Crocodile Stalkodile

The sail from Tamarindo to San Juan Del Sur went well.

Crew were my Tamarindo futon lender, Natalie Comfort, and the always reluctant to leave sooperpooch, Maestra.

We encountered STRONG Papagallo winds which shouldn't be blowing at all this time of year. I guess they're calling it an El Nino. I'm calling climate change. Whatever you call it, gusty 30-40 knot offshore winds make for exciting sailing and comfortable anchorages... assout and into the swell.

We took three nights making the trip and spent two daze surfing perfect, sparsely populated, occasionally overhead Ollie's Point with howling offshores. I spent more time on me feet than I had in my previous surfing experiences combined... needless to say a good experience.

The terrifying highlight of Ollie's was getting stalked by a crocodile in the water while I was rescuing Maestra from whatever the hell was stalking her on the beach.

During my surf a local guide who has chartered boats to Ollie's for 13 years warned me that the dog wasn't safe frolicking on the beach on account of jaguars and crocodiles. Ollie's is a $100 panga ride for the typical surfer because it's extremely remote... a 20 mile boatride from anywhere... semi-pristine wilderness aside from the fact that is was all obviously logged a few decades back.

Anyway, I didn't take his words to heart until I saw Maestra looking uncharacteristically terrified on the beach... running scatterpatterns or something... freaked out. So natually, I grabbed Comfort's longboard and cruised in to get her.

Just outside the shorepound I glanced left at an unusual looking log about 25 feet away. Then the log blinked and dove. I paddled like crazy, tried to catch a steep closeout, purled the nose and got tossed ass over teakettle in shoulder deep water.

I scrambled back to the board and caught the next whitewater in. Once "safely" on the beach I spotted the croc just offshore casually swimming away... somewhere in the 7-9 foot range... bigger than me no doubt.

Meanwhile the dog is between my legs shaking and eyeing a patch of scrubby bushes just up the beach. So I waited til the croc was a few hundred feet further along the bay before throwing the dog on the longboard and making a break for it.

Then I went surfing again.

And now, thanks to a 25 lb tuna gift to the Nicaraguan Armada, Sin Fin and I are once again legally checked into a country... which feels good.

Today was like a disfunctional family reunion with characters coming out of the woodwork. Tu Laki is here. Sketchy Franz. Nina Hutch and her friend. Kelly and crew from Tamarindo. I took a boatload of them surfing at Maderas today.

Tomorrow I'm shuttling 4 young Aussies to Pie De Gigante. Then the waves look like ass for the week so I'll be working on my silly little book and playing with the dog.

Blah Blah Blah.




Hey Folks,

It's been an exciting couple of daze down here in Central America... and I'll tell you all about it as soon as I'm done livin it.



My Surf Instructor...

I've been surfing with and learning from an interesting character: Kim Hamrock, 2002 Women's World Longboard Champion.

Kim's gotta be somewhere in her 50s. She's got a son 2 years younger than me. She's maybe 5'1", but I wouldn't want to fight her. She surfs a 4'4" twin fin, an absurdly small board. She slashes more aggressively than most of the young Ticos. She's also an artist and a hell of a self-taught musician.

Most importantly, she's nice to everyone. She's always stoked and radiates good energy.

She's got a website: www.dangerwoman.com. The pics are worth checking out. I've seen other pics of her getting destroyed by triple overhead Puerto Escondido beach break... on a longboard.

Today her, roomie Natalie, and four young Aussies are sailing with me to Playa Avellanas.

I'm going to make a few bucks and surf with a great teacher all day... overhead and offshore.

Got an exit strategy? I love y'all.



Why not...

Bien Usado

I had a lot to say last night when I stumbled home eating street meat... fortunately, the computer had been hidden by my wise roomies.

See, the boat's in the bay and I've got a couch in a cabin in the jungle. It feels like Camp Olson except there are more mice and, thank God, no children.

My roommates are fattening me up with amazing cooking. Banana bread. Creamy pastas. Lots of eggs. I'm a pig in shit.

They go to bed close to dark. They live little and beautifully.

I didn't want to drink. I don't want to drink. I don't drink that much.


...when yer sailing students were 70 year old British ex-pats you drink. Hell, they're paying you to drink. Who can blame them? What else is there to do in London?!


In three days of "lessons" we discussed sailing for about 15 minutes. We spent a few hours learning the GPS and Google Earth... the rest of the time we devoted to their reasonably crazy conspiracy theories and stories. I made $200.

I must have said, "My friend, you're preaching to the choir!" a zillion times just to push the conversation somewhere... ANYWHERE!!... but broken record eco-econo-politico-psycho-bullshit from a contradictory slant I couldn't even pin down.


And the characters just keep rolling out of the woodwork...

In fact, recently, smilingly, I've found people (yo incluido) so ridiculous I can't even believe we exist.


A red, old, pockmarked nose with twinkling eyes casually explains the ease of setting your enemies' shit alight. We discuss mob tactics and I'm advised to "Keep my pecker up."


A 17 year old Tico who can't swim mysteriously drowns in the river. His sister, an aging drunk whore, confronts the police about it. They beat her up. She looks like a flying leap to faceplant on a gravel road. That night she confides in me at the bar.

I never buy a beer... they materialize... I've got two in my hands and three on the bar so I offer her one... she looks like she needs one. She rewards another beer for my kindness.

I get her laughing for a while with goofiness and drop a few comments she takes like pearls. She offers to dread my hair for free. I decline. Then she gets sour and takes it out on God.

rant rant rant rant to the closer of ...


And that comment really sticks in my mind because as she screamed it she spit in my right eye.

It still feels gross... kind of like the ackward tingle you feel if your hand accidentally contacts another guy's wang. I'm a little concerned about contracting some alphabetic variant of HEP.

And if you think about it, that's a heavy statement... especially because this woman IS, despite her drunken whorishness, obviously both spiritual and religious.


One European woman walks topless and everyone can't help but stare and discuss. I couldn't help but stare at the starers.


Costa Rican DJs butcher reggae. A white boy from Minnesota owns the dance floor. He learned to dance from Bahamaians, Jamaicans, and Trinidadians at a Catholic college.


60 people sit in the water watching assault helicopters fly overhead. Some pretend to shoot at the choppers. I take advantage of the distraction to snake a wave.


Walking home coherently plastered, I encounter a Tico my girlfriend bought dope from 5 years prior. He's on the same street corner. He's wearing the same shirt. I remember this shirt because it's the kind old redneck ladies wear: an all black T with two little kittens screenprinted on the front. I'm enthralled by this strange occurence.

I tell him I remember him from 5 years prior... he pretends to remember me... asks me for money... I give him my last 2000 colones, at the moment the last of my money... and continue walking through streets that make no sense to the place I'm welcome to safely rest.

This is going nowhere.
I need to get wet.
I need to eat something.
I need to get moving again.



I didn't request this collage... but I'll happily post it.

The best sunset of the trip is tonight's.

Satisfied customers. New friends.

Yeah, I'm still alive...

Perhaps the best picture ever taken of me and the boat.

Thanks, LPH... it's been a while since I've been able to post some pics.

I got $200 in my pocket. I'm going surfing.



Smile til' yer happy.

Lyric of the Day
Willie Nelson, Remember the Good Times

Remember the good times
They're smaller in number
And easier to recall
Don't spend too much time
On the bad times
They're staggering in number
And will be heavy
As lead on your mind

Don't waste a moment unhappy
Invaluable moments gone
With the leakage of time
As we leave on
Our own separate journeys
Moving west with the sun
To a place buried deep
In our minds

Standard shit these daze.

I had some charters booked yesterday and today but the folks just didn't show. This is the worst... wasted time and dwindling stacks of cash.

The ATM is not an option.

I shouldn't have wasted $35 on a MASSAGE the LPH gents insisted I get. It didn't do much for me, and at the end of it the beautiful Tica MASSEUSE had this to say:


I didn't feel like discussing the subtlties of growing up at a time when it was cool to slouch... or mile long pack on the front, pack on the back, canoe on your shoulders portages... or carrying way too much up way too many mountains... or sleeping on a moving boat for a year... so all I said was "yep".

So now I'm all paranoid about my back even though it doesn't really hurt.

Fortunately I have a retired British couple coming into town just for sailing lessons with Captain Max. I'm gonna wing it... spent about 5 minutes writing out my lesson plans today... there's a big swell coming in so my plan is to spook them into confidence around the outer reef breaks.

Well, as I remind myself daily, life could always be much much worse: a local Tico buddy got beat down by the cops. They caught him eating breakfast without an ID so they took him back to the station and beat the shit out of him... he's got blurry vision in one eye and a few dozen welts. They used bamboo broomsticks on him.

He went to a lawyer and there's basically nothing he can do. Out in the lineup today he threw out the idea of burning down their houses. I told him it'd be better to just let it go.

Aren't I the responsible one?! See, I know how he feels. I wanted to torch a certain $15,000,000 spread in Baja last winter. I sailed through it instead. He seemed to be surfing through it today.

The swell is building. I had my first successful EXIT from a barrelling wave today... WOW... that felt good.

The plan is to get the fuck out of Tamarindo within the week... nab a few days of epic waves at Witches and Ollies and go get legal in San Juan del Sur.

I'm rereading my Biology 101 textbook and loving it. It's a fount of facts that PERTAIN. Examples:

"Evolution has proceeded towards harnessing more diverse sources of energy to power life."

"Regulated growth is an essential characteristic of living systems."

"Large mammals are susceptible to domestication if they exhibit the following three traits. 1) Herd mentality. 2) Territorialism. 3) Male-dominated heirarchy."

La Oveja Negra Abierto a la Feminina Llamado Max


Death. Drama. Drinkin'. Dilemma.

Hungover Moan of Greetings from a Tamarindo Futon and a Borrowed Computer.

My grandpa died the other day.  He was 88 and old age got him.  I'm happy I got to see him in February when I was home for the Birkie.  I won't be making it back for the funeral.

My defining experience with my grandpa, Harold Mogren, is eating lunch together at Perkins Restaurant in Winona... just the two of us.  Mostly he talked, telling stories... his role in WWII... ice fishing... regular fishing... my dad's childhood hi jinx.

 Had I known better at the time I would have been more charmed and savored his expression as he happily passed on his memories.

I remember hunting for nightcrawlers in my grandparents garden as a kid and adding fistfuls of worms to the huge styrofoam container full of loamy dirt in the garage.  I remember the 8 track collection there.  I remember their cellar.  I remember their junk-filled attic.  I remember their front porch.  Many times, their old white house with green trim, has been the setting in my mind's eye's vision of a book being read.

So, I'll remember bits of him until I die too.

The biggest lesson learned in college I took from my year as a full time nurse's assistant in the St. John's Abbey Retirement Center... wiping old monk butts.  The Benedictine's try to keep the possibility of their own death in the forefront of their mind's... and since then, so do I.

Death: it's the spice of life.

The French call orgasms the little death... and all my self-endangering skiing, climbing, kiting, surfing, sailing, and other risky business has simply served up little morsels of mortality... glimpses of death... a deeper appreciation of LIFE.

I continue to exist.
Fuck yeah.
Thank God.
despite what the kiddies at the bar think,
despite what my complexion is starting to show,
I'm young!
I walk straight and tall.
I can climb trees better than almost anyone.
I can swim deep and far.
I've flown weightless down countless mountainsides.
I ride waves of PURE energy spawned by distant storms.
 I look to the sky and smile
cuz I get to bear semi-conscious witness
to the most interesting period in the history of the planet.
 I'd rather be me than paleozoic pond scum.
I am grateful.
I remember to be grateful.

MEMORY, well, without that life ain't worth living.  I learned that too cuz many of those old monk's had lost it.  So don't you forget, in fact, make a point to REMEMBER.

All this digital graffiti is my attempt to remember myself and maybe even be remembered... by you.

I think people have gotten a bit too forgetful for their own good... letting the computer do their thinking for them.

How many phone numbers can you dial by memory?  I've only got 4 but they're all sacred to me:

(507) 452-6094
(507) 453-6314
(616) 633-4693
(712) 273- 227... shit...

I must have pickled the wrong part of my brain last night because I can't recall a very important digit.

And hence the dilemma... see, I spent the last two days with the LPH gents from Miami, sailing, surfing, and eating well.  They're classic characters interestingly navigating their early 40s in a world gone mad... they've lost love... they've lost money... and, most importantly, they've lost the desire to return home.

I tell them to RUN LIKE HELL and they almost changed their return tickets to NEVER.   Meanwhile I am wishy washily preparing to reintegrate myself into the American Dream.

The American Nightmare.

And sailing through the twilight, my hypocrisy disgusts and I come to know that I can't go back...

I crave love.
I miss my family.
I miss my friends.
I am scared because I have so little power...
...and so much uncertainty.

But I can't go back, because, frankly, all this was the case BEFORE I left... going back would bring weeks of bliss, a year of culture shock, and a lifetime of mediocrity.

See all the happiness and all the paranoia I've encountered... turns out it all originated in my mind anyway... as long as I'm not locked up or broken down or lost at sea I'll be OK, no matter where I am.

Turns out there's TREASURE everywhere, you just need to look.

Hopefully those that love me will continue to do so.  I still love all of them.

So the boat is now permanently for sale... it gives me a reason to keep her clean... and I'm still sailing north to Nicaragua...

I'll spend September surfing, writing, and trying to make money there.  I need to buy a new motor.

Then I'm going to pay someone a few hundred bucks to pull Sinny from the Pacific and plop her in LAGO NICARAGUA... a downriver daysail (with rapids!) from the MAR CARIBE.

The Caribbean Sea!
Waves and wind in the winter!
Argentina is right around the corner!

Which brings us to the lyric of the day...
At night, when the bars close down
Brandy walks through a silent town
And loves a man, who's not around
She still can hear him say, she hears him say 
Brandy, you're a fine girl
What a good wife you would be
But my life, my love, and my lady Is the sea.
-The Looking Glass, Brandy
Pura Vida, Putitos!
A very lonely old man in the making named...


Countin' Stacks

Lyric of the Day

Minnesota's own Atmosphere, In My Continental

Freedom is a word not heard from those that own it

Can't fix the machine if you don't have the components
(And I'll be)

In my Continental
Splintered off the mental
When you want the best you´ll
Never accept anything less
Elements of purpose
True love from the first kiss
Spread it on the surface
Sit back and watch the progress

Cause we're not from this planet
We come from somewhere else
And you can't understand it
Cause you don't know yourself
But when the time is right
Our path will be unveiled
Till then you seek your light
While I sit and bite my nails


Today it is hot, hot, hot in Tamarindo but I caught the third best wave of my life this morning, so I'm content to lounge in a shady, breezy hammock for the afternoon... thinking of book titles between naps.

Also adding to contentment is having the most financially lucrative day of the entire trip yesterday. I made $160 off a charter and another $20 from a daring pre-order of the yet to be written book by none other than Kyle Casper, a good friend and fellow Cotter RAMBLER.

In fact, yesterday I doubled my liquid net worth despite the economic crisis... and for the next week I´m paid in the shade... it´s not bartending money, but it´s a start.

I´ve got some retired brits interested in looking at the boat, some sailing lessons, and even a potential boat delivery from California to here... aka a paid surf trip. This pleases me.

Noone is too interested in buying the boat at the moment but I´ve got no rush to sell it, apparently. I thought I did, but I was wrong.

The characters are coming out of the woodwork these days so I can´t help but feel like the trip is gearing up again for a big development... perhaps a big positive turn of events... perhaps steep fines and deportation from Costa Rica... who knows... the nearer your destination the more you're slip sliding away, ya know?!

I can already sense the growing hostility from a few other sailboat charter businesses of actual legality opposed to doubtlessly illegal competitor encroachment.

My kneejerk response to these inevitable confrontations is pretty basic:

¨I gotta eat too, amigo.¨

and if they push it I feign my craziest:

¨Bad karma sinks boats... ya feel me?!¨

Back to the characters... yesterday´s charter included a mixed bag...

1. Burned out banker from Miami heading for a ladyfriend in Peru.
2. His buddy, also from Miami, a thinly disguised adult filmmaker.
(The made special business cards and tshirts for their Central America trip... LPH, INT... aka Latina Pussy Hunters... yes, they gave me a t-shirt... no, I´m not planning any future work with them.)
3. All together with it female shepherd and organic gardener from Maryland.
4. Heavily tattooed former latino gangbanger turned PHD in PHILOSOPHY and PHILOSOPHY PROFESSOR at University in San Fran. He also runs a non-profit that teaches little thugs to surf in hopes it helps them turn it around. His tats are scary. He´s solid.
5. His buddy, a NAVY SEAL, who looks like SUPERMAN and is equally solid.
6. His other buddy, the classic table waiting Santa Barbara surf bum and equally solid.
7. Me... 70% water, 30% solid... more fluid by the day.
8. Maestra... who decided to rule the beach yesterday, scored a tuft of cat hair, stole food off of tables, herded toddlers, and otherwise acted completely out of character.

Amazingly, everyone had such a good time I got not only paid but tipped. This was the first time I´ve been tipped on the trip as well. I can´t fathom why it took so long... too much doom and gloom squeezed into my previous charter conversations, I guess... this crew was so interesting I couldn´t even wind up a rant...


The waves have been great. Also, I´ve been enjoying exploring all the surf potential around Tamarindo and the anchorage is solid... rarely is the weather near as bad as other parts of CR. Folks rag on Tamarindo but I don´t see where the hatred comes from. I´m enjoying myself.

So maybe the boat won´t sell at all... and maybe I´ll gather the gumption and fundage to turn back south.

I did pledge myself I´d never fly anywhere again... and the shock of reintegrating the American Nightmare into my psyche would throttle me. Then again, if the boat sells, the dog and I could always pick up something like this...

... or do a little hitching... or score an outrigger kayak and use kites and paddles and whatnot to really get out in the ocean on it´s terms... I´m open to suggestions.

One thing´s for certain, the trip is back in control as decisionmaking is no longer by committee... nor really factoring into much of the day to day... you know.




No Sale.

Hey All,

Yesterday was an exciter.

In the am, we had our first breastfeeding aboard the Sin Fin as the young couple demoed the boat. They loved old Sinful, but decided to hold off sailing anywhere until their daughter learns to swim: good call.

In the afternoon, I took four 18 year old ladies from Florida for a charter trip, which led to dinner, drinks, and a slumber party at their swank hotel room. Maestra slept with all of them.

I opted for the floor... nestled atop an amazing pile of women´s apparel... how do they fit so much shit in such small suitcases?

I have to tell ya, there´s nothing more interesting that four cute young ladies fighting over the opportunity to snuggle yer dog... until the pillowfight breaks out.

And it´s interesting to hear the opinions of the youth... the future leaders of America are apparently about as stoked on it as I am at present.

The American Nightmare.

I´ve got another charter tomorrow and the day after... sailing an hour to great waves at Playa Avellanas... right here.

It could always be much worse.

But it could always be better. I want to hope for humanity but the signs all point DOWN.

For example, in a weathered old shithouse celebrity rag I just read that Sarah Palin got paid $11 million in ADVANCE for writing a book about her stupid bullshit life. I´m only 28 but I´ve done way more cool shit than her, like thinking actual thoughts and doing actual things beyond polishing the right knobs.

Here I am chartering a shitboat and unsuccessfully scrounging $20 preorders on the best book ever... I´m calling it right now... just to get myself psyched enough to actually workwrite.

So Paypal my ass. I need a new used surfboard, anyway... mine´s fucked.

Anyone who´s donated before, please don´t. Y'all've done enough.

I´m out.



The Ballad of the Jhony Woker

Here´s an old story from the Golfo Dulce... believe it.

After my Cabo Matapalo stint with the Olympic Boardercross crew and before Fate's rendezvous with Tu Laki in Pavones, I needed to buy some gas. As such I headed deeper into the Golfo Dulce to Puerto Jimenez.

Port Jim is what the gringos call it.

This was a big turning point for me because after a solid month with the Newport boys, Snootcher, and Kevin ¨King of the World¨Muras, I was sailing nailbitingly alone once again.

It takes some getting used to. Lonely too. But it only lasted a day.

In a matter of hours I got my errands done and passed out early and hungry. At dawn the next day Maestra (the Mexican Street Bitch) and I set out across to the Gulf towards Pavones.

It was a beautiful morning with no reason to rush.  We sailed slowly on the light offshore breeze through calm waters.

In the middle of the Gulf, a good 5 miles from the nearest shore, I came across a lonely fishing skiff with two Ticos frantically waving to get my attention. They were standing atop the makeshift cabin of their 25 foot inboard converted panga.  It made my piece of shit sailboat look good.

As I got closer I could make out the crudely painted name on its side: Jhony Woker.

They meant to write ¨Johnnie Walker¨, as in...

While Costa Rica is gringofied in select spots, the rest of the country hovers somewhere between the second and third world. These two fisherman lived on a seashore trapped between the collapse of the local banana industry and the onslaught of tourist development. They were piss poor and technically lost at sea.

Anchored in 170 feet of water, 5 miles from land they suffered a broken motor and a broken radio.  They threw the radio around dramatically to show what a worthless piece of shit it was.

"It hasn't worked for years," they laughed, relieved that I was stopping.

I pulled up beside them, dropped the sail, and we shot the bull for a while.

They'd been stranded out there for three nights and at least a dozen sportfishing yachts loaded with gringos had cruised right past them. They'd doubtless been seen, received casual waves in response to their frantic calls to attention, but noone had bothered to stop.

Typical Gringo.
Too scared to stop.
Too clueless to stop.
Too arrogant to stop.
Too busy guzzling gas.
Too busy fishing
Too busy drinking.
Take yer´ pick.

Anyway, these two poor, thrice-benighted fisherman hadn´t caught any fish yet so they'd been living off of a two liter bottle of Coke. They´d been drinking water from the melting ice in their hold.  It stunk of dead fish and motor oil.

Anyway, we hit it off and breakfasted together. A PB and J apiece and a dozen hardboiled eggs between us. The more we talked the more apparent it became that these were two solid dudes.

Naturally, I let them use my radio to call the Port Captain in Golfito who contacted the owner of their boat and the Guardacosta who promised to tow them in later that day.

As I was untying SIN FIN from alongside the Jhony Woker, they were all smiles. At the last second they decided to reward my kindness with a gift of their own: a rusty Scripto lighter and two packs of POINT cigarettes got slapped into my palm.

¨Smoking is cheaper than eating,¨ one said pseudo-seriously as the other smiled and nodded.

And they were right.

Know the feeling?


Trying NOT to Sell the Boat

Tomorrow I am taking a young couple and their 3 month old daughter on a trial sail... during which I hope to scare them out of buying my boat.

Their plan is to sail the whole family (including dog) from Tamarindo to San Diego. They have no idea what they're getting into... and during today's breakfast consultation nothing I said could phase them.

Ironically, everyone who should actually buy the boat (namely old rich retired gringos who I could easily and with clean conscience ¨reliberate¨ it from come springtime) are all ¨looking for something bigger¨ that they can let pricely rot on a dock somewhere.

Maybe the young family SHOULD buy it. I guess I just don't want them to one up me... they're way ballsier than me.

So we'll see how it goes.

In other news, the waves have been good and it´s going to be a big day... I´ve got a charter and I´m gonna make $60 big ones. This money will be used to buy a new swimsuit.

If you observe the crotchular region of my current swimsuit too closely you can see a bit of my wang... through a pair of dime-sized holes... which have slowly grown over the last several months.

Also, since it never completely dries, my current swimsuit emits aura of nautical dickcheese. I´ve had enough of that.


ps I´ve begun working on THE BOOK. Preorders accepted via PAYPAL. $20... it`ll cost you $30 if you wait till´it´s actually written... embrace the bargain... plus, if someone actually buys it, I´ll actually have to write it... so do me the favor.

True Roots Culture.


Seca Sola Bruja, Lluvia Con Sol

If you see my dog tell her to get her ass back to the boat.

If you see your boss stop watching this...

...until then, shake ass at your desk.




Lyric of the Day

Slightly Stoopid , Closer to the Sun

If I think she beautiful, well that's for sure
Give a little loving, but I still gon need some more, rob it
Stealing from the rich and then give it to the poor
Telling everbody it don't matter anymore, she said
All I really needed was a friend like you
Help me through and together we can change, but
If I was to stay it wasn't for too long
People sing the same song everywhere I'm going
Closer to the sun and far from the moon
People screaming out they gonna see me real soon, they say oooo

As y´allready know there´s a major fluidity afforded by money. I´ve been living like a working man the last two months on account of behaving by committee and taking life slow and low like a gringo... on vacation... from Dr . Volunpov.

Then stagnation set in ... and the notion of actually making a viral webshow proved daunting so we had to drift... the ties got cut and I´m alone with Sinny and Maestra again.

See there´s another less well known fluidity afforded by shooting from the hip like an occassionally materfokin peeemp. See , you can live on next to nothing through appetite control and friendliness... talking up the waiters in Tico makes every drink a triple and a $3 casado a 2500 calorie masterpiece... hell, they even know a guy looking for a cheap sailboat and it´s on for 10am. These things don´t happen when you roll in monolingual packs.

But don´t get me wrong.

My friend Tu Laki has done more for me in the last two months than anyone else has done for me since I grew out home... and I thank him more than I can convey here for that.

All in all, he probably put $3000 towards this little trip, not to mention putting up with my moods and always being down to surf his face off. I love the guy.

The Hughman also helped oodles until I found out he´s broker than me. Cut me off and get to work, wavekiller.

As for Cherkisoff , the expedition photographer, she´s off to play in the dirt of Uvita or the streets of NYC... I don´t know and neither does she.

I haven't really done justice to the experiences lately on this blog... like for the last three months... so through a bit of bloodletting it´ll all surface in the upcoming weeks.

Right now I´m in Tamarindo with a boatshowing at 10am and I´m gonna dump it... between spoonfuls of peanutbutter and squirts of carmel sauce I made old Sinny SHINE... I´m almost out of food but the dog´s got oodles so hold off donating.

Much love to Reed and Irene for the double BENJI cash infusion... I may just sell this boat without going into debt.

What then?.. taking ski and surf BUMMING to it´s logical extreme of bummery... I ´ve got nothing better to do while waiting for the barbarians.

What then? Yer guess is good as mine.

Live it up.