Pura Vida in Costa Rica

April 8

We’ve shared our two weeks in Nicaragua with other cruisers, some going to Panama, the others to Mexico, but everyone on the move and eventually parting ways.

April 12

Our three-day passage from Nicaragua to Costa Rica was a brutal washing-machine ride. Sailboat cruisers can all share stories about distinct moments they wished they were not on the boat, possibly somewhere far from the sea.

This was our 2nd worse passage ever, behind our trip from Bandon Oregon to Crescent City California, were mother nature mercilessly humbled us. I’ll never forget the hours standing in the cockpit with 4 layers of clothing, looking UP to see massive, ice-cold waves breaking above us, with mainsail boom that had broken in shrieking 50 mph winds. If we ever survive a passage worse than that, we’ll throw in the towel. Almost 2 years later, I still never want to see the Oregon Coast again as long as I live, beautiful though it may be.

The seas off Nicaragua were only 6 to 8 feet, but arriving every 4-5 seconds, punch after punch, before we could recover from the previous one, seas hurled at us by the notoriously malevolent Papagayo winds. At moments, I wondered if our tough, tank of boat would hold together. We flew our smallest possible sail area to keep the 25 knot winds from over-powering us, but also had the motor pushing to help the rudder with directional control. We would often see our speed get knocked down from 1.5 knots to zero, and it was a discouraging gut-punch every time.

There was no choice but to power through it. Even if Nicaragua’s coast had a couple points to shelter behind, it would still be a rough anchorage, and the authorities another nightmare to deal with, since we were legally cleared out of the country.

This was an hour before it got truly rough:

Under the black sky of a new moon, we arrived into Costa Rica in the dead of night, and from violent winds and seas, we turned into a rocky pass into a big, calm bay, with sheltering ridges encircling us. Shawn, harnessed to the boat, stood on the bow with a spotlight, looking for rocks and fishing line, while I stayed heads-down, navigating by GPS. Like a sudden scene change, the boat was no longer thrashing around and we stood easily.

“Rock to starboard, one-thirty or two o’clock, maybe 500 feet!” calls out Shawn. She was my second-set of eyes in my private pilot days, spotting traffic.

“OK, not a factor, turning to port 15 degrees and slowing,” I reply.

We get through the entrance and tuck in behind a ridge, dropping the anchor in 15 feet of water. Exhausted, we shut off everything, stowed items from cockpit, and collapsed on our settees. Each of us notes how exhausted the other looks, dark circles under our glazed eyes, shoulders slumped, skin still damp with sprayed seawater.

A strange moment passed as we both realize it’s as if the boat is on pavement. There is no movement, no rocking. We’ve gone from one extreme, the bow thrashing into troughs of a steep waves, thunderous slaps of seawater against Miette’s hull, to perfectly calm, undisturbed water - and quiet. We wash up and sleep 12 hours.

April 15

We awake in paradise.

Bahía Santa Elena is within the Santa Rosa national park, and we’re delighted to see no trace of mankind. No buildings, roads, or other boats. It’s just us. And birds. So many birds.

We spend a gloriously peaceful week in this bay, resting and recovering, making field recordings of birds, and hiking a short trail nearby. This was my all time favorite anchorage, but it was time we head into the town of Coco and properly clear into the country.

April 20

We arrive in Playas de Coco and get ourselves checked-in with the Port Captain, immigration, and customs. Easy and free, minus a cheap bus ride to/from an airport.

We had sticker-shock here when getting food and a few items for the boats. Nearly everything was US-pricing, or higher, but we were still all smiles.

Miette, far-right, just outside the crowded mooring field at Coco.

From this anchorage, we enjoyed some lovely sunsets, and felt the water was clean enough for swimming, even at sunset. Rather than climb aboard the dinghy in the surf, Shawn often swam back to the boat while I rowed alongside.

While in Coco, we bought hammocks for our cockpit, and kicked ourselves for not buying them in Mexico or Nicaragua where they were far more reasonably priced. We’re getting a lot of use out of them, when the boat isn’t rolling too much, but they took some getting used to.

April 23

Needing a break from “city life”, we headed 5 miles north into Bahía Culebra, and anchored at Playa Nacascolo.

Although the water was clear and pleasant, we were plagued by clueless people on rented jet-skis, the sounds of construction, and leaf-blowers. Everywhere we looked, we could see or hear construction, and we’d learn that real estate developers are eagerly promoting “digital nomads”, attracting ex-pats from the US and Canada.

We tried another anchorage the following day, Bahía Panama, but we still had jet-ski traffic. We stayed a night then decided to head back to Coco for provisions, then leave the area.

April 26

Next was Playa Guacamaya, which was mostly peaceful, except a few hours in the afternoon when party boats showed up, anchoring far too close to us.

April 29 - May 5

We spent one night in Bahía Brasilito, and hiked a ridge in the morning. On its other side spotted an anchorage not well advertised on the charts, labeled Playa Las Minas, that looked perfect.

The next day we anchored at Las Minas, and realized we’d found a hidden jewel. Miles of rough dirt road kept all but some tourists away.

We spent every evening in the cockpit, sometimes watching dramatic clouds rain in the distance.

The hiking and snorkeling were terrific.

Even if our monkey neighbors were noisy.

Las Minas would have been the ideal place to celebrate my 50th birthday, but the weather changed. Our anchorage quickly got uncomfortable, and we set sail that same day, embarking on a 96 mile, overnight passage, eager to catch up with our friends John and Meredith of SV Jackdaw, who were in Nicoya Bay.