The hillsides were dry, but the little shade afforded by the almond and
guanacaste trees threw into relief the concrete statues placed by the former
owner: he'd reconstructed Nahuatl and Chorotega statues turned up in Ometepe
and the Amerrisque mountains bearing tribute to Nicaragua's pre-Columbian
history. But he'd done versions of the Buddha and a crucifix or two, as well,
so the trail down to the water felt something like a parade-ground of
historical dignitaries.

In Nicaraguan Spanish, prefixing "Re" adds emphasis to a description, so
Remanso must be extra "manso" or calm. And a remanso is just that, an eddy in a
stream where the water is more still. That was the case for El Remanso, a bay
just south of the bustling San Juan del Sur, protected on two sides by rock
walls and letting in a beautiful little learner's wave to pile up on the shore.
In sum, except for the penetrating April sun, it was a place of peace.

At around the time I was writing the first edition of the Moon Handbook, El
Remanso was just another quiet bay, with a decent wave perhaps known only to a
few intrepid locals. Four or five years later it was subject to a sharkpool of
speculative realtors as Nicaragua's real estate bubble took prices through the
roof. The speculators had all closed up shop though, and what was left was a
quiet bay of some older American and Canadians who had settled to spend their
retirement years in relative tranquility, and a few car loads of San Juan del
Sur travelers who arrived each day at near-high tide to enjoy a decent wave.

After the sun turned under the horizon and the stars came out, there was
nothing left out there but the call of night-birds, and the signal on my
shortwave radio. And out in those trees, a sloth or two, gazing down on the
silver Buddha with a knowing eye.