I’ll never dance again the way I danced for Semana Santa in San Juan.
The 4×4 Chica Brava bus clambered into town on the eve of Santa Semana loaded down with surfer chicks and their contagious smiles. #CincoChicas
The Shuttle driver, Carlos, had dutifully participated in our selfies, even struck a pose for us. He even let us out for a pit stop somewhere halfway to visit a woman owned farm that was part of a project which created a collective for similar solar sustained woman owned industries. We took turns holding her puppy and chatting as she made us fresh fruit smoothies in the shade of her mango and cacao trees.
But now Carlos expertly weaved his way through the throngs of 100,000 people who had come to San Juan for the holiday and soon we were at the bright blue Chica Brava Surf House. Savannah, a Boston native, greeted us at the back gates and helped us unload our belongings.
This began the most amazing week ever.
My arrival in San Juan, Nicaragua came after months of hearing “you’re crazy” and “it’s dangerous” from friends and family, even from my work! I really had no clue what to expect besides the stoke laden emails from the resort ensuring me of all the fun to be had.
By day the ladies relaxed in the cool surf house learning theory and reviewing footage from the day prior. By night we were shepherded around town by the chicas and treated like locals with special discounts and always running into friends. I found my self enjoying both the contagious laughter and good vibe of the locals and the brave and beautiful expats who have made their life here.
Through the week the entire group cheered each other on and counted each others bruises and jelly fish stings. But after the sessions we were all smiles under the grass hut beach shacks passing the vinegar (for the stings) and the Toña (for the bruises). The babe heavy surf sessions were characterized by a small army of bikinis dotting the line up and bronze beauties gliding past on shimmering tropical green waves of warm water.
By the end of the week the beginner girls who had never touched a surfboard a day in their lives were riding waves alongside the instructors. The experienced girls used the week to challenge themselves and find new depths to their skill and style.
On the last day as the girls headed back to the capital for random departure times, the sleepy surf town with its colorful tin huts disappeared in the dust behind the shuttle, but the intoxicating surfing spirit of San Juan echoed loudly in their hearts.
NamastBabe.
– Deb Killgore