My second-to-last evening in Costa Rica deserved a proper farewell, and Jacó, in all its humid, unpredictable, emotionally confusing glory, delivered one with the subtlety of a mariachi band crashing a therapy session.
I wanted one final walk along the Pacific. One last conversation with the ocean that had somehow become both therapist and coauthor during this trip. Costa Rica gave me a kind of peace I did not realize I had been starving for. It handed me reflection I had spent years skillfully outrunning, forced me to slow down long enough to hear my own thoughts again, and generously supplied enough writing material to keep my keyboard employed well into retirement.
So naturally, I grabbed a beer for the walk. Preparation matters.
Especially after discovering a surfboard buried upright in the sand with a handwritten message that simply read: “Next time bring beer for sunset.” Finally, a motivational speaker I could trust.
I took my last swim in the Pacific while the waves folded themselves onto the shoreline with that steady rhythm that makes you believe the universe may actually know what it is doing after all. The ocean carried that familiar Costa Rican warmth, somewhere between refreshing and “soup adjacent.” At the same time, the sunset struggled heroically through thick clouds that seemed unwilling to fully commit to beauty or rain. It felt reflective. Cinematic, even. The kind of scene where a movie soundtrack quietly swells while the main character finally learns something profound about life.
I fully expected a peaceful goodbye.
Costa Rica laughed at those expectations immediately.
Instead, I met some of the most incredible people from all over the world, including Monica, an energy healer with the kind of magnetic warmth that makes you feel like you skipped introductions entirely and resumed a friendship already in progress. Some people arrive in your life with awkward small talk. Monica arrived as if we had accidentally separated at summer camp twenty years ago, and finally found each other again near the Pad Thai.
We laughed constantly. The effortless kind of laughter that sneaks up on you mid-sentence and leaves you wiping tears from your face while nearby strangers start wondering what secret joy they somehow missed. We kept making the same ridiculous comments at the same time, like two exhausted comedians accidentally sharing one brain cell. There was no performance to it. No social choreography. Just a genuine connection between two people sharing stories beneath warm Costa Rican air while the Pacific moved quietly nearby like background music.
We ended up at a small open-air Thai restaurant where dinner was shared not only with each other, but apparently with the entire local feline population. Seventeen cats wandered around the tables like tiny unionized food critics evaluating customer satisfaction ratings in real time. Some sat politely. Others stared directly into your soul while pretending not to beg. One orange cat looked like he had survived at least three divorces and a brief prison sentence.
And then there was the raccoon.
One raccoon casually joined the cats and attempted to pass as one of them in what can only be described as the least convincing undercover wildlife operation in recorded history. He moved from bowl to bowl with absolute confidence, eating discreetly while somehow believing no one noticed the tiny raccoon hands or the fact that he looked like a burglar wearing eyeliner.
Honestly, I respected the commitment.
The chicken Pad Thai was phenomenal. The company was even better.
At one point, Monica and I laughed so hard over some ridiculous comment that I nearly inhaled a noodle and briefly saw a very different ending to my Costa Rican vacation. There are worse ways to go than choking on excellent Thai food while surrounded by cats and a spiritual healer, but I still would not recommend it.
Eventually, after one of those hugs that somehow felt both energizing and grounding at the same time, we said goodbye. Not the stiff kind of goodbye people perform out of politeness, but the rare kind where you genuinely feel grateful the universe crossed two paths for even a few hours.
Afterward, I decided to walk the beach alone one final time before heading back to Ron and Vicki’s place for my last evening in paradise.
That decision escalated quickly.
The humidity eventually drove me off the sand and into what appeared to be Jacó’s only casino, bar, and hotel combination. From the outside, it looked harmless enough. Slightly questionable, perhaps, but still within the acceptable range of “travel decisions made while sweaty.”
I figured I would have one quick margarita, cool off, gather my thoughts, and quietly reflect on the trip before returning home.
Sunset Instructions
A weathered board stood in the sand, Its message brief, yet strangely wise. It did not beg or make demands, Just laughed beneath the painted skies.
Read the full poem →Instead, I accidentally wandered into what I can only describe as a live-action warning label.
Apparently, in Jacó, the word “casino” functions less as a business category and more as an acronym: Cash, Alcohol, Slots, Infidelity, Nightgirls, Oxygen-tanks. This was less “gaming establishment” and more “poor decisions with mood lighting.”
Beautiful women of every age filled the room, each expertly working what I assume was an aggressively commission-based environment. I swear the humid Costa Rican winds themselves carried the distant screams of disappointed mothers and the eternal frustration of women realizing their daughters had chosen a career path involving neon lights, transactional affection, and probably antibiotics. Somewhere out there, generations of mothers who dreamed of doctors, lawyers, and teachers were spiritually watching their daughters negotiate pricing structures that likely required disinfectant wipes, emotional detachment, and legal disclaimers.
Two women immediately identified me as their next financial investment opportunity and approached me with the confidence of trained luxury sales professionals. I politely informed them that while they were both absolutely stunning, my preferences did not align with theirs. That despite their skilled efforts, they were barking up the wrong tree entirely, and would represent a terrible return on investment.
To their credit, they treated this information not as rejection, but merely as an objection to overcome.
Their persistence was honestly impressive. Somewhere between charm, negotiation tactics, and whatever international marketing seminar these women apparently attended, I realized I was wildly underqualified for this interaction. I am still not entirely sure half of what they proposed was legal outside of international waters, and several suggestions sounded almost impossible to accomplish without both on-site medical personnel and a signed waiver witnessed by next of kin.
At one point, my brain simply stopped processing language correctly. Thoughts were entering my head and immediately fighting for deletion before they could permanently attach themselves to my memory.
It became increasingly difficult to shape a coherent escape plan while these women continued presenting what sounded less like adult services and more like rejected Olympic events.
I scanned the room for exits like a gazelle realizing it accidentally wandered into a lion sanctuary. Thankfully, the beach entrance sat only about twenty feet away. The alternative route required being herded along at the speed of a disappointed turtle through what can only be described as an open-air audition for poor life choices, all while trying to make it back to the main road with my dignity, wallet, and factory-installed body parts still under original ownership. The beach suddenly felt like the safer option.
So I darted toward the ocean immediately, preserving both my dignity and my internal organs, while leaving with absolutely nothing extra except several thoughts still actively fighting for deletion.
And honestly, somewhere between all the chaos, beauty, humidity, laughter, wildlife, conversations, confusion, and accidental field research into Jacó nightlife, Costa Rica kept doing what it does best: reminding me life becomes extraordinary the moment you stop trying so hard to control every piece of it.
This trip gave me waterfalls, jungles, wrong turns, broken phones, unforgettable conversations, deep reflection, and moments of laughter so genuine they still echo in my chest. It reminded me how alive the world feels when you allow yourself to remain open to it.
Before leaving the house this morning, I sent a note to Angela and Aric, the next guests arriving after me, wishing them their own version of Costa Rican magic. I left behind cheeses, bread, tuna, crackers, chips, water, condiments, and whatever other groceries survived my increasingly questionable vacation eating habits. I cleaned the house, finished the laundry, left the bedding and towels in the washer, and even made a baked ziti waiting in the freezer for their arrival.
Somehow, feeding people remains my favorite love language, even internationally.
Then came the drive from Jacó to San José, which Costa Rica cleverly disguises as “basic transportation.”
Back home, fifty-four miles between Santa Fe and Albuquerque means fifty minutes if you have caffeine, confidence, and a morally flexible relationship with speed limits. In Costa Rica, fifty-four miles means somewhere between two hours and forty-five minutes and a small emotional-support snack collection.
I used “Airport Laurie” again for transportation, and she was wonderful as always. Though I remain fully convinced she spent the entire drive gradually lowering the air-conditioning temperature in preparation for an Arctic research expedition. By hour three, I was emotionally prepared to assist penguins with relocation efforts.
Still, somewhere between amazing adventures with my cousin Laurie, winding roads, mountain fog, crowded streets, ocean air, and one final glimpse of palm trees disappearing into the distance, I realized something important:
Costa Rica did not just give me memories.
It gave me pieces of myself back.
Yours, in ink and embers,
