A flashback to my youth brings back memories of intrepid travel pulling at my compass. I had just finished a year backpacking through Europe and was hungry for new terrain. An offer to work in Costa Rica arrived at exactly the right moment. I accepted a role as assistant to a start-up banking venture, bought a one-way ticket to San José, and set off to live la pura vida.
In the early 1990s, Costa Rica still felt very much like the developing world. Though politically and economically more stable than many of its Central American neighbours, life outside compact San José was rural and agricultural. Tourism existed, but only just — a trickle of backpackers squeezing in one last adventure before careers or graduate school.
The roads out of the capital were unpaved and cratered. Bus drivers barreled through potholes with heroic indifference while old American pop music crackled through blown speakers, barely masking the squawk of chickens bundled in baskets and hoisted onto the roof alongside passengers. I grew fond of those rickety, retired American school buses, partly because I spent far more time exploring the country by bus than working in the city.
The banking venture that had lured me there never quite launched. Delays piled upon delays. Eventually I tired of waiting for a job that failed to materialize — and of lingering around my boss and his hard-worn drinking companions. With backpack and savings intact, I set off through Central America instead. It proved a wise decision. “George,” as it turned out, was a professional con artist who eventually fled the country with a bank full of ill-begotten funds and a stolen car, leaving behind little more than broken hearts and a handful of illegitimate children.
Return to a Revised Costa Rica
Fast forward twenty-five years. Returning to Costa Rica had not been part of our Pacific plans. My husband and I were focused on the Polynesian islands that lay ahead. Having both spent years sailing — together aboard Ātea and separately before we met — we were drawn to the vastness of the Pacific. Central America promised something different. We agreed that a few months in Costa Rica would offer contrast and diversity. With minimal planning, we sailed north to Golfito, our port of entry on the country’s southern Pacific coast. I should have remembered the bureaucracy.
Costa Rica greeted us with excessive officialdom delivered beneath a friendly smile. Customs and immigration required an agent — mandatory and non-negotiable — and the agent’s fee effectively doubled the cost of entry. The $400 processing bill caught us off guard. After several attempts to sidestep the system, a sympathetic agent reduced the fee by half, a compromise we gratefully accepted.
With paperwork underway, we cleared customs and immigration efficiently — only to be stalled by biosecurity. A visual inspection of the boat was required. As Costa Rica had been an unplanned detour, we had provisioned heavily in Panama for the Pacific crossing. Our freezer was packed with a year’s worth of meat. The biosecurity officer, with the focus of a trained sniffer dog, uncovered every packet of pork we had meticulously stowed in Panama. Bacon, cutlets, mince — each destined for incineration. As the officer began pulling out $1000 worth of meat, my composure wavered. In rusty Spanish, I negotiated. When negotiation failed, I pleaded. Eventually, compromise prevailed: the meat was returned to the freezer, chained, locked, and sealed with official biosecurity tape. I accepted a short stint of vegetarianism in Costa Rican waters, but my inner carnivore — and our Pacific provisions — were saved.
La Pura Vida: An Eco-Adventure Playground
Once cleared in, we finally had space to absorb the country itself. A glance through glossy brochures confirmed what was immediately apparent: this was not the Costa Rica I remembered. The backpacker haunt of the 1990s had transformed into a polished eco-paradise catering to adventure seekers and wellness devotees alike. White-water rafting. Zip-lining. Suspension bridges. Canyoning. Surf breaks. Active volcanoes. Bubbling hot springs. The list of eco-adventures seemed endless.
Costa Rica has become one of Central America’s most celebrated destinations — and with reason. Roughly the size of West Virginia, the country contains extraordinary ecological diversity: highland cloud forests in the north, lowland rainforests in the south, black sand beaches on the Pacific coast, white sand on the Caribbean coast. More than a quarter of its territory is protected national park or reserve, with secondary forest reclaiming former farmland. Wildlife sightings aren’t a matter of luck — they’re guaranteed.
Cruising north along the Pacific coast allowed us to ease in gently. Golfo Dulce, the tropical fjord in the southern province of Puntarenas, was spectacular. Phosphorescence shimmered brilliantly at night. Dolphins tracked our wake. Scarlet macaws flew in bonded pairs overhead, their raucous calls replacing seabird cries. Howler monkeys provided a guttural soundtrack from the jungle canopy.
Traveling by yacht gave us freedom — quiet anchorages, long wildlife walks, waterfalls discovered without ticket booths. The children quickly adapted to long days outdoors, and we were reminded that some of Costa Rica’s best offerings require nothing more than curiosity and time.
Further north, however, subtle transition became full immersion. From Drake Bay to Tamarindo, tourism intensified — and we surrendered to it. We rappelled into canyons, zipped through leafy canopies, rafted rapids, soaked in hot springs, and trekked volcanic slopes. Guided along forest trails, we searched for sloths, monkeys, coatimundis, tapirs, and the elusive quetzal. Everything was available — at a premium.
La Tourista Vida: A New Reality
People had warned us about the cost. They were right. Activities routinely ran into the hundreds of dollars. Add accommodation and a guide, and costs quickly climbed into the thousands. Eco-lodges and curated experiences dominated the landscape. Convenience came carefully packaged — and priced. Crowds followed closely behind.
Paying to hike to a waterfall is one thing. Sharing it with a hundred camera lenses and sunburnt bodies is another. Charging through “must-see” attractions began to feel transactional rather than transformative. I found myself wondering what had become of the peaceful, understated pura vida I once knew. Had it been replaced by pura tourista?
Having spent much of my time traveling on a tight cruising budget, it was daunting to confront a country where nearly every outdoor experience carried an inflated price tag. Still, we were there. So we leaned in — selectively. We splurged on some excursions and passed on others. We skipped the shuttles, choosing hitchhiking or hiking instead. We walked where others rode quads.
When we weren’t chasing adrenaline, we surrendered to softer pleasures: long surf sessions, melting ice creams, refreshing piña coladas, aimless wanderings through trinket shops, indulgent late mornings, and the occasional hangover. We had come for a change of pace. Costa Rica delivered one — just not the one I remembered.
La Pena Vida: Cruising Realities
As a cruising destination, however, Costa Rica is complicated. The volcanic coastline is dramatic, but the water often runs muddy and the swell is relentless. Anchorages are limited. Surf landings are demanding. Prevailing winds are inconsistent, leaving long stretches of calm seas better suited to powerboats than sailing yachts.
Marinas cater primarily to the lucrative sport-fishing industry. Visiting cruising boats occupy less-profitable space and are sometimes treated accordingly. Dinghy docks are scarce and beach landings require negotiation — with surf, with security, and often with skeptical onlookers. More than once, we left our dinghy behind and swam ashore with our clothes in dry bags, having no other way to make a shore landing.
And yet, access remained to our advantage. We reached remote communities, quiet beaches, and working fishing villages untouched by curated tourism. We watched fishermen launch heavy skiffs through pounding surf, timing waves with precision. Eventually we learned to read the sets ourselves — waiting for the final roller before gunning toward shore in its wake. There was camaraderie in that shared challenge. In those saltwort fishermen, I glimpsed the enduring truth beneath the pura vida branding.
La Pura Vida, Reconsidered:
When we first arrived, I was startled by how thoroughly Costa Rica had transformed — from scrappy backpacker enclave to polished eco-powerhouse. Combined with challenging cruising conditions, it initially felt like a mismatch.
But over time, I realized that cruising Costa Rica is not about sailing — it is about access. The ability to toggle between spectacle and solitude. Between curated adventure and quiet coastline. Costa Rica today is waterfalls and zip-lines, camera clicks and tour buses. It is also silent anchorages, scarlet macaws at dawn, and howler monkeys echoing through jungle valleys. It is sloths and surf, fishermen and phosphorescence, crowded beaches and empty shores. And somewhere between the brand and the bustle, la pura vida still exists — less a marketing slogan than a way of being. You simply have to know where to look.
Atea 