This spring we sold both our homes, moved into a shipping container, and quit our jobs. Then we took a twenty something hour flight to Managua. We stopped in Austin for the night, and stuffed our faces at one of the many delicious restaurants in the area. From Managua we drove to Rancho Santana, a quaint little bastion of colonialism, where one can, occasionally, obtain an authentic donut.

We were staying at a house that Peter likes to rent, with a panoramic view across the Pacific Ocean, an infinity pool, and a refrigerator that lacks a proper ice maker. The house, and the reservation, have the advantage of being within striking distance of many different surf breaks, most notably Popoyo, but also the renowned and occasionally firing Rosada. We unpacked our boards and belongings and settled in for the next 6 weeks.

To recount the details of that time would be somewhat boring. Every day we got up and surfed. Then we usually surfed some more. From time to time we ate, and we generally finished off the evening with some lichtermanns. Rum consumption varied inversely with the quality of the waves, and luckily it was generally not all that bad, surf wise.

For both Kate and me this was the theoretical beginning of our retirement. We were learning how to get used to focusing on one thing. We were here only to surf. The reading, drinking, eating and sleeping was only because we can’t surf all the time. Unless you are Gerry Lopez. Which we aren’t.

Each wave near our home at Santana had a different character and mood. Popoyo, the clear jewel of the coast, but also the most competitive. We would try to paddle out here well before dawn to get a few waves just the few of us. The long walling left ending up on the shallow shelf. The sometimes jacking takeoff, leading to the possibility of a barrel. And my favorite, the waves that swing wide to the north, closing out the main peak, but creating better shape as they collide obliquely with the reef.

Rosada. A scary place, but perhaps the most makeable barrels of the trip. Last time I was here I collected lots of urchin spines, this time I got luckier, but only surfed there once. La Boquita, the little pizza place, one of the three restaurants on the reservation is here, and we spent evenings mind-surfing a firing Rosada.

The shifty, infuriating, bicep burning, longboard infested Panga Drops. Every wave seeming to stand up into a formidable wall before collapsing into nothing. Occasionally though… Better to go into the beach and eat fish tacos with spicy margaritas.

Further down the beach- Colorados. Perhaps I am unfairly biased by breaking my brand new board there within 5 minutes of my first session there, but I think this wave is a douchbag infested shore pound. If you were able to surf it alone you would undoubtedly get some very makeable dredging barrels. As it stands, the locals and traveling pros have this place on lockdown, forcing mortals to fight over scraps. Fortunately the scraps are better than 90 percent of the waves in California, so scoring is not completely off the table.

All the other local and not as local waves made for a memorable trip. We even drove up to The Boom during a lull, and scored about a half hour of very good surf. Then we drove home to Rancho.

At the end of the trip, after Peter and Nathan had gone home, we stayed at the Melting Elephante and only surfed Popoyo. We would get up very early, and be the first people out. This enabled about a half hour of good waves before the hordes arrived. Often then we would surf a little bit north and get some fun ones before heading back for breakfast. All in all a very successful trip.

Back in the states we packed the van up, and headed down towards the East Side, to spend some time in the mountains. Summer had finally arrived in California, and it was time to vary our routine from surfing into some other genres of loafing and farcing.