How Big is Your Board?
“7 feet,” I replied matter of factly.
The well-put-together service agent takes a look at my board bag. You can see the doubt creep into her face as to the truth of my statement (aka bold-ass lie). I hand over the board bag. She has these clean little orange strips of tape on the wall like when you were a kid and got measured against the door jamb. She’s obviously done this before. Leaned up at the wall behind the counter, it’s sitting pretty at 7 foot 6 inches. Doh!
My flight was at 7 am and I had the good fortune of Louis Jr. (my Airbnb host was Louis Snr.) tell me he’d be happy to drive me. With my Larry David anxiety in full swing, we set off at 4:30 am. Little did I know that Louis Jr. would be stinking drunk at this ungodly hour.
I calculated my risks and pray (I’m agnostic) that I’d get to the airport in one piece. On reflection, it was a very stupid idea. But that’s in the past now.
Louis Jr. told me he had a woman in his room which was on the ground floor of his family house and behind my Airbnb. They’d been dating for 3 or so weeks and he says she has a kid. It felt like I was in a scene from Waking Life, as he spewed his philosophy on romantic love. At 42, he said he should get married but said he didn’t want to be complacent. “There is the one out there!” he shouts zipping along a freeway full of semi-trailers.
At 5 am I step into the longish queue and it’s mixed with dolled-up Ticas and yoga-flowing-beach-bum foreigners. I’m the only dude with a surfboard. When I get to the desk she asks me what flight I’m on. I say the 7am to Nosora. She asks if I would be so kind to go sit and wait until she’s checked in all the folks for the 6 am flight. What? But…but… It’s already a quarter to 6! I scream to myself. I abid reluctantly thinking it could help for later to get the board on board.
I take s seat on one of four or five fun wooden rocking chairs. I rock there impatiently. I watch the agent (the only one for the airline) go through security and disappear towards the gate. 6 am. 6:15 am. 6:30 am. I tried to meditate in vain.
New folks arrive and are queuing up where I had already stood what feels like decades ago. I feel ants in my pants. I’ll now have to wait again. And it’s going to be that much more challenging to get my board on once all these fools have checked in. As a large family arrives and begins sanitizing outside the front door of the airport, I say fuck it and get back in line.
With the agent still M.I.A, we are all standing there dumbfounded. She surfaced at last and is looking calm. I sense this is all quite typical for her and this tiny local airline. More likely it’s just the Pura Vida ways of Costa rica.
Finally, my turn comes. I’ve done everything I can to lay on the charm. I’m also kicking myself for not buying her chocolates which was Billy’s suggestion from the surf shop where I bought the board bag. Shit, some sweets would be clutch right now.
“We only allow 6'7 boards on the plane. There is no space for anything larger,” she declares.
Obviously, I failed to read the fine print correctly on the airline’s website. The convenient story I told myself is that another 5 inches wouldn’t be a big deal. This oversight must have also been why I had a gut feeling over the previous days that there was going to be an issue with getting this rocket-ship of a board on the plane.
I recall my mom’s ability to finesse airlines agents with her masterful dance of patience and persistence. No one wants to help an asshole I think to myself. So I look at her again square in the eyes.
“I was certain the fine print said 7' — hmmm…might there be anything we can do?”
The art of the humble inquiry seems like a good idea. I also wonder if this is a form of NLP — and that I’m acting like a sociopathic. Who knows? Who cares at this point.
She can sense my genuineness or maybe my desperation. Probably both. She picks up the phone, says something in Spanish, and then looks up at me,
“You may be in luck. You happen to be on the only plane in our fleet that has a bigger storage space — but we’ll need to take the board out of the bag.”
I flashback to the tight professional packing job my pal did. This board is going to show up in at least 2 pieces. Fuck! What are my choices?
I trod off to security where they confiscate my scissors (I use them for long straggly eyebrow hairs) — T.M.I. I know. I’m bummed about this as I think the chances of getting quality replacements in Costa Rica are slim to none. Then I think it’s a great opportunity to go burley. I’ve already forgotten how lucky I am that the board made it through.
There’s a little shop and I’m starving. I grab a coffee and a slice of carrot cake. I take a few bites and throw back a few sips. Heavenly. Things are looking pretty good.
And then the woman appears again.
“Mr. Jonas?”
“Yes,” I reply with my mouthful.
“They need you on the tarmac.”
Como? I inhale the last bite, grab my crap and head out to the plane. My board is sitting there sadly on the tarmac. Two poor ramp agents (apparently they're called rampers — who knew?) are trying to figure out how in the hell this board is going o fit into what I can now see is in fact one tiny-ass compartment.
I remember reading somewhere to remain calm in this situations like these. I whip off my jacket to avoid overheating and we move into ninja-packer mode. I start sweating from the heat (and the pressure of this whole situation). We pull the naked board out of the bag.
Together, the ramper and I start to wiggle the board in unison. The other fellow looks on scratching his head in doubt. We try to twist the board on a 45-degree angle to shimmy it into this special compartment. I see what the agent means now — it is purpose-built for 6'7-ish boards The board slides in just past where the fins would be and then I take my hands off. I start to pray again. My eager helper then looks as if he’s about to wedge it in at any cost so I lean down to assist. Without any more room for dental floss, the board slips in.
“Lo hicimos amigo,” he smiles at me.
I’m in disbelief.
As I head back to the terminal the pilot appears “Amigo, you going to Nosara?” I nod yes. He tells me to hop on! Puzzled I now realize that this plane is a dinky 8-seater.
As I hop on I see I’m the only one on the plane. No crew or passengers. I sit there in relief. I look at my coffee and take a few sips. Minutes later we’re soaring through the air on our way to paradise and I count my blessings.
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