friday night at the taco bar attached to our hostel and out at the local bars.

Saturday, we decided to visit the National Park for the third time. It’s one of our favorite places in all of Costa Rica; it never disappoints.

After a day of sand, sun, hiking, and animal sightings, we revisited the taco bar, went out for reggae night, and capped off an exceptionally fun, relaxing 48 hours in Manuel Antonio.

Sunday morning, we were set to meet the buses headed to Uvita for whale-watching. I was every bit as excited to see some Humpbacks as I was to go turtle watching in Tortuguero. We were ready: we woke up early to pack up our things, eat breakfast, and ensure we were completely ready to roll. We taxied to the meeting spot with 15 minutes to spare, so Landyn and I headed to a nearby ATM in order to get the cash needed to pay for the whale-watching tour.

There were three ATM’s in the small, air-conditioned space. A young man was at the middle one, so Landyn took the left-hand stall and I the right. After we did our thang, I turned to Landyn who, looking puzzled, said “I don’t know where my card is.”

“. . . What do you mean you don’t know where your card is? You either took it out of the machine or you didn’t.”

“I don’t remember it giving me my card back.”

“Well did it give you the cash?”

“Yeah I got the cash just fine, I just have no idea where my card is.”

We both looked at the machine, utterly confused. It didn’t make sense.

“Cari, I think it just ate my card.”

Equally perplexed and horrified, we shoved an old, used gift card into the slot, and sure enough, we could feel Landyn’s debit card lodged in the back. What the hell do we do now?

I ran outside, flagged down a taxi driver, and frantically tried to explain the situation to him, hoping maybe this was a common occurrence and a local would know how to help us. Maybe there was some secret trick to coaxing it back out.

As we tried to speak Spanglish with a taxi driver and an additional bank patron who had arrived on the scene in the aftermath, them explaining our only shot at recovering the card was to come back to the bank when the actual branch was open the following day, our friends called to tell us that the buses had arrived. There were upwards of 40 people waiting on us, we had no choice but to leave.

There was no magic button. No recouping our loss. It was time to call it. Time of death: 09:22. RIP little debit card.

As we hauled ass back to the bus stop, Landyn got his bank on the phone and canceled the card. We would deal with getting him a new one when we were back home. For now, we brushed it off and set our sights on the day’s adventure: whale watching.

I was crawling out of my skin with nerves and excitement when the tour company brought us out onto the beach. They split us up into two groups, and we boarded the boat right on the sand since the building of docks is not allowed inside national parks.

Landyn and I sat in the very front of the boat, and as we waited for our boatmates to file in, I was suddenly consumed with a feeling of restlessness, of anticipation. I wanted to see whales in the ocean for my entire life. What if we didn’t see any? What if we did? What if they swam right underneath our boat and flipped it and then carried me off under the water to find Atlantis?

After what felt like forever, we pushed off the beach and roared out into the surf. We were promised a smooth ride but that is not what we got. As someone who has to take Dramamine before these types of excursions, I would’ve guessed this would have made me mentally and physically uneasy. But something about sitting in the front of the speedboat brought me back to being a kid.

Growing up, we had a speedboat we took all over the midwest, camping and tubing and skiing our way through family vacations. We consistently brought it up to a cottage in northern Wisconsin at least every other weekend in my younger years, so boating is a staple of my childhood memories.

Things were not always smooth sailing as a kid, especially during some of these boating memories and cottage visits in the Northwoods, and I have strangely vivid recollections of using the time in the boat to decompress. I would turn my head into the wind, allowing it to blow my hair back, close my eyes, and breathe from somewhere deep down in my diaphragm. I let the sound of the motor relax me, lull me, even, as I enjoyed the feeling of flying on water. I remember looking around at the world on land passing me by, wondering what kind of lives all those people in all those other cottages lived.

Boating and everything it encompasses––the sounds, the feel of the spray, the motion of the waves, the wind––resonates with me on a spiritual level. I love it.

And I sort of forgot how much I love it since the massive waves in Utila freaked me out so much, but this was different: this was OG boating. Just me in a speedboat, living my best life.

The first few minutes of us getting out of the rough, breaking waves were turbulent; we were splashed by spray, tossed up and down, and, instinctively, I tilted my head up, closed my eyes, and let the experience draw me in. It’s like the ultimate feeling of being present, living in the present. My mind cleared, and I smiled as I was taken back to those early memories, slipping back into my element.

As we pushed past the wave-break-point, they cut the engine and we bobbed in the significantly calmer waves. Complete silence engulfed the boat as 24 pairs of eyes fiercely searched the aquamarine waters, willing a whale to surface.

And it did.

We saw the unmistakable dorsal fin of a Humpback whale. As we maneuvered closer, we realized it was a mother-daughter duo. It was every bit as majestic as I imagined it would be.

Thus began the process of us searching for whales, driving nearby once they were spotted, and watching them swim around the ocean. Adult humpback whales can spend about an hour underwater between surfacing stops, but calves can only stay underwater for 5-10 minutes before needing to surface again. So, the fact that they’re in birthing season right now and therefore many of the whales in the area were mother-daughter pairings, was great for us since it meant they would be surfacing more frequently.

I cannot express how much I was loving my life during this affair––the guide and I became fast friends, and upon seeing my camera and genuine interest in the whales, he invited me to sit on the front bow of the boat to get the best pictures possible. So there I sat: perched on the very front of the boat, watching whales in the ocean.

After about an hour of this, we drove to the nearby “Whale Island,” and the guide told us this is where we would be swimming. They cut the engine, and everyone looked at him incredulously because we had ~just~ spotted whales in this area only 15 minutes beforehand. They told us we’d have a chance to go swimming prior to getting on the boat, however, all of us assumed it would be at the end, by the pristine beach. Nobody pictured them plopping us in the middle of the ocean, on top of the whales.

So then I hit a dilemma: another key part of my childhood boating experiences was my fear of marine life. I had this ridiculously potent, irrational fear that while floating in the water, a huge fish would come up and either take some of my toes for a midday snack, latch onto my foot and pull me under to their evil lair between the weeds, or swallow me up in one gulp. It caused me to never stray too far from the boat. I never, ever, ever, EVER would have gone into the water knowing there were huge creatures lurking in its depths in our exact location.

But the guide said it was safe. And as I watched other begin to cautiously jump into the water, I knew what I had to do. I quickly slipped into my swimsuit behind the coverage of a towel and a good friend (fail on my part for not changing ahead of time like everyone else) and stood up on the bow, feet on the edge.

It had started to pour. Before I could talk myself out of it, I was tossing my orange life jacket into the ocean and jumping into the water. I went for a float in the ocean, in the pouring rain, amongst my friends and the whales. And it was so much fun.

At some point, you’ve got to let go of your fears. If I was destined to be swallowed up by a whale that day, I wasn’t gonna fight fate.

After we each jumped off the boat a few times, Landyn’s reckless ass even front-flipping off the boat, we concluded our Whale Island swim and headed towards our next stop: Playa Ventanas down at the start of the Osa Peninsula, which we had also visited with my family in March. Seeing it from the water was very cool, though, because we had a much better view of the various arched rock formations that gave the beach its namesake––”ventanas” means “windows” in Spanish.

One small problem: the area is notorious for its powerful waves and strong riptide currents, and as they backed the boat into the midst of these cavernous tunnels, we got stuck in a spot with massive waves competing against each other, resounding off the rock walls, making our boat lurch quite a bit. And then, we had even bigger waves ahead of us that we needed to make it through.

The guide told us to put our lifejackets back on, slide towards the back of the boat, and hold on. If I hadn’t been very used to boating, and experienced what it’s like to be a smaller boat stuck in big water, fighting to get free of the massive waves, this would have probably sent me into a panic, as it did for many of our boatmates.

I was airborne, a lot. Butt fully lifted off the seat, I truly felt like I was on a roller coaster.

When we finally made it back towards the beach where we began the tour, we spent some extra time searching for our last whales.

We were waiting patiently, learning some Humpback facts in the meantime, when a momma and a baby suddenly appeared extremely close to our boat. Through their own relaxed meandering and the waves pushing us adrift, they ended up being no more than six feet from our side of the boat.

This was one of those moments where I put down the camera. As much as I try to get as many great pictures as possible, especially to share with all of you, I also firmly believe that there are certain moments that don’t need documentation, they need you to be fully present. When they were right next to us, I simply watched. The calf was nearest to us, and I could see every detail of her from the tip of her nose to her eyes, to the tip of her tail. It was wild. Maybe one of the coolest things I have ever seen.

Heading back to shore was bittersweet––I was so grateful for the unbelievable experience we had that I wanted it to last longer. I wanted to stay out there until sunset.

Alas, we headed back to the buses and hit the road, homeward bound, with full hearts and memory cards treasuring the weekend’s events.

About That Card…

We spent the entire next week trying to figure out a way to get Landyn a new debit card. His bank wouldn’t allow him to authorize someone to pick up a new card, it would have taken too long to ship him a new one down here, and they refused to ship one to an address in Wisconsin since he wasn’t actually living there.

After a slew of phone calls and investigating all options, I decided to add him onto my bank account.

Why am I going into detail about our banking situation?

Because creating a joint-checking account feels like I might as well be married. That is trust and commitment right there. It’s a huge deal!!!

And we’re excited about it, and we’re happy about it, and I would trust Landyn with anything and everything, but it makes me think about how opportunities are presented to us.

When we first heard about whale-watching, Landyn didn’t even want to go. It was me who was most excited. When our friends wanted to go to Manuel Antonio beforehand, I was unconvinced for a couple days. It was Landyn who really wanted to go. If either of us had gotten our way, we never would’ve created the Lari banking account. A whole set of specific circumstances and deliberate decisions led us to that ATM.

Maybe there’s nothing more to it, maybe it’s just dumb luck that the stupid machine ate his card.

Or maybe the universe is constantly conspiring to put you in situations that scare you a little bit, that put you at a crossroads.

I could have easily said no to jumping in the water where we had just spotted whales. In fact, that would have been the easier of the two. But there’s something so refreshing and exhilarating about taking leaps of faith that you know you’re ready for yet still frighten you a bit. It’s what makes you feel most alive. It’s what makes me feel most alive.

Sometimes those are literal leaps that land you in the ocean in a thunderstorm with your friends. Sometimes they’re figurative leaps that land you on a sidewalk in Ciudad Colon in a thunderstorm, trudging through the downpour searching for a lawyer to notarize your paperwork.

Sometimes shit hits the fan and all you can say is “Oh whale.”

Until next time, friends.

 

 

For as long as I can remember, I have loved turtles. They were always amongst my top candidates for the “What’s your favorite animal?” questions in elementary school (along with sea otters and snow leopards).

Beginning roughly from age five through our early high school years, my sister, myself, and our two very-close-in-age cousins spent a week camping with our grandparents at a beloved family campground. Every summer I looked forward to this week more than almost anything else because there was an abundance of turtles in the campground pond. Turtle-catching, and subsequently carving out small basins stretching from the top of the beach to the water’s edge in order to hold “turtle races,” was our favorite activity.

As I grew older, and Planet Earth became a thing, I became even more enamored with a different type of turtle––sea turtles. To this day, I could sit and watch footage of them swimming around underwater for hours. I made a vow to myself that one day I would see these beautiful, majestic creatures in real life.

We saw baby sea turtles voyaging from the beach to the ocean during one of our trips back in February and I thought I was going to die of excitement and joy. But still, my gluttony for wildlife viewing left me wanting more; I wanted to see the big mommas laying the eggs.

So when I heard about Tortuguero National Park (aka turtle central), an incredibly remote area lodged up in the northeast corner of Costa Rica, I knew I needed to go. Turtles from all over the Central America region flock to the town’s 18 kilometer stretch of beach to lay their eggs. Not to mention, the national park itself is referred to as “the Amazon of Central America,” home to thousands of unique species not found anywhere else in Costa Rica. Tortuguero is one of the only places in Costa Rica to see the rare Great Green Macaw, something I found particularly enticing considering that Scarlet macaws are my favorite bird.

Between the macaws, the turtles, and the Amazon-esque nature of the area, I already felt a strong desire to venture out there. But when I read that September is actually the best month to see turtles laying their eggs, I knew I needed to go.

The conclusion of Landyn’s first class meant we had a few extra days to travel last weekend, so we went with my pick: Tortuguero.

Getting There

The trek up to Tortuguero is an experience in itself. You can either take a private shuttle from San Jose to a small town called La Pavona, or if you’re balling on a budget (i.e. the category Landyn and I fall into), you can take a public bus from San Jose to Cariari, and then another public bus, the size of a short school bus in the States, from Cariari to La Pavona.

The thing about taking shuttles down here, as convenient and air-conditioned as they may be, is you’re typically only riding with other tourists. There’s no space to interact with locals. The best part of our travel day to Tortuguero was a woman on the bus who pulled me aside and said with abundant enthusiasm, “Me encanta las gringas,” as she gazed at my blonde locks and fair skin. These are the small encounters, quick, yet endearing, conversations I would miss if we traveled the bougie route.

No matter which route you go, all roads lead to La Pavona, from which there is only one path to Tortuguero: a 1.5-hour boat ride through the winding river canals. As someone who gets motion sickness fairly easily, the idea of a small boat winding through the channels made me a tad nervous. But it actually turned out to be a wonderful, supremely relaxing experience.

The village of Tortuguero consists of zero cars and zero streets. The sole sidewalk stretches the town’s 2-kilometer length, and small dirt paths branch off for its 600-meter width.

Our hotel was right on the beach (with such a small town, almost all of them are), and that first day Landyn and I napped in the hammocks, had a few cervezas, and made relaxation our number one priority. After a travel day that began at 5am, we needed this chill afternoon. Especially since we needed to meet our tour guide at the office, ready to roll, at 5:30am the following morning.

The National Park

We were so excited for our day of adventure, we forced ourselves to go to sleep at 8pm. We felt exhausted and wanted to wake feeling fully rested. We utilized every single outlet in the room to charge our phones, my camera, and the GoPro. We picked out our clothes the night before. We were completely prepared and ready to roll when it came time to leave the next morning.

So imagine our surprise when we couldn’t open our door.

It was stuck. We were stuck. Trapped inside our room as the minutes ticked away, our tour group meeting time creeping evermore close.

Landyn was panicked. And pissed. I called the front desk and desperately tried to explain what was happening. My knowledge of Spanish never really prepared me for “Please help us, our door won’t open and we’re stuck in our room and we have a tour leaving without us in five minutes!”

I basically just kept frantically saying “Ahora, ahora por favor!” along with our room number, hoping that if nothing else, the employee’s curiosity would send him adrift in our direction.

Thankfully, just a couple of minutes later my employee friend wandered up to our room, popped his head in our window to confirm we were the stuck folks, and promptly kicked our door in. What an efficient solution. We were saved.

With 2 minutes to spare, Landyn and I hastened off to begin our day, with a hearty adrenaline rush boosting our pace.

Although it does have a small land component, Tortuguero National Park is comprised primarily of canals which take you through its protected areas surrounded by water. Some of these canals are closer to large channels, and some are small, narrow offshoots that take you directly through the heart of Tortuguero’s pristine jungle. Because of this, the only way to truly see the best parts of the park is via boat.

So that morning we met our guide, walked to the park entrance, hopped into our canoe, and set off on our wildlife-spotting expedition.

And let me tell ya, the early morning wakeup call was so, SO worth it to see all of the wildlife we did.

Dozens and I mean dozens of various species of neotropical birds including Herons, Parrots, Blackbirds, Ibis, Ducks, Rails, Jacanas, and Toucans. Howler monkeys, Spider monkeys, lizards that can walk on water (dubbed the “Jesus Christ” lizard by the local guides), and Tortuguero’s famous Caimans also joined us on our morning boat ride.

Landyn and I were geeking out, ecstatic over all of the cool things we were seeing. We were seated directly in front of the guide, and with every exciting encounter we had, he got more hyped, too. So instead of heading back towards the park’s docks when it came time for the tour’s end, he eagerly asked us if we wanted to see some river turtles. Um, hell yeah we want to see some river turtles!

So we paddled against the grain, passing all the other boats heading the opposite way to shore, and immersed ourselves deeper and deeper into the canals.

We stopped to look at a bird, one we had already seen, off to the right of the boat, when I inexplicably looked left. Over the tops of the trees, about 200 meters ahead of us, I saw two huge, beautiful birds flying gracefully across the sky. When you’ve seen one bird of this species, their distinct shape is impossible to confuse; I immediately knew I had just seen the Great Green Macaw. The rare bird I was so, so excited to potentially see here.

“Oh my god, Landyn, I swear I just saw the Green Macaw!”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I saw it! I looked over there while you guys were looking at the Tiger Heron and I SAW them, I swear!”

Much to my annoyance, Landyn was doubtful. He turned around to the guide, “She thinks she might have just seen the Green Macaw.”

The guide laughed and said, “Well, it’s pretty rare to see them, but it if you saw two together that could have been it…”

Don’t throw me a bone to make me feel validated, sir, I know what I saw. #mansplaining

“Yeah, that was it. I saw them, I know I did.”

We paddled onward.

Not two minutes later, we heard a sound. Much like a Macaw’s shape, once you’ve heard their loud, screeching call it is also unmistakable. Our guide, shocked, said, “Well now that’s a Macaw!” We whipped our heads towards their distinct sound and gazed in wonder as three pairs of exquisite Great Green Macaws flew over our heads.

When they faded from view and the mystifying charm of their presence faded, I erupted. “I TOLD YOU. I TOLD YOU. I TOLD YOU. I KNEW I SAW THEM AND YOU DIDN’T BELIEVE ME. NONE OF YOU BELIEVED ME.”

Landyn laughed and flushed as I shoved him playfully while I yelled.  “I’m sorry, I thought maybe you just wanted to see them so bad that you thought you mistook something else for them.”

*Staring at him incredulously, expectantly*

“You’re right, you’re totally right, I fucked up, you’re an excellent birder, better than me, I’m sorry for doubting you!”

Yeah, that’s right, GROVEL.

We saw another two pairs before heading back towards the docks, over an hour after everyone else.

With each new sighting, I obnoxiously, quite sassily, asked Landyn “Hey, do you think those were Green Macaws?! I mean I think so, but I can’t be too sure…” As he laughed and said, “Alright, I got it, message received loud and clear.”

Landyn hardly ever undermines me, hardly ever doubts me at all, really, so when he does I need to take full advantage of my ability to humorously guilt-trip him over it. So that’s exactly what I did.

Back on land, we spent our entire breakfast identifying the birds we had seen, marking them off in Landyn’s book and gushing over how incredible our morning was.

We contemplated taking a nap before exploring the rest of the park, but ultimately we were way too jacked, way too hyped, to sit still now. So we headed out to explore the park’s lone hiking trail.

And it was a horrible time. There were these huge, red flies, psychotic, terrifying, kamikaze red flies, that were attacking us from the moment we entered the park until we left. I have learned to accept bugs since moving down here, and I really do feel I have tripled my insect tolerance. But these things were relentless and flying directly into my face, repeatedly. I couldn’t deal. I took off, sprinting down the trail, seeking the shelter of open air.

We had made it just over halfway through the trail, and that was enough for us. The best part of the park was the section over the water, anyways. I was D-O-N-E done. So we wandered around the town for a bit before ultimately finding our way back to the hotel hammocks, enjoying a beer and a snooze with the sound of the ocean as our background music.

Tortugas

Nighttime turtle-watching is heavily regulated in Tortuguero. It works like this: you tell a guide you’d like to go turtle-watching no later than 4pm the day of. The employees of the National Park then get a final headcount of how many people will be on the beach from all of the town’s tour companies combined. Then, they divide them up into two shifts: one half goes out to the beach from 8-10pm, the other half from 10pm-midnight. Furthermore, they divide those halves into even smaller groups, designating each one their own small “sector.” The sectors are pre-determined boundary lines drawn to ensure that there are never too many people in one area of the beach at once so the turtles have a higher chance of laying their eggs unperturbed. The National Park releases the time/sector information promptly at 6pm each evening.

We were placed in the 10pm-midnight slot.

So, between finding out this information at 6:05pm and when our tour began, we took another nap, met up with some friends for a beer, and feebly tried to contain our excitement.

Dressed entirely in black, per the request of the park so that we may blend in with the vegetation if need be, hiking shoes laced, caked in bug spray, I felt like a turtle-hunting warrior goddess. What is it about an all-black outfit that makes you feel so badass and powerful?

At 9 we met outside the tour office, had a quick debriefing about the do’s-and-don’ts of turtle-watching (don’t scare them, under no circumstances should you touch them, and absolutely NO photography, even without the flash), and walked to our designated sector––a stretch of beach on the north side of the peninsula Landyn and I had yet to explore.

We reached our spot, shut off all personal light sources, and were lead onto the sand, the guide’s small red flashlight serving as her shepherd’s crook. Certified local spotters assist guides in finding nesting turtles that may be hidden underneath vegetation on the beach’s treeline in order to speed up the process for tourists like us. We were hauling ass our entire trek because they already had a turtle in their sights.

Landyn and I were first in line, right on the guide’s heels despite the brisk pace. When she turned around to warn us we were within arm’s length, and therefore gently shush the group, my stomach dropped. I was suddenly, inexplicably, strangely nervous.

It felt like I had been waiting my whole life to see this.

The guide moved back a few branches on a small shrub, and I had to forcibly hold in a gasp while Landyn grabbed my arm, echoing my own shock and awe.

This thing was huge. 

Quick background: there are generally four steps to the egg-laying process: first, they find a suitable spot on the sand and dig their hole. The turtles are extremely paranoid during this phase, interpreting every small sound and shadow as a potential threat. They often turn back around and seek the shelter of the waves when even remotely spooked. Second, if the spot looks good and they’ve dug their hole, they begin laying eggs. It’s during this phase that they enter a trance-like state, where nothing will deter them from laying the eggs. Even if they are pounced on by a jaguar, or touched by a human, they will not stop. Third, they cover their eggs with sand so they are well-cushioned against beach traffic and predators. Fourth, they return to the ocean.

We caught this turtle just after she finished laying her eggs. They looked like perfect, white ping-pong balls––a stark contrast to their black sand surroundings. We then witnessed her covering her eggs, and painstakingly untangling herself from the shrub’s roots before finally being able to spin herself around and orient herself towards the waves.

And it was as if I was six years old again, pushing my wild blonde curls out of my face to concentrate on watching my turtle race down the beach. The same overpowering desire to see my new friend reach her destination consumed my thoughts, quickening my heart rate and making me feel like I needed to jump up and down. But I didn’t need to cheer loudly this time, I didn’t need to build a track with walls to help guide the way. This momma knew what she was doing.

After quite a few breaks (she looked SO tired…I guess childbirth is grueling for any species), she finally made it into the waves. Our entire group breathed a sigh of relief as we watched her disappear into the surf.

It was really just one epic, high-stakes turtle race.

We were incredibly lucky to have spotted a second turtle immediately after the first, and this one was absolutely enormous. It was legitimately the size of a kitchen table.

Whereas we saw the second half of the process with the first turtle, we were able to witness the first half of the process with the second. We watched in awe as this magnificent lady plopped one, two, even three slimy, glistening eggs at a time into the meter-deep hole.

It was unbelievable how large they were and how quickly they filled up the sandy crater.

We departed the beach when she began to cover the eggs, though I personally could have stayed out there until dawn. I was wholly captivated.

The final exclamation point to what felt like a damn-near perfect evening was our spotting of the iconic red-eyed tree frog which I have been dying to see since our arrival in January.

Despite it being nearly 1am when we got back to our room, I was wide awake. It was one of those times where I couldn’t even articulate how overjoyed I was. Landyn and I both kept repeating “What. A. Day.” too overloaded with stimuli to delve into it any further.

We saved our gushing for the bus ride home the following day. As we recounted the events of our weekend and tried to pick a favorite activity, favorite animal we saw, a fresh wave of giddiness washed over me, transporting me back to my childhood days once again.

Heading into the weekend, I knew I was excited, but I could never have anticipated how truly ecstatic I would feel. As I stared out the bus window, I tried to figure out why.

I think there’s something so uniquely special about staying interested in something that enraptured you in childhood. Nearly everything about a person changes from childhood to adulthood, free time interests in particular, so it’s comforting, grounding, in a way, to partake in something you loved to do as a kid and still find it mesmerizing as an adult.

As much as things change, some things remain the same.

Until next time, friends.

Friends, we made it to Central America.

WE BACK

Our journey home was done in typical Lari fashion: the realization of a lost boarding pass as we neared the front of the long TSA screening line (If looks could kill, Landyn would be dead), stopped for additional screening and questioning because a baggie of Costa Rican coins scanned as something much more threatening (Oops, my bad), and a customs agent who did not believe our story and almost didn’t let Lari in the country (Plz don’t deport us).

My inner Tica rejoiced when we exited the airport and I had my first solid view of the mountains. I got a lump in my throat as I sat in the back of the Uber, finally headed home after a long travel day and a long travel drought.

We pulled in the driveway around 9:30pm, and as soon as I got out of the car Sofía and Lupe were at my ankles. Our landlord and his whole family greeted us with a touchingly warm welcome and helped us bring all our suitcases up to our apartment. We chatted for a bit and said goodnight, the click of the closing door an audible signal to the end of the journey, the end of the waiting. We made it.

Landyn and I looked at each other and sighed in unison. A release and a preparation for what came next: a week in Honduras. Our first trip of the semester started in just four hours when our scheduled 2am-taxi-pickup would bring us right back to the airport.

We unpacked a little, prepped our Honduras bags, and napped.

We Gone

When we got back to the freezing San José airport, to say we were on the struggle bus would be a vast understatement. There comes a point where you can no longer pretend to have your life together, you just openly wear your disheveledness for the world to see. This was mine.

Our brief layover in El Salvador began as nothing special. I was quite pleased to see a normal 737 waiting for us at our gate. I had been worried that they would put us on some little puddle-jumper plane since we were flying directly into the island of Roatan.

Dodged a bullet, thank god.

So you can imagine my surprise and confusion when the airline attendants scanned in our boarding passes and then directed us to go downstairs and outside. Like on the tarmac.

Alright. Kind of weird, but I guess we’ll just board from outside. 

But when we got outside, instead of climbing the detachable staircase affixed to the 737 that I thought was ours, we got into a shuttle van. They drove us down the tarmac, past a wide array of big, beautiful jets until we reached the very last plane parking spot.

It was a propeller plane. Literal. Propellers.

You could’ve flown all the other jumbo jets through the gaping hole my jaw made as it hit the floor. There was no way I was getting on that shit. Hell. No. I hate flying on a jet, I think airbuses are too small, I was absolutely not getting on that dinky oversized child’s toy.

But I did. Because sometimes to have the awesome adventures you have to do some shit you don’t want to do and overcome some serious, deeply-rooted fears. Looking back, it set the stage for how our entire week would go.

So I bawled for ten minutes after we took our seats, before even taking off. And then I put my big girl pants on, pulled my seatbelt as tight as it could possibly go, and reminded myself that this is all part of the adventure. Trust the process, and all that.

After an hour-long flight that probably shaved seven years off my life, we finally landed in the Bay Islands.

 

We ferried from Roatan, the more touristy island we flew into, to Utila––a smaller island comprised mostly of locals and scuba diving centers.

 

How did we get here? How did we decide on the Bay Islands for our first trip?

Excellent question.

One of Landyn’s “bucket list” activities was to become a certified scuba diver. Utila is one of the cheapest places in the world to do this, and its shores boast an incredible reef, part of the Mesoamerican Barrier Reef System, which is the second largest in the world, coming in right behind the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. Between the huge, healthy reef and the hundreds of aquatic animals native to the area, it was clear to see why divers from all over the world flock to Utila. After we booked our tickets, Landyn was like a seven-year-old waiting for Christmas. Pure excitement.

As for myself…I have an interesting relationship with water. I love it, but I’m also petrified of it in a way. I have these recurring dreams where I’m in water, typically some sort of lake, and the seaweed is pulling me under, I’m stuck and can’t get free, or I’m drowning, slowly getting dragged under the dark water by some invisible, malevolent force. It’s just occurring to me that the dreams are always about freshwater, never the ocean…maybe from a near-drowning incident I had at a lake when I was young? Maybe years of my sister tubing with me, yelling to me over the roar of the boat that the muskies would get me if I fell off the tube?

At any rate, between Landyn and I, I was the one with much more trepidation. I had some massive, longstanding fears I would need to overcome: open water, seaweed, marine animals. But I was all for trying it. Yolo.

We’re Really Doing This

First and foremost, we immediately loved the dive center we chose to go through––Alton’s Dive Center. The property was everything we wanted and more out of our island vacay, and our instructor, Hannah, seemed great.

 

On our first day of scuba school, we watched a lot of required videos, took quizzes on important information, and discussed the overall key aspects of diving. Beyond the classroom work, the diving certification process is comprised of five training dives done in “contained water,” i.e. a pool, or in this case, the shallow waters just off the dock, and four dives in open water. Right away, that afternoon, we began our contained water dives. And I was nervous.

Knowing that I could quit at any point if I truly hated it helped me find the courage to try, but even still, I thought I was going to pass out as I stood at the end of the dock, suited up in all of my heavy scuba gear, waiting to step off into the water. When it was my turn I looked at Hannah waiting in the water and said, “Ah shit. Hannah, you got me?”

“I got you.”

Kerplunk. In I was. Big girl pants: on.

And honestly, I only panicked a couple of times. What really got to me was the sensation of breathing underwater; it’s the wildest, trippiest act because it goes against everything you’ve always known about swimming––plug your nose, don’t breathe. It also took me a little bit to get used to relying solely on breathing through my mouth. Given I had a pretty gnarly chest cold settle in THE DAY BEFORE we left, I was rather nervous about the mouth-breathing. Loads of cold medicine and an inhaler carried me through, though.

By morning’s end on our second day, after completing all of our confined water dives, I was feeling confident and capable. That afternoon, however, we were getting on the boat and beginning our open water dives, and I was absolutely terrified.

Holy F***

The week before we left, my mom kept expressing her concern over me and Landyn diving. “It just makes me so nervous…I don’t know about this diving thing, Cari…Isn’t it dangerous?… I keep having these dreams where you go under the water and the boat leaves you and you’re stuck out there once you come back up…”

(That last one really got to me, as I’ve had similar dreams myself)

So after I popped a non-drowsy Dramamine and the boat took off into what the staff called “really rough” waters, not typical of Utila, these conversations played back in my head. My own water-related nightmares replayed. My deepest fears and anxieties came to the surface. My hands were visibly shaking.

They stopped the boat in the middle of the ocean and said: “Alright, get in the water.”

I slipped into my gear, carefully, as the boat lurched (literally, lurched,) from side to side, nearly kicking us out of the nest before we were ready. Hannah got in the water as other staff members helped us scuba babies in, struggling to stay standing in the turbulent tide themselves. To a panicked Cari, the choppiness called out like a warning, a severe reminder that the ocean is in charge. I was on her turf. You ain’t shit, I imagined her saying.

The staff reached for me, first. I couldn’t have asked for a more anxiety-inducing scenario. Hannah seemed far, too far for my own liking, on the tow line. I was about to plop into the ocean all by myself, a little sitting duck on the surface.

This year abroad has tested me and pushed me in ways hitherto unimaginable. I have let go of so many fears and tried things and conquered things I would’ve thought were for crazier, more adventurous people. I have learned I am much, much braver than I thought I was.

But walking to the edge of the boat, waiting for the boat to rock back down off of a strong wave, and waiting to take one giant stride into the ocean, sealing my fate as there would be no backing out once I was in, takes the cake for the scariest thing I have ever done. I was border-line hyperventilating. I felt the norepinephrine and cortisol flood my bloodstream from my hair follicles to my toes. What the fuck am I doing?

Feet on the edge, staff member holding me steady, “You’re good,” they said. But I wasn’t. And sometimes that’s your gut telling you that you are not cut out for whatever it is you’re about to do, your intuition screaming at you that something is not a good idea. But sometimes it’s just anxiety (which can sound a lot like intuition) trying to hold you back from the cool things life has to offer. Sometimes it’s nearly impossible to differentiate between the two. There’s only one way to find out.

“Holy fuck.”

*steps off the boat*

I inflated my BCD, the device that inflates and deflates depending on whether you’re trying to ascend or descend during a dive, also the thing that helps you float on the surface when the weight of the air tank threatens to sink you, and painstakingly made my way over to the tow line attached to the boat so as not to end up truly in the middle of nowhere. As I waited for my classmates to enter the surf, I bobbed up and down, the menacing water getting alarmingly close to flooding the top of my snorkel.

Once everyone was in, we laboriously swam over to our descent line, switched from our snorkels to our regulators (the device connected to our air tank which allows us to breathe underwater), went through the checklist of necessary steps to take before beginning the dive, and finally began to descend.

I made it about 14 inches down the line before I panicked and kicked back up to the surface.

I just needed a second, a quick pep-talk. The whole process felt incredibly stressful and rushed and I wasn’t quite ready. Deep breath. Get your shit together. Life is for living.

I re-deflated my BCD and slowly began to drop below the surface.

And it was like I stepped into an alien world. It looked so different it scared me for a second. I kept descending, equalizing the building pressure in my ears along the way, slowly adjusting to the perpetually increasing weight on my chest until I made it down to Hannah. She reached out for my hand, helping me move away from the reef and towards the sand patch we were going to kneel on, and I grabbed for her eagerly, tensely. I took a moment to squeeze her hand, a physical shedding of my stress and apprehension.

She guided me towards the sand, and then let me go. I pinned my elbows to my body, removing the rest of the air from my BCD, enabling me to drop the rest of the way to the ocean floor.

As soon as my knees touched the white sand, I let out a laugh, an influx of bubbles floating from my regulator up towards the surface. I watched them, taking in the visual distance 12 meters was from the light of the outside air. I was on the ocean floor. The true bottom of the ocean. As I looked around at the reef, slightly more accustomed to the new world I entered, it no longer scared me; rather, it intrigued me and left me feeling awestruck.

Landyn dropped down on the sand next to me and made the “okay” symbol with his hand, the diving world’s official hand signal for both the question and the answer: okay? okay. And when I signaled “okay” back to him, I really was. The lines around his eyes crinkled, magnified through his mask, and I knew he was smiling. I smiled back as we pounded fists, Team Lari doing the damn thing.

Our first two open water dives that afternoon primarily consisted of us getting used to the dive process and reiterating skills we had learned in our confined water dives. Skills like intentionally filling our mask with water and subsequently clearing it using nasal exhalation to force the water out (y’all, this really had me struggling at first…damn near dropped out of scuba school over it), practicing proper emergency ascensions if you run out of air, and adjusting your BCD so that you have neutral buoyancy in the water––the thing that allows you to hover over the reef, using only breath control to adjust your height over its hills and valleys.

As the boat headed back for shore that evening, I felt simultaneously accomplished and slightly in shock at what we had done.

The next morning we took our final exam and prepared for our remaining two open water dives that afternoon, which, upon completion, would conclude our certification process. We would be official by the end of the day.

Those dives were significantly less scary. We had fewer skills to complete, thereby leaving us with more time to actually swim around and examine the reef. On our first dive, Landyn and I saw a stingray within the first five minutes of being on the bottom, which set the stage for the intensely cool exploratory journey we were going to have that day.

Our second dive, in particular, made me feel like I was in Finding Nemo. After dipping below the surface, I saw that we were dropping down into a school of big, purple and blue fish on one side, and a field of jellyfish on the other. Check “get stung by a jellyfish” off the bucket list, too.

Seeing hundreds of various fish species, coral, sponges, and other types of life on the reef was truly breathtaking. The best part was that they didn’t even care that we were there––a huge school of Blue Tangs swam right through me, narrowly dodging my gear, splitting around me as if I were a simple median on their path along the current. No big deal.

The following day, the water finally calmed down enough for us to make the 40-minute voyage to the north side of the island––somewhat of a rarity for visitors. The reef was even more alive, even more incredible. We reached our furthest depth, 18 meters, and enjoyed the freedom of being a certified diver––no more skills tests, no more training wheels, diving solely for fun and reef exploration.

 

When all was said and done, I was actually quite sad to be done diving. I had grown accustomed to diving every day, and what started out as a fear-conquering, anxiety-inducing activity morphed into something I found extremely enjoyable with just the right amount of challenge.

There was a large part of me that didn’t want our trip to end. But the other part of me, the Tica part of me, was so excited to get home and stay home for more than four hours. The mountains (and the dogs) were calling and I needed to go.

On the planes, I thought about this insane life we’re living, and I decided that everyone has varying thresholds of acceptable “crazy,” and what might be too much for some is just the right amount for others.

This life is just the right amount of crazy for me. 4 countries in 23 hours, crazy. Plopping into the middle of the ocean, crazy. Moving to a place I had never been, crazy. But it’s just my kind of crazy, my brand if you will. Maybe that’s how you live a life that never leaves you bored––identify your brand of crazy, how much you want, how much you need, and keep a consistent flow.

Diving is the craziest, coolest, scariest thing I’ve ever done. There’s something so freeing, so liberating about doing the things that scare me, and I love re-writing my story, re-wiring my brain to delete past anxieties and just roll with the adventures.

Maybe someday this lifestyle, these excursions, will be too much for me. Maybe one day we’ll pack it up and decide we’ve had our fill. Maybe I’ll never get enough––an 87-year-old jumping off of waterfalls and hanging out on the ocean floor.

All I know right now is that I have never felt better about our crazy, and I want to keep it coming for as long as I can.

Until next time, friends.

I sat in the aisle seat of row 20 on flight 304 from San Jose, Costa Rica to Fort Lauderdale, Florida and pulled my seatbelt as tight as possible.

I’m a very nervous flyer–my anxiety is off the charts from takeoff until the captain comes over the speakers and says those magic words: “we are now beginning our descent.” So to cope with my intense flying anxiety, I pull my seatbelt to a cut-off-blood-flow level of tightness, I keep my feet off the floor of the plane (somehow this helps me forget that I’m 30,000 feet off the ground), and I pop a couple Dramamine to make me sleepy and subdued.

As we sat at the head of the runway, the engines roared as the plane’s potential energy rapidly increased, building and building like a rubber band pulled further and further back. Waiting for the release, to feel the brakes fade and the wheels move, I felt particularly anxious. As soon as we got off Costa Rican ground, I mean the second the wheels lifted from the runway, I started bawling.

I looked out the window at my beautiful mountains and immediately felt desperate to get back to them. Maybe I made the wrong decision.

I couldn’t help but feel like it was 2004 and I was Rachel Green but I didn’t get off the plane. Maybe that was my moment and I missed it and there was no going back and that realization made my chest feel tight with sorrow.

I cried again when we got into Florida, and the made-it-there-okay text I sent my family was “why is Florida so flat and ugly.” I was thoroughly unimpressed.

From Fort Lauderdale, I continued on to Orlando and kicked off my United States Reunion Tour in Disney World with some of my favorite people, my co-coaches, doing one of my favorite things to do: coaching cheer. All feels right in my world in a dark arena with sound-effect-laden music thumping through speakers turned up way too loud.

And after a fun-filled weekend in Disney, I finally made my Midwestern return.

It’s been…something.

Honestly, it’s been wonderful in many ways to be back with my family, able to easily see friends, coaching again, and living with conveniences we were deprived of in Central America like my car or air conditioning.

The biggest drawback? I fell into a working abyss. Again.

For nearly my entire college career, I worked at least two jobs, and I always worked 12 hour days in the summertime. I had to in order to save up enough for books and rent and enough Ramen to keep me alive during the school year. So when the opportunity came along to work as a nanny this summer, I was elated that I would be able to grind really hard for just a couple of months and therein be able to afford more trips in the fall. I had done it before, I would do it again.

But I am not the same kid that prioritized the money and the hustle over everything. I’ve had that hit-by-a-truck feeling the whole summer and I don’t know how I used to do this nonsense but I will never, ever, ever do this again. My 14 hour days are physically grueling and emotionally damning. I have fucking had it, y’all.

It’s not that I hate the work. Before the trolls call me entitled or lazy, I want to make that explicitly clear: I don’t expect to lounge around an apartment in the mountains for the rest of my life without working. But I also landed my first freelance gig while down there, and between that job, a few small side projects, and talking to all of you beautiful people every week, I wasn’t exactly sitting around bored all the time.

In my last post before leaving Costa Rica, I reflected on how people in the U.S. tend to wear stress like a badge of honor–valuing whoever has more of it above others. As if perpetually burning yourself out was something to be proud of. I said how I used to be one of those people, but I didn’t think I was anymore. And I could not have been more right.

So I guess the strangest part about being back is that it feels like I’m slipping into an old life that just isn’t for me anymore, and it’s a dizzying, disconcerting feeling. Like when one of your trusty wardrobe favorites suddenly just doesn’t fit the same anymore. Maybe it shrunk, maybe it stretched. Maybe nobody else notices how it fits a little differently, but it doesn’t matter because you do. You can tell.

I mean that’s what growing up is: literally and figuratively outgrowing things. No negative connotation, just a fact. We grow and we change and it’s been hard to come to terms with the fact that I still hold the same deep love for my people here in Wisconsin, but I no longer love the place, my old lifestyle. Is that rude to think, to say? How do I describe how much I love seeing my family and friends while, in the same breath, describe how much happier I am in Costa Rica?

These waters are tough to navigate.

Thankfully, the people who truly know me and truly love me are singularly happy and supportive and want nothing more than to see me living my best life. That’s why I love them. That’s why I missed them during our last Central America stint and I’ll miss them again during this one.

I’ve been waiting all summer for Saturday, August 25th, and now that it’s tomorrow I could vomit.

For as long as I can remember, my anxiety has plagued me with this intense fear of the things I want the most. Like as soon as I admit that I want something really badly, someone or something will take it from me. Like the universe is going to step in and not allow my happiness. Now that I’m less than 24 hours away from something I really, really want to do, the anxiety bubble that forms somewhere between my sternum and my stomach has grown.

But above all of that, I am so intensely, tremendously excited to leave again. Like I said, I’m a nervous flyer, but holy shit I have never in my life been so ready to get on a plane and go.

I’m in a state of emotional turmoil that only the tropics can fix.

I sincerely have loved my time here in Milwaukee, and Landyn and I have made the most of adventuring around the state, exploring new things. But it’s time to pick up this grand adventure year where we left off. It’s time to get back to the mountains, to the birds, to my dogs (!!!)…it’s time to go home.

See you in Central America, friends.

I woke up this morning before my alarm. Both dogs were curled up next to my legs, underneath the blanket. Landyn’s arm was draped across me. And the first thing I felt was grateful for my life.

I got up, tip-toed around the stuffed suitcases and piles of clothes still waiting to be loaded, threw in our last load of laundry, and made some coffee.

I wandered around the apartment for a minute, trying to decide what task I should cross off the list next. But it was a beautiful morning–the stifling humidity lifted, and our Central Valley breeze was back.

So I took my coffee cup outside, sat in the chair with the gorgeous mountain view, and took my first sip while the dogs arranged themselves on my lap.

30 seconds of that sun-on-my-skin feeling combined with the breeze lightly blowing my hair back and I lost it.

Like, lost it. Tears, tears, and more tears.

The anxiety bubble in my chest and the knot in my stomach, frozen there for the past few days, started to thaw. It was a release, an acknowledgment, finally, of how profoundly sad I am to leave tomorrow.

After 43 applications, and a surprising turn of events, Landyn’s internship is landing us right back in Milwaukee. I think. Still waiting to hear back from a couple of his final interviews, but we’re 95% sure we’ll be back in MKE for the summer. We weighed the pros and cons of every offer he received, and ultimately decided that we both needed to work and save money for the trips we want to take in Fall, and the most efficient way to do that was to move back to Wisco.

The last week I’ve bounced between denial and talking myself into feeling excited about getting back to a life of conveniences.

Hey, we’ll have air conditioning again.

No more being at the mercy of public transportation or walking everywhere. 

It’ll be nice not to find lizard poop around the house and have a break from the bugs. 

And I am excited. I’m excited to go to Orlando this weekend for a huge cheerleading competition and be reunited with the coaching staff and my kids. I’m excited to see my family, especially the ones I haven’t seen since we left. I’m excited to see my friends. I’m excited to have a Dunkin Donuts caramel iced coffee with cream and sugar, half decaf half regular.

But down here I drink my coffee black. Will I even like that sugary, syrupy shit anymore?

I guess that’s kind of my fear about the whole thing. I came down here a very different person. This incredible place has made me more mindful, more aware, and more myself than I’ve ever been. It has facilitated what feels like my coming-of-age story.

What if it’s just Costa Rica, what if I can’t transplant this fabulous, anti-anxiety Cari back to Milwaukee? What if I start to disappear, to fade into the background of Targets and strip malls and four-lane freeways and the flat-as-a-flapjack landscape? I see toucans in my yard here…I can’t go back to brown birds now.

People in the U.S. tend to wear stress like a badge of honor. They brag about it, comparing who has more stress and why, almost as if feeling fried all the time is something to be proud of–like they’re accomplishing something by burning themselves out; I used to be one of them. But now I can’t imagine ever going back to that mindset, that lifestyle. It’s possible to move forward, to make progress, without overworking yourself. There’s nothing heroic about regularly pushing yourself to the brink of a mental breakdown.

So maybe I won’t really fit in anymore. Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll be relieved to touch down on U.S. soil. Maybe I’ll start bawling again.

All I know is that this is the best decision Landyn and I have ever made. We have flourished mentally, physically, spiritually, emotionally. We are so genuinely happy here. Costa Rica has given both of us a newfound appreciation for life and the affirmation that it truly is all about the little things.

This feels like home. So what will home feel like?

And it’s weird because we’re coming back. So it’s not really goodbye, but it’s still breaking my heart. I can’t imagine saying “see you in August” to our little puppers tomorrow. I can’t imagine saying “see you in August” to our apartment. I can’t imagine not seeing the beautiful mountains again until August.

But I think about how much we’ve relished exploring Costa Rica, and it motivates me to come home and work towards our next destinations: Belize, Guatemala, Panama, Cuba. And we have yet to explore the Carribean side of Costa Rica!

Our work here is far from over. And as much as I worry that I won’t be able to take my Pura Vida attitude home with me, in my core I also know that my transformation down here was a permanent, pivotal shift. My best me will transcend borders and boundaries.

I’m depressed to leave, excited to see my people again, and confused as to where home really is.

This has all the makings of a great story.

Until next time, friends.

Since I’m not in Costa Rica on a student visa, nor a work visa (both involved way too much paperwork), my traveler’s visa is good for 90 days.

After 90 days, there is a mandated 72-hour window in which we are not allowed to reenter. Once those 72 hours are up, we can come right back and our 90 days start over.

We entered Costa Rica on January 6th, so by the time my family left on March 27th, our time to leave was quickly approaching. So we decided to go to Nicaragua with one of our close friends, Miranda, planning the entire trip the day before we left. This pretty much set the tone for the trip: flying by the seat of our pants, winging it.

Ometepe

Ometepe was our first stop. It’s an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua that has two volcanoes on it. We knew Ometepe was going to be the most physically-grueling part of our vacay, so we wanted to hit it first while we still had all of the excitement and adrenaline that comes with exploring a new country.

You can only access Ometepe via a ferry boat which leaves from the city of Rivas, only an hour and fifteen minutes away from the Costa Rican border.

This lake was the most outrageously turbulent lake I have ever been on. The waves were ocean-sized, and their force sent the boat lurching from side to side, front to back.

The rocking boat plagued me with sea-sickness.

The boat had three levels; Miranda and Landyn were on the uppermost level, and I was on the lowest level dry-heaving over the side of the boat.

In the midst of my hurling, I noticed I was being watched beyond the quick, wincing glances of passersby. A man was staring––I mean the most blatant, unabashed, all-out stare I have ever experienced from a stranger.

Unfortunately, women are generally used to this sort of visual invasion of privacy, but something was just off about this. I was suddenly very cognizant of how out-of-place I looked and how far away I was from Landyn and Miranda. My feelings surpassed annoyance and transitioned to unease.

But I was so sick, there was no way I was leaving the side of the boat.

The man disappeared for a minute and returned with another guy, about his age. I could see them through the narrow opening connecting the outside deck to the lowest indoor level of the boat. My original creeper pointed me out to his friend, they briefly discussed something, and they both came back out onto the deck.

The new friend sat down next to me. The original guy positioned himself in front of the door, expertly blocking it enough so that he controlled who went in or out, but not so plainly to call attention to it.

Spidey senses were tingling. There were about 5 other people out on the deck, besides my creeps.

The new friend sat down right next to me, uncomfortably close. He spoke excellent English which is why, assumingly, the other guy sent him over. He wasted no time asking me my name, where I was from, how old I was.

A father and son left the deck. I was down to three potential witnesses.

Then he asked me how long I was staying on the island. Where I was staying. How was I planning to get around. If I had any friends with me. Where were those friends. The whole conversation, his old pal is still by the door, eyes locked on me.

I’m not one to panic unnecessarily over everyday stalkers (they’re a common occurrence, even in 2018), but it was at this point that I was positive that these dudes were trying to kidnap me into a sex trafficking ring.

One more person went inside. Down to two witnesses.

The thing about situations like this, about these invasions of privacy and space and peace-of-mind, is they happen all the time. And it never gets any less awkward, it never gets any less uncomfortable, and it never gets any less annoying. It never gets any less difficult to try to decipher whether the creeper is truly dangerous.

This one I was sure about, though. And as I sat there evading his questions, trying to plan my next move, Landyn popped out of the doorway like my own personal Liam Neeson.

And suddenly they split. Just like that. For those of you reading who may not understand/believe in male privilege, there it is.

So overall, not a hot start in Nicaragua.

We got off the boat, made sure my creepers weren’t following me, and hit up The Spicy Mango for lunch. This day also happened to be Landyn’s birthday, so we celebrated with beers, bloodys, and tequila shots.

Our hostel was incredibly cool. There were hammocks everywhere, we were right on the lake, and the ambiance was so peaceful.

The only minor issue was that we were very, very far from the “town” portion of the island. There were almost no restaurants nearby, and the only one we stopped at that first night was essentially two picnic tables outside of someone’s home, and they served us a fish with the eyeball still inside.

#traumatized

After that, we were pretty much forced to eat at the hostel’s restaurant or take a $20 cab ride into town. Good thing the food was delicious and they served adult beverages.

Each stop consisted of a three-night stay since we wanted plenty of time for activities Our first full day in Ometepe we rented bikes from our hostel and rode down quite the treacherous gravel road to a waterfall trail.

It was hot. Hotter and more humid than our beloved Central Valley. The first 3km of the 4km trail was spent hiking completely uphill in the blistering sun with limited shade coverage. All aboard the struggle bus.

The last kilometer was intense in a different way–it was a narrow, inconsistent trail which involved climbing over dried up river beds and huge boulders.

But, of course, it was all worth it when we reached the waterfall. It was little and gorgeous and freezing–exactly what we needed.

The next day we planned to hike up one of the island’s volcanoes. We debated this extensively because it was considered an extremely difficult hike, and since our waterfall one was considered “easy” by the locals, yet still kicked our asses a little, we were skeptical. But we said YOLO and went for it anyways.

We met our guide at 7:30am with our lunch sandwiches packed, 3 liters of water in tow, and nerves in full force.

And I died, just as I expected I would.

It was steep. And so hot. The climb in elevation was rapid and extreme, and my already-tired legs couldn’t hang.

I made it to the lookout point about two-thirds of the way up and opted not to continue any further.

The guide flat-out said we wouldn’t have enough time to make it to the top at my current pace, but guides are not allowed to leave people behind on the trail. What conundrum: I couldn’t continue, but I couldn’t stay back. Not wanting to hold Landyn and Miranda back, I begged him to let me stay behind. What finally sealed the deal was the ultimatum of “I’m either coming with and you have to deal with dragging my lifeless corpse along or you’re letting me stay behind.”

So they forged ahead without me.

And I had a fabulous time chillin by myself on the side of a volcano, just eating my sandwich and enjoying the view.

Two hours later, they returned. Landyn and Miranda didn’t quite make it to the top, and I was very glad the guide didn’t force me to try to continue when they described to me how even more difficult the next part of the hike had been. I truly believe on a different day, had I not been so exhausted and sore from the waterfall hike the previous day and had I drank more of my water during the first part of the hike (I severely over-rationed due to my paranoia of running out) I would have been in much better shape and made it to where they did. But I did the best I could that day and that’s all I could do. #noregrets

The following day we were headed off to our next destination: Granada.

Granada

In order to get from Rivas, the city the ferry boats to Ometepe operate out of, to Granada, we had to take a chicken bus. Riding chicken buses are part of the true Nicaragua experience, and they’re essentially old school buses that have been converted into a weird hybrid bus with individual coach-bus-style seats yet the aluminum, no-frills interior of a school bus.

One man stands up by the doors, calling out to pedestrians on the streets in need of a ride, and one man waits at the back of the bus to load belongings. They pile everyone’s luggage within the back two seat rows and keep er movin’.

Our chicken bus didn’t take us directly into Granada but dropped us off about 30 minutes outside of it. When I say “dropped,” I mean literally. They announced the Granada stop, let us off on the side of a random round-a-bout, and left us there. Now what?

Luckily, shuttle companies regularly frequent this stopping point, so we packed ourselves into an overcrowded shuttle like little sardines and headed to our hostel.

Which happened to be the coolest hostel I have ever stayed in.

The atmosphere was heavenly. From the eclectic decor to the chill vibes, every bit of it was perfect. I wanted to permanently move-in.

One of the greatest perks: happy hour. Not a two-for-one special like we assumed it would be, but a free happy hour. Free all-you-can-drink rum mixers for an entire hour.

Subsequently, we were extremely inebriated every night of our stay.

As for our days, we spent those wandering around the city, finding amazing places to eat, shop, and learn about the culture and history of this beautiful, colonial town.

Previously unbeknownst to me, Nicaragua is widely known for their cigar production. So we felt it was only right to stop by a cigar shop and see how exactly they’re made.

I highly recommend this experience to anyone traveling to Nicaragua. It was so fun!

While I wholly enjoyed each of our stops throughout the trip, there was just something about Granada that I instantly fell in love with. The buildings, so beautifully crafted and brightly, boldly painted made me feel like I was walking around a movie set. No way this could be real life.

With our other full day in Granada, we decided to do an all-day tour company excursion which consisted of spending the majority of the day at Lake Apoyo and finishing with a sunset trip up to a nearby volcano, Masaya.

Lake Apoyo is an old volcanic crater that, over time, filled with water. It’s entirely surrounded by mountains and forests and contains the cleanest, clearest lake water I have ever seen.

We kayaked, floated, and relaxed with a couple beers. Pretty much my idea of a perfect day.

Our trip to Masaya, afterward, was very cool. The volcano is unique because the active crater has several openings which allow visitors to actually see the lava swirling in its depths. REAL, LIVE, LAVA.

The park workers organize visitors into small groups, allowing only 5-10 cars up to the top at a time. There, additional park workers time exactly how long visitors are up there, kicking us out after 15-20 minutes. This is because the crater and exposed lava emit high levels of sulfur dioxide, among other gases, which aren’t safe to be around for any longer than those precious 15-20 minutes.

 

The sound of the lava was probably the best part. The rolling, seething liquid made a distinct, almost thunderous sound. You could hear its thickness and its power. It gave me a feeling similar to what I get by the ocean, where I feel trivial and small but in a good way. There’s nothing more captivating, more fascinating, than standing before a natural wonder.

The next morning, I begrudgingly said goodbye to Granada as we hopped in a shuttle towards our last stop: León.

León

When we first got to León, I hated it. It was a dirtier, much less beautiful version of Granada. But as we spent more time wandering the city, it really, really grew on me. I began to think of it not so much as Granada’s dirty, uglier little sister, but Granada’s scrappy little sister. She’s rough around the edges, with some serious baggage.

But baggage is what makes people, and places, interesting. Without it, we’re dull.

León, a very liberal city, was the original capital of Nicaragua. But, beginning in the 1840s, the capital shifted back and forth between León and Granada, which, traditionally, was a more conservative city where the aristocrats resided. Finally, in 1852, both sides agreed to permanently move the capital to the neutral city of Managua (we opted not to stay here, but did pass through on the way to León).

Then in 1956, the president was assassinated in León, sparking the rise of a dictatorship that ignited a brutal civil war spanning from the 1970s through the 90s.

Murals reflecting those divisive, painful decades can be found everywhere.

Because the palpable culture and history felt inescapable and intriguing, we decided to go to the museum memorializing the Nicaraguan Revolution. I was pretty confused when we walked up to what looked like an ordinary building from the street. The miniature Taj Mahals that we call museums in the States have skewed my perception, I guess.

But this was the most authentic museum I have ever visited. Our three dollar entry fee got us a guide, and each guide was a former soldier involved in the Revolution, able to give firsthand accounts and anecdotes. The building had been the headquarters for the rebel movement; all meetings and plannings to take down the dictatorship happened within those walls. There were bullet holes everywhere––the artillery irremovable like the impact on the city.

It was surreal.

That was my favorite part of our exploration day. Followed closely by the rooftop bar we got a couple buckets of beer at, later, and then ate street food from the array of food trucks down the main drag.

For our final day in León, we signed up to go volcano boarding which entailed a hike up an active volcano and then racing down on a snowboard-esque sled.

I was terrified. I even backed out during our first day in León, since I was feeling super sick (a friend who went the week after us came home with Salmonella and my exact symptoms, so gross). But YOLO. When else was I going to get the chance to do this? Nicaragua is literally the only place in the world that you can go volcano boarding. So F it. If I passed out during the hike up, it’d make a great story.

That morning, we hopped in the back of a truck and took an hour-long drive to the base of Cerro Negro. Miranda and I were very, very quiet during the trek. But I was too far in to punk out now. You have done scarier shit than this, Cari.

And holy hell, am I glad I went through with it. The trek up the volcano was the coolest hike I have ever done, ever. The views were absolutely stunning.

The sulfur and magnesium gave off a distinct smell and colored the dirt in really beautiful ways. We could see steam coming out of the ground and feel the heat just by putting our hand on the dirt. A lot of heat, too. Not some lukewarm dirt––hot. It was unreal. I was standing on an active volcano on the Ring of Fire!!!!

Before the hike, our guide warned us that the minerals tend to attract insects, so anyone allergic to bees should be on high alert. Naturally, the only person out of the entire group to get stung by one of the giant, mutant wasps she called “bees” was me.

And then we were suiting up for battle.

After a brief chat on how to board down safely, our guide turned us loose. I was so nervous. The incline on the side of Cerro Negro increases about halfway down so you cannot see the bottom when standing at the top. Super spooky.

A few people went in front of us, and then I elected to go first out of Miranda, Landyn, and I. I sat down on my board, staring down at the bottom, and I just kept telling myself, remember this is cool, Cari, remember this is cool. 

When I was a kid, I used to have this thing about high-adrenaline activities. I would always be so terrified of whatever it was that afterward I would realize I didn’t even enjoy the thing. And I hate that feeling. So now, before I do something that has me at a hands-shaking level of terror, I remind myself that it’s cool. That I want to enjoy it. That YOLO.

And then the guy pushed me down.

And I absolutely loved it.

The tour company handed out beers at the bottom and we all basked in the supreme satisfaction that comes from facing your fears.

After a brief visit to a nearby beach that afternoon, we closed out our last night in Nicaragua with some cigars on the roof.

After a ten-hour bus ride the following day, we were back home.

And that’s truly how it felt: we were home. As soon as we got through the border security and saw the “Welcome to Costa Rica” sign, both Landyn and I felt a huge wave of relief. There’s a certain level of hyper-awareness you have when traveling other countries, and I never realized that I don’t feel that here in Costa Rica anymore until I went to a different Central American country and came back. This place legitimately feels like home.

I’m not sure where that leaves Wisconsin. Maybe it’s possible to have more than one home. Maybe after all that I’ve experienced down here, after leaving, I’ll never fully feel at home again. Maybe home isn’t so much a fixed location, but a state of being.

I haven’t quite figured it all out yet, but I am so grateful to feel such overwhelming love for this beautiful country.

Until next time, friends.

Author’s note:

It’s very strange to think we narrowly missed the beginning of the intense protests that have since broken out in Nicaragua, resulting in both injuries and fatalities of civilian activists.

I strongly encourage you to perform a quick Internet search and learn more about the oppression and censorship the Nicaraguan government is imposing on its people. You can find a couple links here and here.

 

Is there anything worse than knowing a vacation is coming to a close? Especially a lengthy vacation that has started to feel like normal life a little bit, but then you remember reality is slowly creeping its way back in? I absolutely HATE that feeling.

Like a Sunday evening when you can’t even fully relax because you know what lies around the corner. Sundays used to be the absolute worst for me; my anxiety was always peaked. After graduating college, and subsequently no longer equating Sundays to hungover days locked in the library, catching up on homework and hating myself for procrastinating, that anxious Sunday Feeling loosened its powerful grip. But I could still feel it–maybe not as potent as before, but nonetheless always there.

Since we moved down here, however, and the whole concept of a weekend and a vacation have become intermingled in my normal, everyday life (is my whole week like a weekend, or a vacation?) the ominous Sunday Feeling has become nearly extinct. Every once in a while, though, it rears its ugly head.

As we got in the car for the last part of our vacation, my mom still bawling in the driver’s seat, both her and Carly saying goodbye to our house and Rodeo, I got the damn Sunday Feeling. And I really ruminated on it there in the backseat.

I thought about how many perfectly lovely Sundays have been ruined by my anxiety about what’s to come. I thought about all of the millions of people in the world who absolutely love Sundays, how for many it’s their favorite day of the week. No more. No more Sunday Feeling, no more ruining the present by worrying about the future, not this time. Not on this trip. It’s my Jordan year–time to let the Sunday Feeling die.

I’m not one for New Year’s resolutions, but I did kind of start this new mantra to stop my anxious thoughts right in their tracks: It’s 2018, let that shit go. It’s silly and stupid and simple, but it works. The situations I apply it to don’t always make the most sense, but who cares. ~not me~

So there in the backseat, I thought about the Sunday Feeling, I thought about the end of the vacation, I thought about the growing lump in my throat from just thinking about saying goodbye to my family again, and then I said my magic phrase: It’s 2018, let that shit go. Who cares that it was going to suck when it was over, we still had FOUR whole days together, and I was going to live it up and love it while it happened. So I swallowed that lump down, began my backseat navigation duties, and we headed out to the last staple-landform of Costa Rica: the beach.

Manuel Antonio

All of our friends that have gone to Manuel Antonio have gushed about how incredible and how beautiful it is. According to anyone who’s been there, it’s a must-do in Costa Rica.

The small town of Manuel Antonio sits between the edge of Manuel Antonio National Park and the nearby city of Quepos. The entire town is very hilly, coastal, and offers a great view from virtually anywhere. For a small place, there are a lot of hotels since it’s one of the biggest tourist spots in Costa Rica.

Checking into our hotel was a bit of a shitshow. The driveway was steep, gravel, bumpy, and terrifying. Then, the room they tried to put us in had water all over the floor (it looked like they were in the middle of fixing the air conditioner) so we had to wait to find another room. Turns out the hotel was totally booked, so we had to wait for them to put the A/C back together and mop the floor.

In the meantime, we walked back up to the car to get all of our luggage/move the car into an actual parking spot, since we sort of just stopped on the side of the driveway. As we started moving, a guy nearby started laughing and motioned for us to stop the car.

Well that’s weird.

So we re-park, get out, and as I looked at the car I realized why he was laughing. The back passenger-side tire was flat. Like, flat flat. I didn’t want to tell my mom. I couldn’t. She was so paranoid about something happening to the car on these roads, and we all told her it would be fine but now it wasn’t fine and I just knew she was gonna panic. But I had no choice, she had to know.

“Mom, don’t freak out, it’s fine, but we have a flat tire.”

*lots of cursing and inaudible sounds*

“Oh my god, we have to go home, what are we going to do, of course this would happen to us, why me whyyyyyyyy.”

“Mom relax, we’ll get it fixed, it’s just a flat tire.”

At this point, Carly and Landyn walked up to meet us in the parking lot and discovered our lil predicament.

Anita thought this would incapacitate us BUT MY BOYFRIEND IS THE GREATEST HUMAN EVER and was able to completely change the tire start to finish. A hotel staff member came to assist as well (for which we later bought him a 6-pack) and we were up and running in no time. The rental car company was actually very chill about it and simply requested that we drop off the destroyed tire in their nearby Quepos office the following morning where they would repair the hole for us (we found a huge shard of aluminum in it which must have happened in the ratchet hotel driveway).

Crisis averted.

After handling the catastrophe, we had twenty minutes to spare to make the sunset on the beach. It was a three-minute walk from the hotel, and once we got there I understood why tourists flock to it: it was one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen.

The sunset, the atmosphere, the greenery that surrounded us…it was truly breathtaking. We found a restaurant with tables right on the beach (literally in the sand) and it was without-a-doubt the coolest dinner-ambiance I have ever experienced.

Throughout the trip, I kept telling my family that I couldn’t wait for them to hear a Howler monkey because the first time I heard one I thought I was about to be attacked by something from the Underworld. I wanted them to have this strange, scary experience as well.

So it’s roughly 3am, I wasn’t having a very good night of sleep, I heard my mom get up to go to the bathroom, and I laid there half-awake when SUDDENLY I hear the sound of a Demogorgon (S/O to all my fellow Stranger Things fans). I sat straight up in bed and whispered over to Carly, “Carly wake up, that’s a Howler monkey!” It was so loud that Landyn woke up, too, and when my mom came out of the bathroom I explained what the petrifying noise was to her, as well. It was a strange, funny time: all four of us lying in bed, wide awake, listening to the incessant baying of the Howler monkeys. Talk about quality bonding time.

The next morning we were up early to head to the rental car office. For being such turds when we first picked up the car in San José, they were awesome in dealing with our tire situation. It only took ten minutes out of our morning.

Then, we were headed to Manuel Antonio National Park. It was exquisite. We saw almost every single animal I had hoped my family would get to see, with the exception of the scarlet macaw. But it’s okay because we saw a sloth, every type of monkey I know to exist in Costa Rica, huge, colorful butterflies, iguanas, coatis, lizards, and even some deer. And, of course, tons of beautiful, diverse tropical birds.

I had heard from a few people that the park is relatively small and you can hike the entire thing in just a couple of hours, but we hiked for about 5 without getting all the way around. We also did every possible off-shoot from the trail and stopped to enjoy the scenery/animals whenever present, so maybe that’s what tacked on all that extra time.

The park has a very interesting layout; the trail comes out to a point, forming a peninsula type thing, along the sides of which are two beaches.

Since the beaches are within the park’s boundaries, and therefore largely untouched, they’re indescribably gorgeous. Words, pictures, could never do them justice.

So after a couple off-shoots, we hiked entirely up one side of the peninsula, around the top, and a little ways back down, finishing at one of the beaches. At this point we were extremely hot and sweaty (it was SWELTERING and SO humid) and ready to get in the alluring water.

Our entire time inside the park felt like we were on a different planet. Despite my residency here, I am continually blown away that the places we visit get more and more incredible. More unbelievable. More and more like someone picked me up and transported me to Pandora and I’m looking at some CGI creation, not real life. Because how can places like these really exist? What the hell have I been doing in Wisconsin all this time?

On our way out of the park, the nightcap on our perfect day, we got some fresh, spiked coconuts. Pipas con ron. And with that, we began our drive to our very last stop: Uvita.

Uvita

Uvita is an hour south of Manuel Antonio, right on the edge of the Osa Peninsula, which, if you’ll remember, Landyn and I traveled to for a class field trip back in February. We, however, were in the very heart, and then the very bottom, of the Osa Peninsula. Uvita sits outside of it, and it was a place we had not been but we had read excellent things about it. Our friends took a trip down to Uvita and highly recommended it.

When Niters first started researching things to do in Costa Rica (after Landyn’s acceptance into the program last March) she came across a beach that’s in the shape of a whale tail. For whatever reason, she fell in love with the idea of this beach; she had a great feeling about it, and that beach was located guess where? Uvita. So we were all pretty excited about this last stop.

Now I’d like to back up for a second. Remember how I’d been killing it as a travel agent? Well, during that first night in Manuel Antonio, randomly, in the middle of our beachfront dinner, I got this overwhelmingly negative feeling about our Uvita hostel. My family thought I was crazy and just back to my usual worry-wart ways, but I just knew something was off. Something wasn’t right. They told me to let it go, so I said my mantra, “it’s 2018, let that shit go” (one of those, not-really-sure-the-2018-part-makes-sense-but-I’m-rollin-with-it times), and I let that shit go.

And I really didn’t worry about it again until we got back in the car, out of the Manuel Antonio/Quepos city limits, and headed south. Then the gloom and doom and dread rolled in. I didn’t say anything, I just let my anxiety quietly wash over me in the backseat.

When we got to the hostel, I immediately knew my gut was spot on. This was the place people stay in and then end up on an episode of Dateline or Criminal Minds.

It was called El Toboso Bed & Breakfast, and I had warned my family ahead of time that this was going to be a little more rustic than our other stays. But the pictures online did not prepare me for what we walked in to.

So aside from the eerie stillness in the air, the rabid dog in the driveway, and the facilities that looked like someone gave up on them halfway through the building process, our room was a complete disaster. Or rather, an incomplete disaster.

Our room only had three walls. One wall was just a giant, green screen with gaping holes. Our beds did not have mosquito netting around them, so not exactly sure what they expected?? They’re cool with their guests getting mauled by bugs in the middle of the night I guess?? Due to the lack of four walls and holes in the screen wall?? Oh, and our bathroom didn’t have a door. Not even a shower curtain. Just wiiiiiiide open. And our front door didn’t close properly. I cannot make this shit up, you guys.

Beyond all these glaring atrocities, I just had a staggeringly terrible feeling about the place. Throughout our time here Landyn and I have stayed in some pretty ratchet places. We are not used to a life of luxury down here, by any means, so the lack of walls wasn’t even necessarily the problem. The problem was that all of my instincts were telling me that something just wasn’t right, and every time someone ignores their gut instincts in a horror movie they end up dying first. So. There was no way we were going to stay there.

Landyn didn’t understand. He doesn’t have that strong intuition like I do, and since we’ve stayed in some questionable places, he could not fathom my trepidation. We argued about it for about twenty minutes before the support of my mom and Carly finally got him off my back. It was like the scene inside our apartment for the first time, our first night in Rodeo, all over again. Except this time I was right. We needed to get the hell out of there. The longer we lingered, the more imminent our death became. Or something real weird, at least.

Except my mom paid for it when we checked in, before we saw the room. I almost spoke up and said something, I almost told her to wait until we saw our room, but I didn’t. The online booking site has my card number on file, so we would’ve been charged either way, but still.

It was just a really awful situation punctuating the end of a truly fabulous day. So, my mom and Landyn went to talk to the reception dude and Carly and I looked up nearby hotels.

Landyn and Niters came back with unreadable expressions. The front desk guy was pissed, naturally, and made an already awkward situation abundantly more uncomfortable by just sort of staring at them, blankly. Like y’all THIS IS WHY WE COULD NOT STAY. SOMETHING WAS JUST NOT RIGHT.

He told us he would call his boss and see what they could do for us.

Thankfully, by the grace of God and Allah and Buddha and Jesus, too, he came back with good news: the people who owned this hostel owned another place in the area, a hotel called Los Sueños Tranquilos. He said we were welcome to check it out as it was our only option aside from losing all the money we just spent on our room at El Toboso. Please, Lord Baby Jesus, don’t let it be like this place.

And it WAS NOT. I am very, very happy to report that this room had four walls, a bathroom door, and even some A/C. Oh. My. God. To say I felt like we dodged a bullet is a drastic, drastic understatement.

We had a (very very very very very) rough start in Uvita, but things were looking up. We got some fish tacos for dinner, had a couple cervezas, and I started to come down off the ceiling. Then it was time to laugh about how disastrous El Toboso was. For my first time as a full-service travel agent, I killed it with 2/3 of my hotel picks, and I’m proud of that. But, man, the one I fumbled I fumbled BAD. You can’t always trust the pictures online, friends.

The next day, we got up early and headed out to the National Park which housed the whale tail beach.

It was so, so cool. The beach felt extremely remote and tropical since it was inside of a protected area. The only thing you could see on the coastline was mountains upon mountains and tons of greenery. The sand felt soft to the touch but looked like glass. The water was so blue. It was amazing.

The whale tail itself appears during the low tide hours (around mid-morning) and as the tide comes back in throughout the second-half of the afternoon, the walkway out to the whale tail disappears again. It was so much more than I thought it was going to be; Manuel Antonio set the bar very high but the whale tail was just so, so cool. The vastness of the entire beach, and the size of the tail, completely blew my mind. It was the kind of thing that made you feel tiny and insignificant but in a good, comforting sort of way.

 

We played in the waves, walked out and explored the whale tail (which has some crazy rock formations on the end of it, including some old lava flows) and introduced my family to an activity Landyn and I have become obsessed with since moving down here: snorkeling. The tail is known to be an excellent place to snorkel since the rocks form dozens of clear tide pools. So we ventured out and got to exploring.

Seeing all of the brightly-colored, exotic fish of all varying sizes is just the coolest thing in the world. I was SO happy my mom and Carly were huge fans of it, as well.

We stayed on the beach the entire day, using chips and queso and several beers as our only sustenance. And despite our repeated sunscreen application, we got fried like a bunch of chicken tenders. It was all worth it, though, especially when we watched the sunset.

There truly is nothing like a sunset on the beach.

We headed back to the car, saw a crocodile five feet away from our car, and promptly headed out to find food. Except during the ten minute span from our parking spot to the hotel, there was a slight complication: the entire town went dark. It’s not uncommon to randomly lose power in Costa Rica, even entire towns at a time. Thankfully, there was one lone restaurant in town that had a generator, so the entire city flocked to the same place. Luckily, the food was excellent and rest of the town’s power was restored in the middle of our meal so we had functioning A/C for that night’s slumber (fun fact: I HATE being hot while I sleep).

And suddenly, in the blink of an eye, it was my family’s last day in Costa Rica. None of us knew how 12 days flew by so fast. Since we were incinerated the day before on the whale tail, we decided to take our time heading out to the beach in the morning. It’s not like we needed the extra rays, so we slept in and took our time chatting and enjoying breakfast together.

In a last-ditch effort to see a scarlet macaw, Landyn found a beach 20 minutes south of us, inside the Osa Peninsula, that had excellent online reviews and boasted the opportunity to see the incredible birds we sought after.

We almost didn’t make it to the beach, though, since my mom tried to back out when we were two minutes from the finish line. There was a “river” that ran through the gravel road, and despite the car before us flying through it (not even an SUV, might I add) and the car behind us also impatiently zooming around us, my mom threw a hissy fit. She cited the rental car company’s policy on not taking the vehicle through any rivers, and all of us passengers were floored.

“Mom, I love you and I understand your paranoia about them charging you for ridiculous things, but this is not a river. This is a puddle. That is maybe three inches of water, max.”

“No, Cari, that is a river, they said not to take it through any rivers, I am not losing my deposit over this. What the hell is with all these gravel roads anyways, I’m done with this shit.”

After a couple rounds of this and ten minutes of staring at the glorified-puddle, Niters found her inner courage and we braved the “river.” And it was every bit as anti-climactic as the rest of us knew it would be. But, wow, was it hilarious to see her lose her mind over a puddle.

The beach was marvelous. Since Semana Santa was now in full-swing, (Semana Santa is a nationwide holiday week in Costa Rica, always the week before Easter, during which everyone not in the hospitality industry gets off of work and vacations for seven days), there were various vendors on the beach selling coconuts, ice cream, and souvenirs. We rented a table with a tent overhead (burnt chicken tenders, remember?) and planted ourselves for the afternoon.

We explored nearby caves and were awestruck by the thunderous wave sounds inside. It was like something you’d see artificially reconstructed in the Wisconsin Dells, except it was real life.

We did, however, have one major tragedy ensue: my mom lost her hat. She bought a super cute hat (pictured above) from a shop in Arenal and wore it nearly every day for the remainder of the trip. Now I had warned her and Carly not to wear hats in the ocean, especially on this beach because the waves were particularly big and strong, but they ignored my advice since their faces were so sunburnt.

Lo and behold, a big wave came along and I jumped, Landyn jumped, Carly jumped, but mom did not jump. Mom got mowed over by this wave. Just totally taken out. TKO. Down for the count. When she popped up above water, her hat was no longer on her head, but in the water behind her. As she struggled to get recombobulated, Carly and I tried to run towards her while yelling, “Mom, you’re fine, grab your hat!” This was to no avail. Running through the ocean is hard, and we didn’t make it in time. The four of us searched and searched, but the beloved hat was gone. *RIP*

It was a very somber vibe under our tent for the next thirty minutes.

We didn’t totally give up hope, though, because we planned to make a pit stop back in Manuel Antonio for some souvenirs before forging on to San José. Maybe, just maybe, they would have her hat.

AND SURE ENOUGH, THEY DID! When we found that damn hat in a store, all four of us felt true joy. I laugh very hard when I think about the whole situation, but it was honestly heartbreaking when she lost the hat she loved so dearly, so we were all very happy to see her find another one just like it.

After our short pit stop, we were on the road again to San José where we would leave my family to catch their 1am flight back to the Midwest.

San José

Our road trip back to San José was really, really fun. All of us were refusing to let the Sunday Feeling get us down. We had some beers in the car (open intoxicants are not a thing here!), formed a little acapella quartet, and reminisced on one hell of a vacation.

Upon our arrival back into San José, we were starved. It was around 8:30pm at this point and all we had eaten was chips and queso on the beach (again). The rental car company shared a lot with a Denny’s, and ya girl had been craving pancakes for weeks, so for our last meal of the trip, after eating authentic Costa Rican food for 12 days, we closed it out with some Denny’s. #noregrets

And it was weird. Good, but weird. I could tell that my mom and Carly were getting antsy about their impending travel day, and the Sunday Feeling finally settled in amongst the group.

After finishing my sticky-bun pancakes, we took the rental car back and shuttled off to the airport.

When we got out of the van, standing in front of the “Departures” doors, I finally allowed the tears to roll in. I was so overwhelmed with love and immense, immense gratitude for all that they had done for us down here. It was the most awesome, epic family vacay we had ever taken, and it was depressing to see it come to a close. I forgot how much I love having those two crazies around, and I knew it would be hard to readjust again.

I hugged them each for a couple hundred years and waved goodbye as they went through the glass doors. Landyn and I caught an Uber home, and Rihanna’s “Stay” came on the radio while I gloomily looked out the window. The whole thing was astonishingly cinematic.

Here’s the thing:

Planes take-off and they land. People come and they go. Vacations begin and they end.

But in-between is filled with some truly extraordinary moments that words, even my own words, and pictures could never fully capture.

To my mom and Carly: thank you for the most fabulous 12 days–for being such troopers and pushing yourselves outside of your comfort zone, for going above and beyond to take care of Landyn and me, and for taking the time to come down here to see us in the first place.

To my other friends: appreciate the in-between, and never let the Sunday Feeling ruin a perfectly wonderful day.

This concludes the Family Vacay Trilogy.

Until next time, friends.