Kournikova

Hang loose, dudes and dudettes! We left the hills and jungles of Embalse Cerro Grande and steered south-west towards the Pacific coast. Here, there are few islands and fewer reefs. They have fish, but not the classic sport catches such as tuna, dorado or marlin. Therefore, they don't have the classic seaboard specialities such as snorkling, diving and fishing. They do however have endless sandy beaches and waves that break just a decent distance from the shore. And therefore, surf's up, dude!
El Tunco was the first of the two similarly named beach destinations where dreads and boarders ruled. A small village with pebbly beaches, surf shops and restaurants, El Tunco is named after a colloquial term for pig. According to our tour leader, the waves were to big to be swimming in. Challenge accepted! said I and dove into the blue wearing my brand new boarders.
Since we arrived at lunch time and were set to leave in the morning, there was no time for optional activities, so we made our own: bar crawl, having a few drinks, having a few laughs, playing with the toroflux (a set of steel rings, formable to an orb, that can roll along your arms like a massage-y slinky) and meeting the locals.
More, or for those so inclined, less, to do was on the menu for El Cuco. A beach rather than even a village, with our resort being secluded enough, and offering most of one would need, we could easily stay there the whole time. The most popular pastimes were massage, yoga, chilling on the beach, chilling in a hammock, chilling in a hammock on the beach and surfing.
I made the same decision I made all those years ago in Australia: to not try to surf. Not for fear of failing, nor for fear of falling. Well, actually, for fear of falling... in love with a sport I frustrationally can't do back home.
A sport I indeed can do back home is poker. La Tortuga Verde (the name of our resort) hosts people from all over the world, and often have a few foreign volunteers working. They set up a game of poker. I was not so little ring rusty, and busted as second man in the first tournament, chosing to push my bleeding stack in on an ace-king offsuit. The hand is known as the Anna Kournikova (same initials, they both look really good, but they never win anything). The next tournament went considerably better, partly thanks to my own personal cheerleader (and better play). That time I reached the heads-up, but once again I went all-in with an Anna Kournikova, and the curse struck again.
Those of us not in the need for facials, massage or surf lessons signed up for a full day boat trip around the area. But alas, the engine lacked a propeller, and since the engine was of a rare type, parts were difficult to obtain. They found one, but the car that was transporting it had an accident and I think Lemony Snicket was somehow involved at some point in this series of unfortunate events.
Eventually the propeller arrived, but the boat trip was considerably shorter, involving a rollercoasterly ride on the waves and an expedition up the mangrove lined river, searching for birds, crocodiles and possibly turtles.
The more or less cancelled day trip meant that most of the day was spent relalalaxing and getting to know Al and Reuben, the two domesticated pelicans La Tortuga had taken in. Both of them had only one full wing, and they were not shy around people.
With bonfires, seafood, beer pong, and beautiful sunsets, El Cuco was very relaxing, even to the point of me almost disregarding all the bloody sand everywhere, but soon enough it was time to hit the hay for an extremely early getaway. Back locker 4:45, wheels rolling 5:00. And indeed they were.