The ride out of Playa Coyote was flat, scenic, mellow, and pleasantly uneventful. I crossed a few knee-high rivers and waved at the Ticos who sat on their porches in the middle of nowhere. They waved back and some smiled and hollered "hola!" as I disappeared into the dust. About halfway to Santa Teresa the road jutted directly west, right onto the beach. There was no actual road aside from the soggy beach sand, an impassable route at high tide. The tide was out, so I zig-zagged down the open beach and considered living there in my hammock, eating coconuts and maybe foraging for insects and fish for the rest of my long, joyous life. But no, onwards. Keep peddling. Paradise will always be there. Waiting. There is too much to see. Too much to do. Too much sweet nectar 'o life. Ah yes.

I rolled into Santa Teresa early in the afternoon. The sun beamed down its scathing agenda, burning my tender gringo flesh. Cars and motorbikes threw a lingering cloud of dust from the bumpy dirt road through town and I thought of Burning Man. Santa Teresa is a lot like Arcata except with great weather, amazing surf, beautiful tanned chicas everywhere, and a happening night life. Ok, so it's nothing like Arcata. Everyone has dreadlocks and the place has a definite hippy vibe. A hint of magic on the wind. You get the feeling that the secret got out not long ago. The place is a veritable gringoville, teeming with a certain breed of tourism. But its a relaxed, free flowing kind of place and I can see why it is such a sought after destination.

I strung up my hammock at Zaneidas campground and hopped in the ocean for a while. The waves here are huge, consistant, and barreling. I got out and went to a pay phone to call my folks. The phone were in use and I waited. A dreadlocked Jamaican walked by, did a double take, turned around and said, "hey mae, what is that on your shoulder?" I told him the tattoo was Saggitarius. His face lit up. "I am the fifteen of December, mae." Its my birthday too, I told him. The Jamaican laughed loudly and cried out, "how did I know? how could I know? Come man, lets share the beer."

I went to his place next to the campground and we drank a Pilsen. His name was Pineapple Head. He showed me around his place, which he built himself. He was a sculptor and had several cement figurines around the yard. Pineapple Head read my palm and told me I am blessed, protected by a dead relative, bound to live a long life, and also told me the last name of my future wife. We talked for several hours and noted the similarities of our pasts based on astrological predisposition. Then I went back to Zaneidas and fell asleep to the sound of crashing waves.

Hammock Space Pod at Zaneidas