Dawn Patrol at Witch's Rock

The boat left Playas del Coco at 5:00 AM. The sky was still black, the Papagayo wind barely a whisper. Captain Marco pointed the panga north and opened the throttle.

The Journey

It takes about an hour by boat to reach Playa Naranjo, the beach that fronts Witch's Rock inside Santa Rosa National Park. As the first light crept over the volcanic hills of Guanacaste, I could see lines of swell wrapping around the headland.

My heart started pounding.

The Wave

Witch's Rock is everything the legends say it is. A long, peeling right-hander that breaks off a rock formation jutting out of the sand. On this morning, it was a solid six feet — not the biggest it gets, but more than enough to make my palms sweat.

The first wave I caught was a revelation. A steep drop into a fast wall that seemed to go on forever, the lip feathering above my head as I tucked into a shallow cover-up. When I kicked out, I let out a yell that echoed off the cliffs.

The Solitude

For three hours, there were only four of us in the water. Four surfers on a world-class wave in a national park, with howler monkeys screaming from the trees and frigate birds circling overhead. No cell signal. No crowds. No agenda.

This is what surfing is supposed to feel like.

The Ride Home

On the boat back, salt-crusted and sunburned, I watched dolphins play in our wake. Marco handed me a cold Imperial beer and smiled.

"You see? This is why we live here."

Yeah, Marco. I see. 🌅