Chapter 9
9
CHUCK
Savoring the last sip of my third bottle of Perrier, I stretch out across the backseat of my Costa Rican limo, which, to be honest is just like any other limo I’ve ever been in. The drive from the airport has been smooth sailing so far, aside from what felt like a couple bottomless potholes that bounced me off my seat and actually got me to put my seatbelt on. When I do manage to look up from the sports page I’m reading on my phone, I appreciate the never-ending lush jungle and winding roads. It's almost enough to make a guy forget he's been shipped off to hippie camp by his team.
Almost.
“Nearly there, sir,” the driver says from up front.
“All good, my man.” I’m in no hurry. I have half a mind to tell him to just keep driving and show me as much of the country as he can.
As we round another bend, I catch sight of a wooden sign half-hidden by ferns and other tropical foliage. Pura Vida, it proclaims in scratchy hand-lettering. Damn. They couldn’t afford a real sign?
I raise my eyebrows as the limo pulls up to what I assume is the main entrance, though it looks more like the set of Survivor: Costa Rica than a five-star resort. It’s beautiful, of course, but more rustic than I imagined. I can’t deny I was expecting an upscale relaxation experience. A little on the eco-chic side is fine. I can work with that. But that’s not what I’m currently looking at.
A smiling woman in flowing linen pants approaches as I step out of the car.
"Welcome to Pura Vida, Mr. Newcomb," she says, her sexy, heavily-accented voice as soothing as a pre-game nap. "I'm Luna, the retreat coordinator. We're so excited to have you join us on this journey of self-discovery and inner peace."
Here we go.
Inner peace? Lady, the only inner peace I'm interested in is the kind that comes from winning the Stanley Cup and maybe rubbing one out over some good porn.
But I plaster on my media-friendly smile and shake her hand. "Thanks, Luna. Excited to be here."
As she leads me toward the reception area – and I use that term loosely since it's more of a thatched-roof hut with a desk – I can't help but feel like I've stepped into some kind of parallel universe. One where luxury means ‘minimal carbon footprint’ instead of ‘maximum thread count.’ But the lobby, such as it is, is clean and neat. Warm and welcoming. The chairs may be a little shabby and the ancient rug threadbare, but the place is inviting.
Luna takes a deep breath and exhales out her nose, which is the kind of thing I expect they do here a lot. "Our accommodations might be a bit different from what you're used to," she says as I follow her to my room after she hands me a bulky information packet—so much for saving trees.
“Here at Pura Vida, we find that embracing a simpler way of life really enhances the visitor’s experience."
I nod, taking in my surroundings and only half-listening. Don't get me wrong, it's beautiful in a National Geographic kind of way. Lush greenery everywhere, the sound of waves in the distance, colorful birds I couldn't name if my life depended on it. But where's the spa? The gym? Hell, I'd settle for a vending machine at this point.
I slap at a mosquito on my arm and wipe his squashed carcass on my jeans, earning me a disdainful look from Luna.
Really? It’s not cool to kill mosquitos in the middle of the jungle?
"Oh, and just a heads up," she continues, oblivious to my concerns, "we operate on limited electricity to reduce our environmental impact. Power is available in the evenings from 7 to 11 PM for charging devices and such."
I stop in my tracks. "I'm sorry, what? Limited electricity?"
Her blissful smile persists without a missed beat, like she's just announced we've won an all-expenses-paid trip to the moon. "Yes! It's wonderful, isn't it? Really helps you disconnect and be present in the moment."
Present in the moment? More like present in the Stone Age. But I bite my tongue. I'm here to improve my image, not argue about the virtues of air conditioning even as I wipe my sweaty forehead with the sleeve of my shirt.
We reach my ‘bungalow,’ a generous term for what is essentially a fancy tent on stilts, the sort of thing I would have killed for as a kid. Now? Not such much.
She hands me a key—an actual old school, real key, not a keycard—and gestures toward the door. "Why don't you get settled in? The welcome circle is at 4 p.m. in the main pavilion. Don't forget to bring your yoga mat!" she says, pointing to a stack of them by the door.
You know, just in case someone needed more than one at a time.
With that, she floats away, leaving me alone. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I've survived worse. I mean, I once spent a whole game with a guy's tooth embedded in my forearm. While I know it was much worse for him, this is nothing compared to all the damn antibiotics I had to take for weeks.
I step inside and... it's not terrible. Rustic, sure, but clean and airy and even kind of cool-looking. There's a bed that looks reasonably comfortable, a small desk, and—thank God—a private bathroom. It's no Ritz-Carlton, but it'll do.
I haul my suitcase onto the bed and start unpacking. Workout gear, check. Swimming trunks, check. Ridiculous self-help books my therapist insisted I bring, unfortunately, check.
I pull them out, snorting at the titles. Zen and the Art of Penalty Box Meditation. The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Enforcers. Eat, Pray, Bodycheck: One Man's Journey to Find Himself (and the Puck) . Did anyone really think I was going to read these? Does anyone read this shit?
As I'm contemplating whether this waste of paper would make good kindling for a bonfire, my phone buzzes with a text from Vince Vincent. I consider ignoring him, but I know better. It’s time for contrition, not my usual intractable smart-assed self.
Hello Chuck. Enjoying paradise?
I roll my eyes, typing out a reply.
Paradise? More like Gilligan's Island meets Woodstock. No electricity, no A/C, and I'm pretty sure my 'bungalow' is one stiff breeze away from becoming a kite.
His response is immediate and infuriating.
Exactly what you need. Enjoy! It’s chilly and foggy today here in SF.
What I wouldn’t do for some San Francisco fog at this moment. In an attempt to cool off, I strip down to boxers and throw my sweaty jeans and collared shirt into a pile for laundry service.
They do have laundry service, don’t they?
I toss my phone onto the bed with a grunt.
As I finish unpacking, I can't help but feel a little... discombobulated. What am I supposed to do now? It’s just me, a bunch of trees, and the promise of group harmony and love.
I step onto the balcony attached to my bungalow and am happy to see a nice-sized hot tub at the far end. I lean my elbows on the railing. The view, I have to admit, is spectacular. The ocean stretches out to the horizon, a deep, endless blue. The beach in the distance is pristine and empty, save for a few seabirds. And the air—while it’s thick with humidity, smells clean in a way I don’t think I’ve ever experienced. No car exhaust, no city grime. Just salt and fresh dirt and flowers and something green I can't quite name.
Jungle, maybe?
For a moment—just a moment—I feel something... I’m not sure what to name it. Maybe a loosening of a knot I didn't know was there. Maybe... maybe this won't be so bad.
Then another mosquito lands on my arm, and the moment shatters.
"Give me a fucking break.” I swat at it, and it seems about as fazed by my attack as our last game’s defense was when they whooped our ass. Is this part of the 'authentic jungle experience' too?
Retreating back inside to what I hope is a mosquito-free zone, I check the time. 3:30 p.m. Thirty minutes until I have to pretend I'm excited about sitting in a circle and talking about my feelings or whatever it is they do at these things.
I eye the pile of self-help books skeptically. Maybe I should at least crack one open so I have something to say when I’m inevitably asked what I hope to gain from this retreat. Instead, I open my phone and pull up ChatGPT, the perfect place to find the right thing to say. The AI app does not disappoint and I arm myself with several catchphrases that will make my life easier in the coming days.
I’m hoping to gain some valuable insights on how to pretend I’m more balanced and emotionally intelligent than I really am.
I’m excited to discover the magic of group therapy—because nothing says relaxation like forced emotional intimacy with strangers.
I’m really tempted to use this one, but it might be going too far:
I’m hoping this retreat will teach me how to smile and nod convincingly during meetings that I never wanted to attend in the first place .
I pick up one of my books and flip it open to a random page.
"Chapter 7: Penalty Minutes and Mindfulness – Two Sides of the Same Coin"
No fucking way. Not happening. I slam the book shut.
Instead, I dig through my suitcase until I find what I'm really looking for—a battered paperback copy of The Old Man and the Sea I've had since high school. It's the only book I've read more than once. There’s something about the man's determination in the face of impossible odds that resonates with me in a way I've never been able to explain.
As I settle onto the bed with Hemingway, I can't help but chuckle at the irony. Here I am, surrounded by books about finding inner peace and self-improvement, and the only thing I want to read is a story about a guy fighting a fish.
But hey, maybe that's my version of serenity, calm, and balance, like the sign said at the check-in desk. And if anyone at this granola factory has a problem with that, well... they can take it up with my penalty minutes.
With a sigh, I set an alarm on my phone for the blissful hour when there's actually electricity to charge it and lose myself in the familiar words of Hemingway with the intention of dozing off for a mini-nap. The welcome circle and all its tree-hugging glory can wait. For now, I'm content to be adrift in my own little sea, even if it's in a tent masquerading as a bungalow.
Either way, it's going to be one hell of a week.