Tide and Time

April 6, 2026

Greetings from the interstitial,

The half moon cusp of sand gives the surf a purpose. The infinite waves play along the curve, adding and taking layers of sand and bits of life. 

At either end of this bay are the tips of a reef, which shows itself at low tide but even then most of it disappears into the ocean. It serves to soften the tides, making the intersection of land and sea a kinder union.

The village presses close to the shore, like coastal towns everywhere. Tiny huts and cobbled together cafes nest between newer restaurants with menus and WiFi and sprinkled in between, a few luxury homes. 

 I know very little of the history of Samara, but when we arrived here, I began to piece together an impression of it, a glimpse of it’s future and maybe an understanding of where it was before this day.

The moon is full and brilliant, as if competing with the sun, which retires early. It holds court over the glistening ocean and swaying palms, tinting the world in silver.

Outside of our windows, we hear the Howler monkeys. Their bellow is mournful and eerie, visceral. They are warning others not to trespass in their territory, a signal that civilization missed. They are ambassadors from a time before all of this.

I ran through Samara in the morning sun, seeing it in my favorite way to learn a new place. Here is a bandy-legged man, shiny mahogany skin, bright pink crocs. He is gingerly unrolling strands of barbed wire framing his drive. His folding table has the string-and-shell jewelry sold on every open space of sidewalk.

Here is a man pushing a cart down the beach, selling coconut water. Short chops of a small knife into the husk, and then he twirls a straw into the coconut. Refreshing.

Mangos fall into the streets and on the sidewalk. Iguanas stroll casually along broken walls like dinosaurs on a Showa-era movie set. Scooters are ubiquitous, weaving through impossible spaces, carrying people and groceries and pieces of  lumber and anything else the more daring choose to try.

It feels like a town that has been teetering on a tightrope between its history and its future. A small village on the edge of Costa Rica facing the Pacific, just small enough to be missed, if you were not looking for it. My impression is that its size will not remain for long.

There are many elements of its rural history. But you can also see the tourism growing all around already inside it.  Rough, pitted gravel roads, lead into town where the narrow streets are crowded, everyone jockeying between turismo buses and stopped trucks, cramming into any open space to park. Sidewalks are rare so pedestrians are a natural part of the chaos.

Remarkably, it is a friendly and accommodating dance, no honking, an almost intuitive politeness.

The cafes are a patchwork of salvaged lumber and tin roofs.  Coffee, fruit smoothies, ceviche, gallo pinta, and fresh fish. There are dogs in almost all of them, not companions, just lounging on the cool cement, but alert to any crumb swept into their strata.

I ran west through town, found the places where giant glass and stucco homes were built between tiny huts with thatched roofs.  Every few blocks were licoreras, cramped markets filled with fruit and staples and beer and ice. 

Lining the streets are ancient spaghetti clusters of electrical lines, knotted with vines, held in place by trees.  On the busy roads the monkeys use these to cross into other neighborhoods.  When we occasionally lost electricity I was never surprised.

Families drag boxes to the corners and turn them over to sell fruit or handmade jewelry. One corner holds a few broken plastic chairs lined up behind an old refrigerator tipped on its side to create a more impressive shopping experience.

There is a strong tension between the place’s laid back feeling, and the edge of frantic tourism and growth that is already blossoming.

I made my way back toward shore, hearing the roar of the surf on the reef from blocks away. I stopped at the wide sandy expanse, looking out the one rocky island in the bay, surrounded by foaming surf.

I have never thought about the tide as much in my life.  It matters here. Not just to the Egrets picking through the tide pools, or the crabs scuttling along the sand. Surfers slide in and out of near ideal curls, whooping as the ocean rushes in and builds bigger and better sets. On shore the sunbathers have to pay attention because the whole beach can disappear in the right tide. 

Bits of reef wash up on shore like lost teeth, sprinkled in among the shells and sea glass.  Nearly every step holds tiny works of art if you are patient.

The rainy season means something here, it matters in a different way to the shopkeepers and the tour companies, than the coffee farmers an hour inland.  A guide in the forest tells us why it matters to the wildlife there, probably most critically and yet the least likely to comment.  Only the Clay Thrush announces the arrival of the wet season, singing a song from before meteorology.

I ran the length of the half-moon, hopping over the last of the rivulets left by the tide, threading between shells and sparkling stones. Horses trot by.  I can hear the traffic rumbling in the paralyzed lanes, only a few hundred yards from this idyllic stretch.

Families gather in the shade of low trees and I can smell whatever they are cooking on braziers. Music is playing.

I make my way to the space between palm trees where I know I can squeeze through to the town again. I turn to look at the ocean, the waves leaping and dancing as they breach the reef. Everything changes, including Samara. The ocean seems immune to it all, happy to splash at the edge of this world no matter what we are doing with it.

Hope this finds you basking in the present,

David