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Thinking of moving to Costa Rica?  7 Books you should read.

7/10/2014

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Costa Rica is one of the most amazing countries on earth, with natural beauty, beaches, and a warm culture that's unparalleled. Every year, almost 2.5 million tourists visit the nation that has no army, and thousands of expats and retirees from the United States and Canada move there annually. If you're thinking about moving to Costa Rica - or just going for a vacation - you definitely will want to read these books. They're not guide books, but real life narratives by people who actually moved there and experienced Costa Rica first hand. The books are listed by popularity and you can click on the titles to link to Amazon.com

Feel free to email me if you have any questions about moving to Costa Rica. Pura vida and happy reading!  

-Norm Schriever   :-)

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Happier Than A Billionaire.

In this humorous and witty account, Nadine Pisani shares what it is like to follow her dream of quitting her job and starting a new life under the sunny skies of Costa Rica. Along the way, she finds reliable utilities are not that reliable, quirky neighbors are unavoidable, and tackling red tape takes the strength of a linebacker. But with all its challenges, you'll learn why Costa Rica is ranked as one of the happiest places on earth--and you too may want to taste the Pura Vida lifestyle.

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South of Normal.

A gonzo blast of laughs and adventure about a year spent in the tropical paradise of Tamarindo, Costa Rica. Frustrated and unfulfilled with the rat race in the States, businessman Norm Schriever quits his job, sells and donates all of his possessions, and moves down to Tamarindo, Costa Rica, with nothing but a laptop and a surfboard. But Norm soon finds that paradise has its dark side. Whether it’s adapting to the local customs and the language barrier, dodging lawless drug traffickers and corrupt cops, or spending “quality time” in a Third World prison, Norm always keeps his sense of humor and forges ahead, intent on finding the paradise he has been looking for. 

To download a free sample, click here.


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In Search of Captain Zero.

In 1996, Allan Weisbecker sold his home and his possessions, loaded his dog and surfboards into his truck, and set off in search of his long-time surfing companion, Patrick, who had vanished into the depths of Central America. In this rollicking memoir of his quest from Mexico to Costa Rica to unravel the circumstances of Patrick's disappearance, Weisbecker intimately describes the people he befriended, the bandits he evaded, the waves he caught and lost en route to finding his friend. 


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Two Weeks in Costa Rica.

Have you ever been attacked by monkeys, hiked in one of the most biologically diverse places on earth, or had your wallet stolen, then given back? Matthew Houde and Jennifer Turnbull share these adventures and more in the book, Two Weeks in Costa Rica.


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Unraveling the Mysteries of Moving to Costa Rica.

Ever wonder what it would be like to leave the U.S. and move to the tropics? This book deftly blends the personal story of the author (who, along with her husband and parents, moved from Maine to Costa Rica) with incredibly helpful practical advice. A wonderfully readable resource for anyone considering moving to Costa Rica. First in the Mainers in Costa Rica series.


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Paradise Imperfect.

Margot and Anthony were ordinary parents. With two jobs and three kids, there was soccer and carpool and too much to do, and a little chronic stress about money. Then one night, following a day that was a regular amount of hectic, Margot had an idea: “I think we should move to Costa Rica.” Seven weeks later, there they were, jobless on top of a mountain, hours from the nearest paved road. This witty, insightful memoir of a family's struggle to right itself in a leafy new world is about parenting and privilege, loneliness and connection. It’s about what happens when a stressed-out technology professional escapes with her loved ones to an idyllic mountaintop...and finds that even when everything changes, some things remain the same.

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Hope, Happiness and Pura Vida.

Heart Attack = One Week Vacation = A Story of Adventure = Life Lessons = Is Your Life in Need of a Makeover? Go along on an adventure as Debbie Knight shares a seven year journey that she and her husband, Chuck, followed in pursuit of the “pure" life in Costa Rica. You will learn about the magic of Pura Vida in one of the happiest places on earth and learn sometimes why it can also be a rather frustrating experience. You will question if your life is on the right track or if it too is in need of a makeover.


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Surfing in Costa Rica?  Check DIS out...and pura vida!

4/27/2014

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Infographic by Manuel Antonio Beach Rentals

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What's your best advice for young adults looking to travel and where are the best places to go?

2/5/2014

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I received an email from a reader the other day with these questions:  

"What would be the best advice for young adults trying to travel or move out the country?  And which countries are best to move to?"

Super questions!  My best advice for young adults trying to move out of the country would be to travel while you’re young.  Do it now when you don’t mind long bus rides and bad beds and you don’t have a lot keeping you back in the states  (or your home country.)  Life has a way of anchoring you as you go on, and pretty soon you might have a good job, an apartment lease, car payments, a house, or a relationships or marriage that keeps you grounded.  So do it now!  

I would also suggest that you form a plan how you are going to fund the trip a good ways out – maybe 6 months? - and work your butt off until that date arrives.  You’ll have to sacrifice a lot; eating out, nights partying with friends, the newest clothes or concert tickets, but all of that money will be essential if you’re going to travel. In that time you have to prepare, read everything you can about your destination countries, learn about the cultures, watch documentaries, and read some travel articles and books that will give you a taste of real life on the road, too. 

Last thing: be careful.  The rest of the world is not a fantasy land and most people have problems that we can’t even imagine in the US.  So getting too drunk, walking around alone, messing with drugs, getting in with the wrong crowd, etc. could lead you into situations you can’t get out of.  Slow play the partying and keep your eyes open and you’ll be fine.  

The other question, "Where should you go?"

That all depends on what you’re looking for, but I’m going to take a wild guess and say you want someplace warm, with a beach, that’s not too expensive, where there are other backpackers?  That opens up one set of possibilities, but others want to volunteer, or to experience authentic culture more than partying and lying on the beach.  It also makes a huge difference if you’re just going backpacking around or trying to live there for a year and work.

When I chose a country to live in (not just vacation!) I have a rough guide of criteria, based on priorities.  Make your own list and then do some research what might be a good fit.    

Tier 1
• Cheap – lodging around $300-$500 a month, total budget around $1,500 a month.
• Nice beach – a beautiful white sand beach goes a long way in balancing out all other factors!
• Friendly people – Then again, I don’t care how beautiful a country is, if the people aren’t warm and friendly, I’ll keep it moving.  I’m not down with snobbery or arrogance.
• Safe politically – don’t be freaked out by one news story in a country (if we judged the US by that same standard we’d never want to visit!) but also don’t mess with places where a coup or political violence is occurring.  Same thing goes for countries with terrorism, religious radicals, or drug cartel problems.
• Good WIFI (no kidding – I write/work as I live abroad so I’m screwed without a serviceable internet connection)
• City, town, or village?  There are pros and cons to each as you balance amenities, convenience, laid back vibe, nature, etc.

Tier 2
• Healthy, cheap food – I want to say “Yummmmm,” for $3 a meal, not for $7 a meal and up.  
• Culture – things to do like visiting temples, ruins, archeological sites, natural wonders, etc.
• Night life – of course you want a little bit of fun, but are you looking for mellow beach bars or clubbing all night long?
• Safety walking the streets
• Ability to get work –teaching English, teaching yoga, or working at a hostel or bar are some of the best possibilities for local employment
• Some tourism, but not overrun – the problem you’ll encounter is that the places you want to go, everyone else in the world wants to go there, too.  The trick is to find a place that is ahead of the curve, not way behind it when it will be too crowded/too expensive/soulless.  
• Diversity of population – I like a place that has a healthy blend of backpackers, expatriates, vactioners, and plenty of locals who still live there – not just work there.  That’s harder to find than you’d think!


Tier 3
• Speak some English – you should attempt to learn the local lingo but it really helps when they speak a few words of English.
• Proximity – The southern tip of Patagonia in Argentina is amazing, but don’t think you’re just a hop, skip, and jump away from main cities.  It’s fun to be in a city/country where you can get around easily, hopping buses and even small flights around the country or region easily.  
• Good gym – since I’m living in these countries I want to go to the gym every day and especially love boxing or muay thai, etc., but maybe you just want to surf or do yoga, etc.
• Family friendly – I like locations that don’t just have a bunch of 20 year old kids but a cross section of real life, including families and people who are old (my age.)

Based on those criteria, some great spots I’d suggest:  Costa Rica, Panama, Nicaragua, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Cuba (I’m dying to go there!), India, Sri Lanka, Israel, Jordan, Ghana, Senegal, Vietnam (good one,) Cambodia, Thailand (a little too touristy for my liking,) Laos, Mynmar, the Philippines, and Bali in Indonesia.  That’s a short list.  You can do the Caribbean and Europe when you’re older, plus they’re a little too expensive. 

I hope that helps, and happy travels!

-Norm  :-)

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On Writing, My Beautiful Failure.

4/18/2013

8 Comments

 
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A few years ago, when I started down this path, I wanted to be a WRITER. It all seemed glamorous – living in the tropics and banging out a best selling novel in between rum drinking contests, bull fights, and answering fan mail from exotic female admirers.  

Unfortunately, that’s not how it works. Not even a little bit.  

It’s been three years after I hit the reset button on my life, walking away from my comfortable existence as a businessman in California. I sold or donated all of my possessions and moving down to Costa Rica to live by the beach, bringing nothing but a laptop and a surfboard, to chase my dream of being a writer. 

Now, two books and thousands of written pages later, the secret to success has been magically revealed to me:

Hard work.

I know, not as exciting as I hoped for, but there it is. Scratching out a living penning words isn’t as much about being a WRITER, as it is about WRITING. Author Mary Heaton said it best:

“The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.”

In fact, most great writers have dedicated everything they had to the craft – and then more. They chose a life of self-imposed poverty, isolated hard work, and even ostracism from “polite” society to pursue their passion (though I believe polite society is overrated). It’s about putting in their 10,000 hours, as Macklemore raps, and then some, because they love their art so much they can’t NOT write.  

The collateral damage includes comfort, safety, material gain, friendships, relationships, and even sanity.

“There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” Ernest Hemingway.

Even though it was my lifelong dream to be a WRITER, all of that hard work didn’t sound so fun to me. Couldn’t I just skip ahead to the good parts? Still, I devised a three-year plan to lead me to the promise land of literary greatness and financial gain. Here it is: 

My Three-Year plan:
  1. 1. Do it.
  2. 2. Do it well.
  3. 3. Do it over and over, and monetize it.
Granted, that may be the exact business plan of every hooker in Reno, but I’d like to think that my plan was (slightly) more socially ambitious, and by the end of my third year I would have “made it,” breaking into the industry and earning a comfortable living as a writer. Let me explain.

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The first year I wanted to write and publish a book. It would be ideal to write the BEST book I could, but just writing one and going through the indie publishing process was overwhelming enough, without worrying about pesky little details, like KNOWING WHAT THE HELL I WAS DOING. I got started in my new beachside home, Tamarindo, Costa Rica, in the heart of the rainy season when the dirt roads were a muddy mess. By the middle of the dry season, in the arid heat and the dust, the book was done. 

“Write without pay until somebody offers pay; if nobody offers within three years, sawing wood is what you were intended for.” Mark Twain.

Writing that first book was an exhausting, scrambling process, about as far from my comfort zone as I’ve ever been. At times I didn’t think I was going to make it, or make it out of there in once piece. It was committing my soul to the page only to be trampled, documenting my ridiculous humanity for all the world to laugh at. I rushed at the wrong times, lost steam when I needed it most, and generally made every mistake I could. But, from some small miracle, the book still came out entertaining enough to pick up. 

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.” George Orwell.

The second year of my three-year plan was ‘doing it well.’ I actually had two choices here. Upon releasing their first book, most authors focus on selling books. They become expert marketers, and that is where they focus all of their attention. I totally understand that inclination, but standing at that crossroads, I chose a different path. I would focus on learning my craft. Sales be damned, I was going to invest all of my work and focus into becoming the best writer I could be. 

“To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.”
Allen Ginsberg.

I eschewed any chance of profit with the first book and instead moved up the coast from Costa Rica, to the charming fishing town of San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua to write. I sequestered myself in a cheap apartment in a local barrio, dirt alleys in the jungle living in the midst of stray dogs and roosters and the local people who made $2 a day. I was scared at first, in a third world country where some people were desperate just to eat, and many a night I slept beside a machete or carried a knife in my backpack. 

“How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.” Henry David Thoreau.

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But I always made it to the dawn, and thanked God for it, sitting down at my desk to document that gratitude with vigor. The locals in my barrio sang as they hung laundry, the smoke from the cooking fires in their front yards rising to my windows on the ocean breeze. It was perfect.

“Talent in cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.” Stephen King.

I did two things for those six months: I read, and I wrote. I read everything I could find ABOUT writing; character development, theme, conflict, dialogue, emotion, etc. There was no place to buy books, so I Googled these topics and read every article I could find, and then when I’d exhausted those someone brought me down a Kindle, so I could download books about writing. Pretty soon I’d read all of those, so I started reading biographies of writers.

Do you know what the common theme was? Hard work. Writers write a lot, and when they aren’t writing they read a lot, and that’s how they get better.

“If you can’t create, you can work.” Henry Miller.

So I wrote, too. Every morning I woke up at dawn (Ok, I woke up at 2 a.m. when the roosters and stray dogs started in, but I went back to sleep) and brewed some locally-grown coffee, splashed it with Baileys, and sat down at my desk, just about the time a clunky pickup truck rolled through the barrio, selling freshly-picked mangos and bananas.

“I write when I’m inspired, and I see to it that I’m inspired to write at 9 o’clock every morning.” Peter De Vries.

I put on my headphones and cranked some dancehall reggae or Michael Franti or Citizen Cope, and I wrote. It didn’t matter WHAT I wrote, I just unleashed whatever was in my subconscious without letting my mind get in the way. My fingers flew around with a life of their own, blurring with the speed of a DJ spinning records. 

“Through joy and through sorrow, I wrote. Through hunger and through thirst, I wrote. Through good report and through ill report, I wrote. Through sunshine and through moonshine, I wrote. What I wrote it is unnecessary to say.” Edgar A. Poe.

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One day I rescued a skinny, whipped four-week old puppy off the street. At first he was too small to walk far, so I carried him everywhere. He was black and white so I named him Panda, and I fed him milk and put him on a towel on my desk as I wrote. I said hi to the locals as I walked through my barrio into town, and the little kids abandoned their soccer ball and ran out to play with Panda. 

“You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.”  Saul Bellow.

And then on August 1, the walls of my house in the barrio shook side to side and dishes fell as a huge earthquake rocked the town. Church bells tolled for everyone to evacuate because of an imminent tsunami, but to me it was a signal to start the first chapter. So I wrote. Three months later, when the school kids were lighting fireworks in the streets for Dia de Indepencia, my manuscript for South of Normal, was done, 1,000 pages of sunshine and snake pits.

But there was no time to pat myself on the back, because that’s when the REAL work began – rewriting and editing. So I put my head down and got busy, once again.

“The way you define yourself as a writer is that you write every time you have a free minute. If you didn't behave that way you would never do anything.” John Irving.

Soon, everyone in town knew me, and Panda was so big and strong he was pulling ME when we strolled the cobbled streets. The abuelitas, grandmothers, in their rocking chairs on the front porch waved to me and wished me God’s blessing, and all of the little kids begged to take Panda to the beach. 

“Como esta su libro?” they would ask - how is your book? - for word got out that I was a writer. 

My last week before leaving Nicaragua our little town was infested with rich vacationers from Managua. The parties and fireworks went off all night, every night, but I had work to do. So I took Panda to the ferry and cruised over to Ometepe, cajoining islands in the middle of Lake Nicaragua, one of the only places on earth with fresh water sharks. Each island had an active volcano rising steeply from its center, and the beaches were jet black volcanic sand like crushed moonstone. Panda ran and played and I kept working.  

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It was there in Ometepe that I understood the wisdom that all of those great writers were whispering to me; to write well you need to go through a process of failure, of discomfort, of displacement from the normal human condition. You need thrust yourself into a volcano, sacrificing your ego, so you can become connected to everyone and everything. Only through this ultimate surrender will you truly be able to write something important, and serve the world.  

“So you want to be a writer? Unless is comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don’t do it.  Unless the sun inside you is burning you’re gut, don’t do it.” Charles Bukowski.  

My last night in town I threw a big party for the wonderful people in my barrio as a thank you, a pig roast at the very top of the hill by the town’s water tank. All of the mothers cooked and the children gave me gifts. The power went out so the DJ couldn’t play and it was dark, but we took out flashlights and someone turned on their car stereo. And then it started pouring rain but we didn’t care – we danced and hugged each other and celebrated life. 

“Suertes,” they said - good luck, and I finally realized - those people, the same one's I feared at first, had been keeping ME safe the whole time, watching out for me. I handed the children Panda’s leash and he wagged. He was a San Juan del Sur dog, and would be happiest running on the beach with them.

In some ways I think that was the best part of my life, because down there I left behind the romance of being a WRITER, and instead, fell in love with WRITING itself.  

I’m happy with the choice I made, to focus mastering my craft instead of becoming a pesky promoter interested only in sales. And I am happy with my book, South of Normal, because, although flawed and deeply imperfect, it is honest, and I gave it everything I had.

“Any man who keeps working is not a failure. He may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, constant labor, he’ll eventually make some kind of career for himself as writer.”
Ray Bradbury.

Now, on the eve of its release, I shift into part three of that supremely important three-year plan: to do it over and over, and monetize it.

This is it, my chance to cash in, to re-enter polite society. I know how to do it - I’ve paid attention to all of the books and articles and blogs and podcasts about promoting yourself, getting attention, landing an agent, and making money. It would be easy for me to invest my precious time here on earth into selling books.

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But I just can’t bring myself to do it. It’s not in me. In that respect, I guess I’ve failed at my three-year plan, because I could care less about being a WRITER. I just want to write. 

So, if it’s okay with you, I think I’ll change my three-year plan. I think I’ll just relive my second year over and over, stuffing a backpack, heading to the airport, and disappearing once again into that big, wild unknown. I’m thinking that Thailand, Vietnam, or Cambodia sound good, where I’ll look for that tiny little hut on a secluded beach amidst the smiling locals. And in that perfect soulful silence of barking dogs, clacking roosters and the throng of humanity, I will write. And every morning I will stare out at the sea and say “Thank you, thank you. For this beautiful failure, thank you,” and then I’ll sit my ass down and get to work.

-Norm :-)

“How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.” William Faulkner.
 Tamarindo, Costa Rica, surf, ski, snowboard, diving, pura vida, Central America, Nicaragua, San Juan del Sur, Amazon best seller, travel, adventure, backpack, hiking, sharks, Endless Summer, Robert August, memoir, fitness journey, globetrotting, perfect beach, paradise, spring break, expat, live abroad, work abroad, summer reading, around the world, great read, humor, laugh out loud, South of Normal, Pushups in the Prayer Room

Tamarindo, Costa Rica, Pura Vida, San Juan Del Sur, Expats, live abroad, travel, backpacking, surfing, surf, paddle board, vacation, spring break, ocean, Pacific, Nicaragua, South of Normal, Pushups in the Prayer Room, Humor, Travel writing, Norm Schriever, Malcolm Gladwell, 10,000 Hours, Macklemore
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Blue. Green. Breathe.

3/9/2013

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The proper word for “the sea” in Spanish is “el mar,” a masculine-gendered noun. However, the fishermen call it “la mar,” making it feminine, because they believe that the sea is a woman. She’ll take care of you, provide for you, even give you life, but if you ever cross her she can unleash a tempest so furious that you might disappear forever. 

The fishermen had it right—the ocean was to be respected, and I called her la mar as well, even though my Spanish-speaking friends always corrected me. She was my refuge, my loving esperanza whom I could spend a few eager hours with every day. The thrill of her company never once diminished.

I wasn’t a fast swimmer and I certainly wasn’t graceful, but I plodded along, steadfast, unsinkable, like a tugboat. When I was out there no one could bother me, no one could reach me; it was just me and my thoughts. I’ve never felt as good as the times I was swimming in the ocean. 

On the surface the water was blue—a thousand points of light reflecting off every crest, blinding if you looked straight at it like trying to count diamonds. But once I dipped my head underwater everything was green—the color of shiny apples. 

Blue. I took a deep breath.

Green. I plunged beneath. Eyes open because I wore goggles, I could see my hands, my arms, and the periphery of my shoulders as I paddled, frog-kicking easily. The sea floor wrinkled like wind patterns in the desert. I could see shells and the horseshoe outlines of flounder hiding on the bottom. 

Breathe. I came up and took in air, the one and only biological imperative at that moment. 

Blue. And then back in, timed perfectly as the crest of the next wave swelled. 

Green. When the sun was overhead rays of light pierced the water and reflected off the bottom, an explosion of glass suspended in time.

Breathe. 

The sheer magnitude of the ocean was hard for me to comprehend. It went on and on forever. And the waves? Where did they originate? I guess the technical answer is off the coast of Japan—the Kuroshio Current swirling counterclockwise south of the equator, pushing up against the cold water Aleutian Current from the north. The result is that the water off the Nicoya Peninsula, where Tamarindo sits, is an average of 82 degrees year-round, bathwater. As long as I kept moving I wouldn’t get the slightest chill, even if I stayed in there for hours. 

Blue,

Green,

Breathe.

I thought about how human beings have explored the cosmos even more than the depths of our own oceans, and yet water covers 71% of the earth. The Pacific Ocean alone covers a third of the Earth’s surface, far greater than the size of all the continents jammed together, with an extra Africa to spare. 

Blue,

Green,

Breathe.

The deepest point, the Mariana Trench, is 6,000 fathoms deep, over 36,000 feet. If the Mariana Trench were a mountain instead of at the bottom of the sea, it would be on the edge of where the troposphere turns to the stratosphere—what we call “space.” Unbelievably, there’s life down there, somehow able to withstand the massive pressure and live in an environment where a beam of light has never once penetrated. 

Blue,

Green,

Breathe.

Zoom upwards at 1,000 miles an hour to the surface and my act of swimming was basically skydiving into liquid sky, a subtle tweak of elements the only difference between liquid and gaseous form. When I floated on the surface, it was like I was suspended somewhere between free-falling out of the plane and the ground far below. I was swimming in sky, or flying in water, depending how you want to look at it. 

Blue,

Green,

Breathe.

There are enough natural resources in our oceans: food, minerals, and energy ready to be harnessed, for every human being on Earth. It’s teeming with life, an energy force so big and ancient that it’s hard to deny that the ocean isn’t just a host for organisms, but an organism itself, possessing a soul. Why not? If a 300-year-old tree in the rainforest has a soul, if something as small and fleeting as a human being has a soul, then who can deny that la mar possesses a universal spirit that we can’t even comprehend. 

Blue,

Green,

I tried to wrap my mind around the idea that the wave coming toward me was all the way on the other side of the Earth just a week ago. It traveled all that way just to meet me, at this very place and time. Or maybe I spent my whole lifetime getting to this exact point so we could come together. Did I create that destiny? Or did something else? 

Breathe. 

I put my warm and fuzzies on hold because I was in the kill zone, so I needed to focus. I’d learned to duck-dive the waves—paddling straight into them and diving into their face, cutting through them to negate the tons of kinetic energy that each wave was eager to deliver straight down on my head. I knew that coming back through the foam in the kill zone would be harder; sometimes the tide turned against me or I’d be fatigued, so the same swim to shore would feel like twice the distance. 

If I mistimed a wave I’d find myself paralyzed in the trough, staring straight up at a curling wall of water. If that happened, I knew what to do: 1) form a cannonball, protecting my head and the back of my neck in case I get dragged over rocks or a sharp reef, 2) take a deep breath, 3) pray.

So to get through I looked for the sets, groups of waves that came in sevens, according to an old surf legend, but in reality the number of waves depended on the storm that formed them. When I saw a break, a temporary calming in the sea, I swam hard, abandoning my breaststroke for freestyle to gain speed, hoping that my timing was right and my shoulders were strong enough to make it through. 

When a big set came in I swam straight up the pitch of the wave and did a barrel roll at the top, like an aikido move to diffuse all of that force, just enough to let it spin me skywards. I had fun, flip-kicking like a dolphin and swimming along the exact parallel where the waves broke so I was continuously high on their crest. I even tried doing flips off the back of the waves, but usually I got only halfway around before performing a comical wipe out, straight down into the valley of the next wave like I was jumping into an elevator shaft. When the wave broke and crashed it sent a mist of sea into the air, falling back down on me like drops of rain. 

Past the kill zone I paddled in another world where it was tranquil, the horizon rising and falling gently like the belly of a sleeping dinosaur. Everything was still. It was nothing but me and the sun and a gentle wind stirring big blue. Pelicans swooped down, unbothered by my presence, snapping at the flying fish that broke the water’s surface. The bigger the waves, the more determined the pull of the current, the more I’d feel at home once I’d earned my place behind them. No matter how many times I swam out there a jolt of electricity pulsed through my body, appreciation so vivid that I had to suppress a yelp. 

Surfers waited in the lineup around me. They sat on their boards, gazing west to assess the incoming sets, perfectly balanced so the tips pointed out of the water. I imagine that those times were golden for them. When they saw the right waves starting to form farther out, they began the instinctual paddle and effortless spin to gain velocity. As the giant awakened beneath them there was a perfectly choreographed dance, lasting only a second or two, where they paddled hard, sprang into a crouch like a jungle cat, and  dropped in at exactly the right time and speed—in perfect control to take the ride. 

There were no other swimmers out there with them but they didn’t seem to mind my presence. Surfing is a closed culture, but a single loco swimmer was no threat, and a rare site. I might recognize a friend from town and say hi, and they’d flash me the shaka sign. Still, I gave them space, circling far enough around and conscious if the curl was going to carry their next surf left or right. 

I swam even farther out, to the school of fishing boats, vacated for the afternoon and anchored in a floating ghost yard. It was silent except for the sounds of rope straining and water lapping against the peeling hulls. 

I tried to count my strokes as I swam farther out past the boats, but lost count after a few hundred. I stopped and treaded water, looking around and realizing where I was: completely helpless, defenseless, and almost immobile, having to keep moving to stay afloat. There wasn't another person within earshot. What I’d basically done was take myself out of my natural habitat, where evolution gifted me with natural faculties to aid my survival, and fully immersed myself in an opposite habitat—traded oxygen and dry land for suspension in unbreathable liquids. I was, so to speak, a fish out of water. It was one of the worst physical predicaments a human being could put themselves in, so why did it feel so damn good? About 257 things could go wrong and only one thing could go right—I made it back to shore safely—so why did every pulse of my nature call me out there? 

I shared the Pacific with countless life forms: whales, eels, crocs who’d wandered out, stingrays, barracuda, poisonous jellyfish, seas snakes, turtles, and every kind of fish imaginable. But I thought about sharks. It wasn’t a matter of IF they were there, but HOW CLOSE they were. Every time I swam out into the ocean I voluntarily inserted myself into the food chain—and unnervingly low on the ranking.

Big White, the Landlord, Man in the Gray Suit, Greg Norman, the White Death, Mac the Knife. Sharks. I was out there in the open like an unsuspecting white mouse dropped into a boa constrictor’s cage. The thought tensed me with fear, bringing fatigue to my shoulders and neck as I treaded water. 

I kept swimming. I was just being silly, I tried to reason. Cramping or being smashed by a rogue wave in the kill zone, drowning only meters from the shore, were far greater risks. The chances of getting killed by a shark were infinitesimal, only 1 in 11 million worldwide. But then again, that statistic factored in people who lived in Kansas and never even saw the ocean, and there were seven shark attacks for every death. What were the odds for people who lived in Costa Rica, on the beach, who swam deep into the ocean, by themselves, every day, and who’d had fish sticks the previous night for dinner? And how many of those attacks were never reported, either because there wasn’t enough of the victim left to confirm or because they were locals, so no one bothered? Gulp. 

There was nothing to do but surrender. I loosened up and kept paddling, calming my breath. If a shark wanted me there was nothing I could do to stop him from biting me in half. Anyways, it would be sort of cool to have a little run-in with a shark, to get a tiny nibble and end up with a scar. Just an itty bitty one, in a convenient place, like on my upper thigh, so it would give me yet another excuse to take down my pants in front of girls in bars. If I could arrange to get bitten by a very mellow vegetarian shark with a massive overbite, that would be ideal. It would be just a scratch really, but instantly I’d be part of the Shark Attack Survivors’ Club United (Against Sharks), an esteemed fraternity if there ever was one. My SASCU(AS) card would even get me a discount at sushi restaurants. I could get down with that. 

Surrender. There was no way to hold onto my fear, my anger, and swim long distances at the same time. The tension in my body, in my mind, would turn it into a mechanical struggle. But if I loosened up and just concentrated on the few things I could control—my breath and the consistency of my stroke—then I relaxed into it, acceptance washing over me.

Blue,

Green,

Breathe.

Acceptance. I reflected on that word and deepened my breathing. I was so tired of fighting against everything in my life, of always swimming against the current. When I was young I felt trapped, alone, like I was born into in a red room with soundproof walls. None of it made sense to me—the pain, the injustice, the random dice game of suffering in the world. When I was younger I so desperately wanted to reach behind the clouds and shake sanity into God, but no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find him. 

Blue,

Green,

Breathe.

Sometimes I swam so far out that the beach looked like a postcard, the people little flecks of a severed former existence. As the sun neared the horizon that fresco sky folded over itself like a mural on fire, pink and orange and purple melting all around me, sagging toward the contour where the ocean met the heavens. I wanted to keep swimming out, to go deeper, swim until I couldn’t see land anymore. How far? How far was too far to get back? I’d just keep going and let the sunset take me. That is how I wanted to end, to go to my peace. 

Blue, 

Green,

Breathe.

But if I could manage to collect enough moments like these, then life might just be worth living. Maybe, if I could learn to surrender, and accept, I might open up my soul enough to let something better in, and then the whole ocean could drown within me. Then it would be all right. Yeah, I wasn’t ready yet. I turned around, the sunset at my back, and headed in.

Blue, 

Green,

Breathe.

I had a long way to go to reach the shore. By then I should have been fatigued, but the swim back was effortless, like I was holding still while the earth was spinning toward me, fate’s gentle conspiracy to bring me home. The dying sun felt good on my back. 

Blue, 

Green,

Breathe.

I realized that most of the problems in my life were from going too fast. Most of my defeats occurred only within my head. I used to stir up the waters, looking furiously for something, and then gaze down in frustration, wondering why it wasn’t clear.

Blue, 

Green,

Breathe.

But if I’d been my own jailer, then only I possessed the keys to my liberation. 

Blue,

Green,

Breathe.

So with each headfirst plunge into the next wave I released the flotsam and jetsam of my negativity, the hurt and anger and guilt that had been my anchors to drag for so long. Each breath was a silent prayer of healing cast it adrift, like messages stuffed into a bottle and floated into the endless ocean. 

Blue,

Green,

Breathe.

I imagined all of those bottles floating behind me, drifting in the presence of that silky mistress the ocean, night and day, thousands of them, more than one could count. Eventually, they’d wash up on a lost tropical island, clanking and shimmering onto the beach, thousands of miles east of that very spot in the Pacific where a man had been shipwrecked, living wild and alone for almost 40 years. One by one, he’d collect them and pull out the messages, unfolding and reading each one. At first his face would register confusion. But as he read more he’d form a serene smile, then throw his head back and laugh, tears of joy in the presence of God who he’d final found: that mother, la Mar. 

For they all read, every single one of them, going on forever:

I am free. I am free. I am free. 


 Tamarindo, Costa Rica, surf, ski, snowboard, diving, pura vida, Central America, Nicaragua, San Juan del Sur, Amazon best seller, travel, adventure, backpack, hiking, sharks, Endless Summer, Robert August, memoir, fitness journey, globetrotting, perfect beach, paradise, spring break, expat, live abroad, work abroad, summer reading, around the world, great read, humor, laugh out loud, South of Normal, Pushups in the Prayer Room
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30 Fun Facts About Costa Rica.

3/9/2013

179 Comments

 
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1. Costa Ricans call themselves Ticos and Ticas.

2. Costa Rica is slightly smaller than Lake Michigan.

3. There are 800 miles of coastline, both on the Atlantic and Pacific. 

4. Costa Rica border Nicaragua to the north and Panama to the south.

5. It only takes up .03% of planet’s surface but holds 5% of its biodiversity!

6. There are over 130 species of fish, 220 of reptiles, 1,000 butterflies (10% of the world’s butterflys are in Costa Rica!), 9,000 plants, 20,000 species of spiders and 34,000 species of insects! 

7. More than 25% of Costa Rican land is protected national parks and refuges.

8. They don’t really have summers and winters like the USA, but a dry season that runs December-April and a rainy season that runs May-November.  

9. The average life expectancy of 77 years is one of the highest in the world.

10. Costa Rica has a female president, Laura Chinchilla.

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11. Costa Rica has no standing army.  It was constitutionally abolished in 1949.

12. They claim a 96% literacy rate.  In very poor and rural areas, where children can’t get to schools, they teach classes over a national radio station.

13. Costa Rica is a popular choice for American expatriates who want to retire in the tropics.

14. When a woman is pregnant they say she is “con luz,” or “with light.”

15. A saying I love is that when someone is your significant other, your other half, they are your “media naranja,” or the other half of your orange.

16. “Pura vida” is the national saying, which means “pure life,” a sunny, feel good expression used as a greeting, goodbye, or if someone asks how you are doing.

17. The average Tico makes $6,000 a year and the average wage labor is $10 per day, the highest in Central America.

18. Costa Rica is aiming to be carbon neutral by 2012.

19. San Jose is only a 2 hour flight from Miami and 3 ½ from New York.  They have nonstop flights from New York, Houston, and Miami.

20. Names are confusing in Costa Rica.  Ticas do not take their husband's last name.  The woman uses her full maiden name for life.  No changing of national ID cards, drivers licenses, etc.  She also adds her mother's maiden name. Children take their father’s name.  

21. The older generations of Ticos are not tall, so most furniture, like chairs, couches, beds, etc. are built 6-8 inches lower than in the US.   

22. Locks (on houses, doors, and gates) almost always work backwards.

23. Milk, eggs, and other perishable items are often sold unrefrigerated.

24. It is common to buy wine in little paper boxes, which you do refrigerate.

25. Often times milk is sold in a little plastic bag, and you have to cut the edge with scissors to open it, which often results in inexperienced gringos covered in milk and putting water on their cereal.

26. Costa Rica is a Catholic country but ensures freedom of religion.  

27. Nearly all Catholic churches face west.

28. On the Atlantic Coast, the Caribbean side, most of the population is descended from African roots, like Jamaica, and speak Spanish as well as a patois.

29. A Costa Rican female swimmer won a gold medal in the 1996 summer games in Atlanta.

30. Costa Rica is the longest-standing democracy in Central America. 


-Norm  :-)

If you liked this blog, don't miss 25 Crazy facts about Cost Rica!

Want to read more about Costa Rica? 
Check out the best seller, South of Normal, a gonzo blast of laughter and adventure from a year living in Costa Rica!

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Win a free copy of the book "South of Normal"

2/28/2013

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To celebrate the presale release of the book South of Normal, I'm giving away a copy on Twitter and one on Facebook.

To enter to win: 
1. Leave a comment on this blog.

2.Share the link to www.NormSchriever.com on your Facebook or Twitter.

I'll pick the winners from random on Monday, March 4 at noon EST, and you'll have a free autographed copy of South of Normal hot off the presses!


    Enter to win.

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It's a Small World.

2/1/2013

0 Comments

 
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There are 194 countries in the world, depending on what we define as a country (Palestine, the Vatican, and several rogue or disputed states would bump that number above 200).  You’ll find a whole community of backpackers, travelers, and adventurers out there, hitting the road as soon as they have a couple bucks in their pockets.  It’s a rite of passage among 18-25 year olds, especially with Canadians, Britts, Aussies, Kiwis, and those from Northern European countries.  I’m also seeing a surge of United States citizens ready to move to other countries over the next five years and become expatriates. 

So how do we figure out where to go?  Out of 194 possible destinations what is the process to put one pin in a map and pull the trigger on buying a (cheap) airline ticket to get there?

It’s easy.  

I, too, am an expat, living in Costa Rica and Nicaragua the last couple of years and backpacking around the world, so I have particular insight.  It only took ten minutes for my buddy Johnny G and I to break it down, chatting at sunset on the front porch of San Juan Surf in San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua.

Ok, starting with 194 countries.  

1. Obviously we don’t want to be a world traveller or expat in our own country, so that brings it down to 193.  Good start.  

2. We want warm weather, so that takes roughly half of the options off the table.

3. A country with a coastline and nice beaches is a must, so we’re down to South East Asia, Australia, the Mediterranean, the coast of Africa, and parts of Central and South America.  

4. We want safe, or at least to avoid countries with political instability.  It’s no fun making a hostage video between guys with AK 47’s wearing black pajamas.  Countries with religious fundamentalist problems, revolution, and military governments are to be avoided.  We also don’t want to be sitting ducks in countries with vicious drug cartel problems, so unfortunately that rules out Mexico for a lot of people, and Venezuela is off the table.  

5. Broke backpackers want cheap, cheap, cheap, like the little bird goes.  So I guess our $20 a day budget won’t fly in the French Riviera?  

6. Life as an expat is much easier if you live within a reasonable plane ride of your home country.  So the expats from the U.S. and Canada usually keep it within 8 hours due south, which means Central America, the Caribbean, and parts of South America.

7. Getting by speaking another language is hard enough, but Spanish is much easier to learn than, say, Portuguese, or Thai.  So Brazil is out, though it brings a tear to my eye, because it’s too expensive now AND they speak Portuguese.

8. A lot of the Caribbean is wonderful for vacation but I hear it’s a pain in the ass to live there because of all of the hurricanes, yet alone the high cost.

9. Cuba is fun to visit but probably not the place to live, Honduras and Guatemala are dangerous as hell, and Columbia is beautiful for the adventurous but a closed society if you’re a foreigner trying to do business there.  

10. Now we’re getting down to brass tacks.  If you’re from the U.S. we’ve narrowed it down to a handful of countries in Central and South America:  Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, Belize, and maybe Ecuador.  

Now you have some information that will help you buy a ticket for a long vacation or even to relocate.  There are other considerations, of course, like if you plan on getting residency, buying property, opening a business, and access to medical care.  Of course, you and everyone else will be sticking to this next thought process, so you’ll also want to hit the NEXT great place, not the place that’s popular now.  It used to be Costa Rica, but now people are going to Nicaragua.  It used to be Thailand, not they’re going to Laos and Cambodia. 

Good luck and safe travels.  Touch base with me if you’re out there in the world because strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet.
Cheers,

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    Norm Schriever

    Norm Schriever is a best-selling author, expat, cultural mad scientist, and enemy of the comfort zone. He travels the globe, telling the stories of the people he finds, and hopes to make the world a little bit better place with his words.   

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