Groundhog Day: The Beautiful Curse of the Infinite Loop

For many years, I was the voice behind the keyboard for another surf camp here in Central Nicaragua. I worked for a penny-wise, pound-foolish dolt of a man, and when our relationship soured, my life sweetened. I moved on to open Sirena Surf Lodge (but not without The Dolt trying to sue me first, that’s a story for another time).

I love to write—or should I say, I love to tell stories—most of which are true. And having told these same stories around the dinner table for so long, I have surprisingly and flatteringly received actual requests for more blogs. I usually feel like blogs are just more “blah blah blah,” so I enter the arena humbly. But apparently, real people actually missed my ramblings about the inane, quotidian perpetuity I call life here at Sirena. These stories are inspired by events that happened either working for “The Dolt” , or working for you… but it’s good to write them down before I forget them, or forget I already told you.

I take on this task with trepidation because maintaining a blog is a heavy responsibility. Nothing so serious as averting a nuclear holocaust or negotiating a ceasefire in a small-scale civil war (though that might be an opportunity before I die in this Banana Republic). I’m talking about the unique creative challenge of keeping content fresh when every single day is “almost” a carbon copy of the last.

Life, to be interesting, must be difficult, challenging, terrifying, frequently painful, and of varied colors—blood red and sea blue not the least of them. Occasionally, an interesting life will involve a live wire, a burning fuse, a lost finger or a fish to the face—all of which have happened—which means there is plenty to write about. There are a lot of stitches, so many stitches that sometimes we just use glue. And so here, “Groundhog Day” involves many barrels made, many more not made, lies about them both, and the occasional snippet involving a large python coming to roost inside the vehicle. I’ve only seen a crocodile swim through the lineup once, droning lazily through the surfers, past the boat and scaring the surfers so much that too many scrambled aboard to the point of almost sinking my boat. I admit I don’t know if the croc’ was randomly swimming by or had a purpose; I didn’t think to ask, but the fact that it didn’t eat anyone isn’t as great for my blog as it is for some lucky individual who didn’t get eaten.

Aye, things here, while mundane, are unique. I’ve weathered political crises that made me fear for the lives of my wife and children. A crisis so severe that it kept me up at night thinking that we might be thrust into the next Nicaraguan revolution. We survived—no, thrived—through those sleepless nights, only to lose more sleep the next year watching our one-year-old daughter wither from a heart defect.  It was a close call that required intervening with evolution, and she was saved by nothing less than a medical winning lottery ticket of fate.

So, while my 90-degree days blend into more 90-degree days, I’m not scraping the marrow as much as I’m catching the meat falling off the bone in this gourmet life. This is not your average TV dinner, nor a 15-year-old can of Spaghetti-Os (which I would eat, because I don’t believe in expiration dates). This Nicaraguan life is a vintage bottling. It’s aged and extracted as the Angel’s share evaporates through the grains of the cask. It has hints of vanilla and wet wood burning. It’s tannic. It’s an acquired taste that’s not for everyone, but it is definitely for me. And for those who won’t drink the kool aide… well, you can read about it here.

This twisty version of Groundhog Day is often anything but boring. Unlike the movie where Bill Murray was trying to escape his slushy purgatory, we are happily embracing ours, this tropical infinite loop. The cycle here is simple, primitive, and perfect: Surf. Eat. Surf Some More. Sleep. Repeat. Someone said it first; We are just trying to die young, as old as possible.

And now years have passed, 15 to be exact, 27.777778% of my life.  Every year I get emails from returning guests, now considered friends and family, planning their next trip and looking for reservations.  My played out line is: “So, we’re gettin’ the band back together?!” Because that’s how it feels—like a never-ending jam session. Someone puts down an instrument and another picks it up. The players come and go, but the music never stops, as it should be with a good jam band. I just try to keep the rhythm while they walk the frets and bend the strings until they break finding the note. Carlos Santana would be proud—the bloodied-finger bass line just keeps paving the way for the solo… and this amp goes to 11, because it’s louder. On any given day I might not know the song we’re singing, but “the words we know, and the tune we hum.”

It is the harmony and melody of a life well played.

While the soundtrack decorates the background, I write about good waves, the best. Cold beer, the coldest.  Ribs the tenderist, glistening with glaze, smoky, falling off the bone. Our palettes communally water and pucker with mouth fulls of ceviche, sweet with mango, sour with lime and punched with chili. It tastes like it was swimming an hour ago—because it was. I will sing a ballad of fishing, surfing, and weather that goes from good to bad and back again, depending on the mood of the ocean. More often than not the sun will shine with relentless optimism as evidenced by the lines around our old squinty eyes that tell stories without the need for words; the offshore wind grooms the faces of seemingly endless south swells ending their journeys under brilliant white, neigh chaste bridal veils. As surfers we watch, we froth, we participate, we strum and call out to each other, we cuss too much. We are such shameless selfish hedonists that we must summon other redemptive qualities making us the most loveable of humans despite our regressions. My mom calls me Peter Pan.

Consider this blog a blunt instrument. It is a tool designed specifically to leave you punch drunk with thoughts of tropical surf trips. It’s a low blow to those sitting in traffic or under fluorescent lighting. When you write your epitaph you don’t want it to say “the best accountant money could buy”…or “no lawyer knew the law better…”.  You would be happier if it said “intermediate surfer and expert at life”.  And that you are.  This blog is my way of ensuring you don’t walk away from this mess you created by becoming a surfer in the first place. You chose this addiction and nobody loves a quitter. Let’s write your epitaph together.

Blah blah blah…come surf, or didn’t you hear?  We’re getting the band back together.