I went surfing in Costa Rica if only to try something new in middle age | Canada Voices

There’s nothing remarkable about turning 43. It’s too late to win Wimbledon or make new friends, yet too early for a colonoscopy. It’s a time for frivolous little rebellions – stuff like, “Why not try surfing in Costa Rica?”

And so I did.

Surfing had never appealed to me. Just as golf can ruin a good walk, I generally prefer to lie on the beach and read and drink when in warm destinations. But trying new things is important as you age, they say. And my girlfriend and I were headed to the Nicoya Peninsula, one of the world’s five “Blue Zones” where people are reported to live unusually long and healthy lives. Surely after a few days of eating Costa Rican casados – hearty plates of rice, beans and plantains – drinking papaya smoothies and soaking up the country’s laid-back pura vida ethos, my biological age would be closer to 33?

We arrived in Costa Rica in January, on my birthday. After a day of lounging under palms on Samara Beach, eating fresh tuna and drinking Imperial lager, I approached the bored attendant at Pato’s Surf School – tagline: “Life is better when you surf” – and booked a lesson for the next day.

Pato means duck in Spanish. This struck me as an appropriate mascot for a 43-year-old beginner surfer, but it turned out Pato is also the name of the surf school’s founder. Not to be confused with Paco Goldenberg Jiron, my instructor.

“The ocean is angry today, my boys,” Goldenberg Jiron told me and Jeremy, a Detroiter and fellow novice. He wasn’t exaggerating. The waves looked twice as big as the day before.

The on-land tutorial consisted of three main points: control your board (so it doesn’t fly back and cut your face, resulting in a long drive to the hospital); stay within neck- and knee-deep water; and – when you inevitably fall – fall backward.

The last one struck me as the most applicable. I would be falling a lot. The first point was the most difficult in practice because, as Goldenberg Jiron kept reminding us, the ocean was angry. The middle rule was the most abstract. It meant surfing for no more than eight seconds, he said, at which point we would be in knee-deep water. “I don’t expect to be surfing for eight seconds,” I told Jeremy.

But once I was out there bobbing on my board in Samara’s waves, with Goldenberg Jiron counting to three and pushing me off – essentially doing all the mental work so all I had to do was get on my feet – I did just that, riding the first wave for less than eight seconds before falling backward.

Goldenberg Jiron was pumped. I was too. Maybe this duck can learn new tricks?

It got harder from there, however. I woke the next day with various aches. This isn’t uncommon for me. My girlfriend was quick to tell me I need to exercise more, so I don’t whine about how much it hurts every time. But these aches were different: my ribs, the palms of my hands. Still, I was back on the board that morning, this time on my own.

If life is better when you surf, then surfing is better with Goldenberg Jiron. Trying to line up the waves myself was a very different proposition. The patience to control the board, wait for the right wave, relax as it approaches and get up at just the right moment is the real skill, I learned.

I also began to understand why surfing can become an obsession: the rare high of catching a wave versus the frequent disappointment when you don’t. The voice in your head saying “just one more good one” – and the endless supply of “good ones” crashing every 30 seconds. It’s enough to wear out even a much younger person.

After just enough success to keep me keen, my girlfriend and I left Samara for Montezuma, a winding, three-hour drive to the peninsula’s southeastern corner.

The beach at Montezuma is nothing like Samara’s perfect arc. It’s populated by hermit crabs and the friendliest stray dogs, and broken up by large volcanic rocks that force surfers to nearby Playa Grande. Though only a few kilometres away, there’s no road.

A tour company in town rents surfboards for US$15 and offers lessons for US$75. I just wanted the board. The catch: Renting a board meant carrying it to the beach. With lessons, the board was provided at the site.

Now, the whole point of being 43 is that you can afford to blow US$75 to avoid lugging a surfboard under the hot Costa Rican sun. Montezuma was full of 23-year-old shoestring backpackers; I was, quite obviously, not one of them. However, I am cheap, a trait that’s not easily outgrown.

The guy who rented the board assured me the walk was 15 minutes to 20 max. He lied, but at least it was a nice walk. Called the Green Dream Trail, it crosses a nature reserve and a handful of beaches, including Playa Piedra Colorada, where a stream from the jungle forms a cold pool on the beach.

But it was also a hot, tiring walk. Mounds of fragrant horse poop marked the way. I was the only person carrying a surfboard. I moved it from under one arm to the other and back again. I sweated through my hat. I asked people going the opposite way how much farther it was to Playa Grande. They all said another 20 minutes, as if part of a tedious conspiracy with the board rental guy.

A family of multiple generations passed me. They were with surf instructors who said I could have rented a board from them at the beach. They also told me we were basically there, so I held it together.

After one more bend, about 45 minutes after setting out, there was Playa Grande: hot, vast, and almost completely empty.

From June to December, a nature refuge runs a turtle conservation project on the beach, with thousands of hatchlings released each season. In late January, the wildlife star is the capuchin monkey, best known as organ grinders and accomplished thieves. One of the instructors warned me to watch my things – not from people, he said, but from the monkeys.

The ocean wasn’t as angry at the Playa Grande. Here it was the gentle cousin to the big swells at nearby Santa Teresa. I caught a couple of good waves. Then I missed a few. I began to tire. I thought about the hot walk back to Montezuma. The sun and the waves were relentless. But so was that familiar pull.

Just one more good one, I told myself. That’s all I need.

If you go:

After a first day of surfing in Costa Rica you’ll want a casado, the traditional plate of rice, beans, meat, plantains and salad. The place to get a casado in Samara is Restaurante Amor de Mama. Located by the main bus stop near the intersection of two roads heading out of town, the setting‘s lack of charm is more than made up for by the proprietor’s warmth and the freshness on the plate.

There are decent casados in Montezuma as well. But when you’re ready for something different and the village begins to feel too small, head for the hills of Delicias for pasta and wood-fired pizza at Tierra y Fuego. The 20-minute drive is a bit hairy but worth it for the jungle setting, the Roman husband-and-wife chefs and the unusual mortadella and pistachio pizza. The cacio e pepe is also outstanding.

Renting a car: Costa Rica doesn’t have the traffic, honking, air pollution or general frenzy you find on the roads of some Latin American countries. But the roads aren’t always in the best shape. A larger vehicle with four-wheel drive is a good idea, especially if you’re travelling to more remote areas (such as Montezuma). A basic level of insurance is required with rentals, and many agencies (and booking websites) don’t include the cost in the quote, so the actual price can be much more than advertised. Expect to pay almost $1,000 for a week.

For those who don’t want to drive, various companies provide shuttle services from airports and between towns. These can cost around $100 a person for a drive of a few hours.