The cricket crawling around in the florescent light above my son’s head attempted to distract me, but I was too focused on the picture of a man that stood before me. He stood tall at the head of a long table in a well-used brown suit. A picture of Christ hung on the wall behind him. Without hesitation or any show of timidity, he reported on his two years of missionary service and explained to fifteen men that represented the local leadership of our church how and why he had served. I wondered what had become of the young boy in a cowboy hat and boots. When did he become a man?

In the South Pacific on the island of Vanuatu, young men still perform a ritual to prove their manhood called land diving. They construct a tower from wooden branches high above the jungle floor and then with carefully measured vines attached to their ankles, they jump. The vines stop their fall to certain death inches above the ground. A young man will start by jumping from the lower portion of the tower, and each year he will climb higher to make the jump. The more courageous ones will eventually make it all the way to the top to prove their manhood. Land diving has been a rite of passage in this island culture for several hundred years.

In our modern society, we have done away with, or replaced, most rites of passage for our young men to prove their manhood. When does a boy become a man any more? When he buys his first car? When he pays off his student loans? When he spends more time working than playing video games? When he drinks his first drink of alcohol or smokes his first cigar? When he joins the military? When he fathers a child? When does a boy become a man?

Two years ago my son Cody left home to serve a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. He had lived on his own for over a year already. He had a year of college under his belt, and had been gainfully employed. By many standards, he was a man already. Like the young men on the island of Vanuatu who start by jumping from the lower portions of the wooden tower, he had proven himself capable of accepting and fulfilling basic responsibilities. When he accepted the call to serve as a missionary for two years (without pay), he was embarking on a daring rite of passage.

All worthy young men in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints are encouraged to serve a mission, but not everyone chooses to do so. I am not suggesting that a full-time mission is necessary for an LDS boy to become a man. Even the current President of the Church, Thomas S. Monson, did not serve a mission. I am suggesting that the process of serving voluntarily as a missionary and humbly submitting to all the strict rules of conduct it entails will bring a noticeable change to any young man’s countenance. If they serve willingly and obediently, they will shed the boyish norms and adopt the more mature conduct fitting of a man of Christ.

If someone has to tell you that they have become a man, then they most certainly have not. The moment I saw Cody walking past the airport security checkpoint as he returned home, I could see the difference. We greeted him with signs and cheers. He displayed the same sense of humor and charm, but he stood taller. He carried himself with more confidence. He paid attention to the needs of others. He was no longer a boy struggling to fill a man’s role. No doubt a great deal of growth still awaited him, but I could see that he had become a man. He didn’t have to tell me.

Which experiences made him a man? Was it keeping a rigid daily schedule without much supervision? Was it speaking with strangers about the passionate topic of religion? Was it doing his own laundry? Could it have been learning to live on a limited budget? Did spending 24/7 with another human being help him polish the rough edges of youth? Which experiences propelled the boy to manhood?

Each of those opportunities to grow was like moving steadily up the land diving tower. Each experience, each trial, each adversity, built his courage; sharpened his abilities; increased his maturity. No single event converted him from boy to man, but the culmination of those experiences helped him shed his selfish boyhood skin and replace it with the callus-covered hide of manhood. Manhood is rarely achieved through one dramatic act, but a culmination of small seemingly mundane acts that build strength of character and beg the boy to become a man.

I’m not sure how many years it takes for a young man in Vanuatu to work his way to the top of the land diving tower and make the leap to manhood, but I am certain that somewhere during the past two years of serving others, my son Cody made the leap from boy to man.

I first met Steve Stewart at Orson Scott Cards Literary Boot Camp in August of 2009. He struck me as a creative giant. (He is literally like seven feet tall and over 300 pounds.) Over the past few years we have kept up via emails and Facebook cheering on each other's successes, and picking each other up after failures.

Steve recently announced an exciting Kickstarter project called Generation One, a comic book series. He is the lead writer. And so, without any more exaggerated fanfare or silly metaphorical comparisons, I give you an interview with the talented Steve Stewart.

Give the readers a short overview of the project and the necessary websites.

Generation One is a 3-issue limited comic book series that follows the adventures of Picus, the first child born on Mars. In 2051 AD, when a war between the United States and China plunges two peaceful Martian colonies into a miniature cold war, it's up to the first generation of children born on Mars to restore peace to their planet and set a positive example for Earth.

Dr. Robert Zubrin, author of "The Case for Mars" and President of The Mars Society said this about the project: "Someday Mars will have its own Laura Ingalls Wilder to tell the tale of growing up on the new frontier. But with 'Generation One: Children of Mars,' we can experience some of that story now. It's going to be great."

You can find us on Facebook (facebook.com/MarsGenOne), Twitter (twitter.com/MarsGenOne), and Kickstarter (kck.st/13Ke9Rh).

Describe in one sentence what you hope to accomplish with the project.

Our goal is to create a piece of smart, accessible entertainment that encourages young people to think big about humanity's future in space.

Who is your target audience?

Anyone who loves a good story! Age 10 or 100, it doesn't matter. If you're interested in space or science or just have a curious nature, chances are Gen One is for you.

Why Mars? Do you have some sort of obsession with the Red Planet?

Why did humanity come to dominate the globe? Our nature demands we survive, explore, spread out, and further our knowledge as a species. Mars is the next logical step, the first stair in a long climb to the stars. One day, something will happen to Earth, whether in ten years (unlikely) or ten million (very likely). We must, must, must not have all our "eggs in one basket." If we want to survive, we have to think big. We have to strap on our pioneer hats and get to work.

I noticed several members of your team have the same last name. If you are related, what is the relation?

Our artist, Tim Stewart, is my brother. He's been drawing pictures based on my stories since we were kids, and I guess we just never stopped. Lynna Stewart, one of our designers, is my incredible, multi-talented, rock-awesome wife who always supports me in my mad creative endeavors. Writers and artists dream of marrying a girl like her.

If you are related, how does it affect the project? Does that help you understand the relationships that might exist with your characters?

I think being related brings its own advantages and challenges to the table. Frankly, it's a little easier to yell at each other and get heated when things are tough. But on the other hand, there's a bond underneath it all that is stronger than any professional relationship. I think the family dynamic creates a frank, passionate work environment, and our common experiences make it a lot easier to communicate what it is we want from one another. (I dare you to play me in Taboo or Charades when I have one of my brothers on my side.)

Which of the characters is your favorite and why?

That's a tough one, but I might have to go with July. She's an Earth girl who didn't want to come to Mars, was dragged along against her will, and finds herself in the middle of a huge mess with both of humanity's planets depending on her choices. Picus is our main character, but in many ways, July is the catalyst. And being from Earth, she's someone we can relate to. We understand her loneliness, her longing for fresh air and grass and oceans. Through her, we see Mars with fresh eyes--and we learn to appreciate what we have right now, here on Earth.

You mentioned that the story allows Generation One to avoid the same mistakes that we have made on Earth. What types of mistakes?

War. Racism. Allowing differing world views to undermine our common decency as human beings. Wastefulness. Entitled laziness. Cowardice. The list goes on and on, but Gen One is chiefly concerned with war, how it might be avoided, how we might rise above it.

What makes you think that human nature will change on Mars?

It won't. The fact that I'm writing about a potential war on Mars just 20 years into our time there is proof of that. But I'm also convinced that human beings are capable of changing what parts of their nature they prize and act on. That's a matter of changing/reapplying culture and tradition, and there's no "fresh start" quite like moving to a new planet.

I watched a documentary once about a troupe of baboons whose big, dominant, violent males had been killed off by disease, leaving the women and younger males in charge. The result was a complete shift in the culture of that troupe. When big males came in from other troupes and tried to bully and dominate, the newly remade troupe pulled together and, frankly, beat the crap out of them. They refused to stand for the old way. They "leveled up" and formed a more peaceful baboon society. If they can do it, can't we?

If we can't solve our problems on Earth, what makes you think we would be able to solve them on Mars?

We started on Earth with absolutely zero idea what we were doing. Literally none. The Mars colonists would have a lot more to go on as they formed their new society. Science, Earth history, mathematics, ethics, art, culture, the works. Knowledge really is power, and the transfer of knowledge from one person to the next is why we have gotten to the place we're at now, contemplating sending human beings to a new planet! (How exciting is that?!) I think that mechanism—the mechanism of learning and teaching—is cause for hope.

What type of technology are you using to produce the artwork?

Tim uses a Yiynova MSP19U Tablet Monitor and Manga Studio EX 4. He also models certain complex objects (vehicles, buildings, etc.) in 3D rendering software, and uses those computer-generated models as reference while drawing the comic; he frequently takes reference photos for character anatomy as well. Once all that preliminary work is done, he does digital pencils, inks, coloring, and a few effects in Adobe Photoshop. Each page can take him 10-25 hours.

Once Tim is done with the art, he passes it along to Lynna who does the word balloons, lettering, and layout in Adobe InDesign. Josh is frequently involved in the design process as well. It's a crazy intensive process.

You reached your first goal on Kickstarter in about a day. What is your next stretch goal?

It actually took us almost three days (the story grows in the telling, as it should!), but that's still incredibly fast. The euphoria and stress of seeing the numbers climb like that is a little difficult to describe. It was one of the most intense experiences of my life, bar none.

Our next stretch goal is at 30k, and holy crap, I am beyond excited to write this Halloween Bonus issue.

You mentioned a Halloween issue, what do you have in mind for Halloween with Generation One?

Life on Mars won't be all fun and games. The colonists will be living on a largely unexplored, alien planet that "wants" them dead. Looking out the windows and realizing you're alone, millions of miles from Earth, that you can't breathe the air, that no one could come to help you if you needed it—that's inherently scary, and we wanted to touch on that a little bit.

There's also this old lady who lives alone in the oldest capsule on the outskirts of the base. She almost never comes out, and the rumors about her have reached ghost story proportions with the colonists' kids. The Halloween Issue is her story, an exploration of fear and sacrifice on The Red Planet.

I'm not hyperbolizing one bit when I say this is the story I'm most excited to write.

If this succeeds in this beginning phase (and I'm sure it will), whats next? Are you looking to continue it as a regular web comic?

We'll see what happens. Tim and I have always wanted to work in comics, so whether we move on to write for established comic book publishers or try to court distributors for Gen One, it's an exciting time for us. Fingers crossed on all fronts!

Which members of your team would be willing to risk life and limb to go live on Mars? Why?

Not me, that's for sure. I'm too much of an Earth boy, but that doesn't mean there aren't hundreds of thousands (maybe millions!) of people suited to be colonists. I'm just not stable enough to be that kind of pioneer. I can see Rusty doing it, though. ;)

Anything else to add?

I think that pretty well covers it. We'd love it if everyone would swing by the Kickstarter (kck.st/13Ke9Rh) and watch the project video. We put a lot of time and effort into it, and it does a better job of explaining Gen One than I ever could in an interview. If you find yourself inspired by what we're doing, please pledge and share with your friends. Thanks so much for taking the time to do this, Brock, and thank you everyone for your time and interest. Now let's go make a comic. :)

Racism is ugly and wrong. This may seem inherently obvious to most people, but I have sadly discovered that the obvious isn’t always so obviously understood, and common sense is not so common.

Recently a young man in a university dormitory had an altercation with another student over misuse of the common area. John (not his real name) was awakened in the middle of the night by loud noises in the common kitchen next door, an area that was off limits after eleven pm. Annoyed by the late-night revelers, he got out of bed and stormed to the kitchen. He scolded the rule breakers for being in the kitchen after hours and pointed to the sign that stated the hourly restrictions. One of the noise offenders, we’ll call him Bill, got angry and defiant. Bill told John to get lost. They could do whatever they wanted because John wasn’t a Resident Assistant. John shook his head and disengaged, returning to his dorm room in hopes of getting back to sleep. Bill followed, and pounded on John’s door taunting him to come out and settle things man-to-man. John put in his earbuds and ignored him.

Two days later Bill saw John sitting alone at breakfast and approached him. Instead of an apology, Bill threatened John and told him that if he ever did anything like that again his parents might have to come get him and take him home, and they might not recognize his face. John again ignored the threats, but he didn’t remain passive.

John complained to the university authorities. They called him in for an interview. When John walked into the office, they noticed that his skin color and features were different than most of the students on campus. Instead of discussing how to keep John safe, they lectured him on cultural differences. Instead of discussing the behavior of the threatening student, they told John to be more aware that he was different and should be more tolerant.

Racism begins the moment we stop treating a person as an individual and begin treating them as part of a group. The individual loses their identity and becomes an impersonal member of a crowd, culture, or race. This shift in focus then allows us to demonize them, make them less than human, and rationalize our own bad behavior as acceptable. It keeps us from basing our judgment on their behavior. Sadly, this way of thinking is common practice.

It takes a great deal of introspection to break ourselves of this habit. If we want to stop our own racist behavior, we must start at the moment we begin to classify someone as part of a group. We must not pigeonhole the individual and lump them together with any particular tribe so that we feel justified in then treating them differently. We must strive to maintain the individuality of each person we meet. If we succeed at that, we succeed in judging each person on their individual merits and their individual behavior. We no longer see black, white, brown, yellow, or anything in between. We see a person, another human being.

Strangely enough, if you succeed at maintaining the individuality of the person, you can then recognize their differences without passing judgment. You begin to see their individual features, their individual personality, and their individual humanity. You will be able to pick them out of a crowd, because you recognize their differences.

With the polar opposite ways the media handled the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman case and the recent beating of the white thirteen-year old on the bus, understanding, and stopping, racism has become more difficult. In the Trayvon Martin case, the media doctored the 9/11 calls to make George Zimmerman sound racist. The media referred to Zimmerman as “White Hispanic” in an effort to polarize and foment hate and improve their ratings. Yet, when three black boys beat the thirteen-year old white student, several media outlets blurred the victim so that his race could not be determined. The bus driver, worried about getting in trouble, stood by and watched it happen.

I was running on the treadmill the first time I saw the attack on the thirteen-year old student. I couldn’t tell the race of the victim. I didn’t care about the race of the perpetrators. My reaction was visceral. I got angry. I ran faster. I could taste metal in my mouth. I just wanted to stop it. My reaction was based on their behavior.

What difference does the race of the perpetrators or the victim make? If it makes a difference to you, then you have ceased to think of them as individuals and begun to classify them as part of a group – the first step to racism. The punks beating up the boy on the bus were wrong and needed to be stopped. If you cared about the race of the attackers on the bus, or the race of Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman, then you have allowed racism to cloud your judgment. You have stopped judging people on their individual behavior and started to judge them based on their race – the definition of racism.

So, are you still wondering about the race of the threatened young man in the university dorm incident or the threatening student? I’m not going to tell you, because it doesn’t matter. One student threatened another with violence, and the first reaction by the university was inappropriate – period. Fortunately, the university did the right thing and called in the threatening student for counseling. They punished him based on his behavior. John, the threatened student, was satisfied that justice was done, and that he would be safe from harm, but he still wonders how his skin color, or culture, had anything to do with the incident.

“In order to be open to creativity, one must have the capacity for constructive use of solitude. One must overcome the fear of being alone.” Rollo May

Literature is only art form that is both created and enjoyed alone.

Over the course of over a year, I spent numerous hours alone creating a novel manuscript that I hoped readers would enjoy. I spent thirteen long and lonely months waiting for responses from agents and submissions editors. After more than forty lonely rejections, it was nice to get a contract offer to publish the novel. It was exceptionally nice to get two offers.

I was sitting alone in a hotel room on July 2^nd when I opened the email. The sender was Angie from Cedar Fort Publishing. Because I sent a hard copy of the manuscript to Cedar Fort in January, I figured, like with so many other publishers and agents, that no response was the same as a negative response, only much more cold and impersonal. I had forgotten about the submission, and was considering an offer from a small regional publisher. When I opened the email, I had to read it twice to believe it. I immediately called my wife to tell her the good news.

After careful review of the two offers, I was happy to sign a publishing contract with Cedar Fort Publishing. Before the ink of my signature was dry, I was getting help. Angie gave me a packet to read about their process, along with several tasks to complete. Kelly from marketing contacted me and began to coach me and help me put together a marketing plan. Melissa contacted me about the editing process. All of sudden, I wasn’t alone in this fight.

As luck would have it, my wife and I had a trip planned to Utah, the home of Cedar Fort, a week or so after signing the contract. So I scheduled a visit. My wife drove the tiny Nissan Versa (an upgrade from rental car she originally booked – I would hate to have seen what she originally booked) down to Springville for the appointment. I must admit I was nervous when we pulled up to the office/warehouse. Writing had always been a solo endeavor. Now, other people wanted, even demanded, to be a part of the process. Unable to sit down, I wandered around the lobby looking at some of their new releases.

After just a few minutes, Angie came down the stairs and welcomed us. She exuded the same even-tempered personality that comes across in her emails and over the phone. The kind of personality that makes for great emergency personnel (Relax sir. You’re going to be okay. I’m a trained professional.) She gave us a tour of the facility, which included a warehouse/discount store, along with a bit of company history and future vision. I thought my wife was going to stop right there and let me finish the meeting without her, but she stuck with me.

Next, Angie introduced us to the rest of the team that would be working on publishing the book – Melissa the editor, Kelly for Marketing, and Kelsey handling cover design. After meeting this team of professionals, I didn’t feel so alone anymore. It was nice to know that four previously total strangers had a vested interest in seeing this work succeed.

When I broke out my list of questions, Angie ushered us into the conference room. She spent an hour answering questions about the process, the contract, and the timeline. She was patient, and if she was ever frustrated with my novice line of questioning, she never showed it. She also quickly learned that I had brought along a secret weapon – my wife. Several times during the conversation I sat back with a smile on my face and watched the two of them brainstorm about how to get the most traction during the release and how to close the most number of sales at events. They came up with a brilliant idea for the book launch party. I’m not sure it will sell a lot of books, but I do know it will be one heck of a party! (More to come…)

Kelly, the marketing guy, was more laid back than I expected from someone that markets goods for a living, but I think it comes from experience. His casual manner and soft-sell approach boosted my confidence. As we discussed the marketing plan, it was obvious that it wasn’t his first rodeo. He suggested several standard items, like social media promotion, a website, and press releases, but he also wanted to capitalize on some of the current media buzz and its connection to the themes of the book. He also introduced me to some techniques with presales, and advised me to lay groundwork now with simple things, but be prepared for a blitz when the book was released.

Kelsey, the cover designer, had a face as cheerful and upbeat as a good self-help book with a personality to match. I found a photo that I thought was perfect for the cover several months ago, and when I showed it to her, her face lit up. She immediately captured the vision for the cover design and was anxious to get something designed in time for their next catalog. I hope she infuses the cover design with her inviting and cheerful demeanor, because if she does, it will definitely sell.

When I first met Melissa, the Editor, she had a document pulled up on her computer screen. I started to worry when I saw more red than black on her screen. I had visions of my freshman English teacher and her red pen, but Melissa was soft-spoken and very helpful when we discussed both the content and technical structure of the manuscript. She put me at ease about my weaknesses and assured me that, like a good diamond cutter, she would help me polish the rough spots into smooth brilliance.

I am comfortable with solitude. Writing in many ways is a lonely endeavor, but publishing takes the effort and collaboration of many talented people. I’m excited to be working with the talented group from Cedar Fort.

After two hours of questioning, brainstorming, and planning, my wife was ready to hit the discount bookstore. I hope she sells a lot of my books to help pay for all the stuff she bought.

What is fatherhood?

Fatherhood is sleepless nights with a crying baby; it’s sleepless nights with a sick child; it’s sleepless nights waiting up for a teenager; it’s sleepless nights worrying about a grown child that lives far away.

Fatherhood is a lifetime of losing sleep.

Fatherhood is working to pay for hungry mouths; working to pay for new shoes; working to pay for a new baseball glove; working to pay for a new bike; working to pay for family vacations; working to pay for braces; working to pay for an extra car; working to pay for college; working to pay for weddings.

Fatherhood is lifetime of work.

Fatherhood is fixing a bottle for a crying baby in the middle of the night; fixing a baby monitor; fixing a tricycle; fixing a broken window; fixing doorknobs; fixing holes in the wall; fixing dishwashers; fixing garbage disposals; fixing garage door openers; fixing ceiling fans; fixing stereo speakers; fixing TVs; fixing cars.

Fatherhood is lifetime of fixing things.

Fatherhood is teaching a child to walk; teaching a child to talk; teaching a child to sit still; teaching a child when to be quiet; teaching a child to say “please” and “thank you;” teaching a child to brush their teeth; teaching a child to read; teaching a child to pray; teaching a child to catch a ball; teaching a child to do dishes; teaching a child to clean their room; teaching a child to deal with bullies; teaching a child to share; teaching a child to drive; teaching a child to balance a checkbook; teaching a child to live on their own.

Fatherhood is lifetime of teaching.

Fatherhood is listening to the deafening sound of a sleeping baby; listening to toddler’s questions; listening to screaming voices at play; listening to sad tales about owies; listening to complaints about household chores; listening to dreams; listening to loud music; listening to “You don’t understand;” listening to “I can’t wait to get out on my own;” listening for the phone to ring and hoping it will be a call from your son or daughter that has moved away.

Fatherhood is lifetime of listening.

Fatherhood is the loving coo of a newborn; it’s the squeeze around the neck from a five-year old; it’s the happy smile of ten-year old; it’s the high five or knuckle bump form a teenager; it’s the warm embrace of a grown son returning home for a visit; it’s the last hug from a daughter before you give her away on her wedding day; it’s the hugs from grandkids on your lap; it’s the kiss on the cheek and a tear in the eye as your life passes.

Fatherhood is a lifetime of love.

Happy Father's Day!

“A qué se dedica?” asked our guide. He and I were riding our horses along the beach behind the group and talking about life. He wanted to know what I did for a living.

“Soy piloto,” I answered with a smile.

He grinned. “Ah, that why you not afraid.”

I shrugged and grinned back. Then I urged my horse forward and galloped down the beach past the rest of the group as they plodded along in the sand. It was our last day in Costa Rica, and I was going to squeeze a few more drops of excitement from the adrenaline-filled trip. I wanted one more day of Pura Vida.

Pura Vida is a common expression in Costa Rica. Literally translated, it means “Pure Life,” but expressions like that can’t be taken too literally. Pura Vida means a “good life,” “full of life,” or “living great.” On our second trip to beautiful Costa Rica, I was starting to understand what the “Ticos” meant.

When my wife Britt and I began planning a trip to celebrate our 25^th wedding anniversary, Costa Rica was high on the list. We had enjoyed a trip there before a few years ago, and always wanted to go back. When we did some comparisons based on cost and available activities, we decided that another trip to the land of Pura Vida was in order.

It is considered a professional standard for pilots to be cheap. I had deviated from that standard slightly when I purchased Britt a first-class ticket for the trip, but I redeemed my image by jump seating (at no cost) myself. It was a good balance. We traveled with two other couples, Kelly and Leroy, and Kim and Glen, and because of separate bookings, we traveled in two groups. I almost got left at the gate in Phoenix because of a paperwork snag, but in the end my friend Lori (who was flying the Airbus) helped me work it out, and I boarded.

After a night in the Adventure Inn, an adequate hotel with friendly staff, the guides from Pacuare Lodge picked us up around 0545 the next morning. We piled into a small bus and headed out into the mountainous rainforest east of San José to embark on our first adventure – whitewater rafting. Heavy with people and luggage, the suspension of the bus bottomed out on the rough road. We visited with Pepe, one of the guides, and exchanged riddles in Spanish until we ascended into the clouds and stopped at a restaurant for breakfast. We ate the typical breakfast of eggs with black beans and rice as the fog swirled and obscured our view. The adventure began when the bus started down the steep switchbacks overlooking the swollen river. Everyone grew quiet and prayed the brakes were better than the suspension. Pura Vida!

We piled out of the van with a few pale faces and grabbed a helmet, a paddle, and a life vest. My helmet was adorned with blue scuffmarks like someone had smacked it with one of the paddles. I wondered if it was a sign of things to come. Ivan gave us the safety briefing, but I wasn’t as attentive as I probably could have been. It’s hard to think safety when your bladder is full and the sound of rushing water is all around you. While he was giving us the briefing, one of the departing rafts capsized and dumped everyone out. I checked the water. It was cold.

When we finished the safety briefing (and took a potty break), we shoved off with our guide José Luís. His English was good, but not as good as his smile and good humor. José Luís put Leroy and me in front. That made me nervous. I was going to get soaked. Sure enough, as we pushed through the first rapids, I got soaked. After that, I relaxed. I figured that getting wet was most likely the worst thing that would happen to me that day. Pura Vida!

We laughed and enjoyed the spectacular scenery. The gigantic tropical trees along the river supported several canopies. The river was the color of coffee with cream because of the recent rainstorm, and even though the water was cool, it felt good in the warm tropical sun. When we stopped to explore a stream with a waterfall, we must have looked like some flock of strange exotic birds with bright orange shirts, white helmets, and red life vests.

“Do we need to worry about wild animals?” asked Kim. José Luís shook his head and smiled. “Just esnakes,” he said with a laugh. We kept our eyes open.

After braving several rapids and learning to paddle together, we arrived at Pacuare Lodge nestled in the rain forest along the edge of the river. When we hung up our wet gear and sloshed up the riverbank to check in, Andrés welcomed us with a pot of hot chocolate. While we sipped at the chocolate and dried off he told us about the facility. Only the main building has electricity and Internet. The teakwood bungalows sit on stilts overlooking the river and come equipped with running hot and cold water, but no electricity.  When we walked up the wooden steps onto the porch with a hammock and a river view, it felt like a slice of paradise in the wild. Each open-air bungalow was furnished with a king-size canopy bed and a gorgeous bathroom that included an outdoor shower surrounded by a stone wall for privacy, if you wanted to shower al fresco. I felt like I was taking a shower under a hot waterfall in the middle of the rain forest. Pura Vida!

At Pacuare Lodge meals are served for everyone at the same time with a set menu. If you think that just because you are in the middle of the rain forest the food might consist of fruit and reconstituted foods, you are mistaken. Lunch was a three-course meal. For dinner I had a spicy tomato soup that was out of this world, followed by tilapia with rice, and passion fruit mouse for dessert. For breakfast the next morning we had eggs with bacon, fried cheese, and banana pancakes. If that wasn’t enough, Leroy talked them into to bringing us a plate of oatmeal cookies after dinner, and they offered coffee and hot chocolate in the afternoon. We ate so much the raft sat a little lower in the water when we shoved off the next morning.

The second day on the river was even better than the first. We traversed several good rapids and paddled through lush forest vistas with waterfalls cascading down cliffs. A friendly competition emerged among the paddlers on each side. Leroy started giving his side grief for not paddling hard enough, and then talking smack when it appeared they paddled better than us. When I asked José Luís if we could change sides, he hesitated, and then very diplomatically told me in Spanish that he didn’t want to switch because it would make it uneven. He said that he put my group on the side opposite of him because Leroy’s side was weak. It was fun translating that. The smack talk continued, especially when we went through a big rapid and I held up my paddle and cheered instead of paddling. We laughed and cheered each time until at last we passed under an old railroad bridge and pulled out next to their company warehouse. Pura Vida!

After we showered off and changed into dry clothes, we caught our transport to Tabacón. We had originally had scheduled for two rental cars, but switched to private transfers instead. It was cheaper, and a much better way to travel. We were able to take short naps and visit while someone else familiar with the roads drove us to our next stop. One driver, Pablo, even offered a wifi hotspot through his iPhone. It made the trip a lot less stressful.

The Tabacón is a five-star, hot springs resort built at the foot of the Arenal volcano near La Fortuna. It offers luxurious rooms with rainforest and volcano views. Across the street is a hot springs river surrounded by a manicured rainforest with a spa in the middle. They also offer a swim-up bar where the pool is slightly warmer than bathwater. Up above the entire complex is a restaurant that offers a nightly buffet. I think the first guests here were Adam and Eve.

After a good night’s rest and a buffet breakfast, we headed for Sky Trek/Sky Tram, a zip line adventure in the foothills surrounding the volcano. Once again we donned helmets for safety and boarded the tram. Glen had expressed his concerns over the event several times, but when he saw a seven-year old boy on the tram, he swallowed his fear and manned up. After the obligatory safety briefing and two practice zip lines, we hooked up to the first cable and past the point of no return.

I stood on the platform trying to look past the trees and see where I was going. Then the signal came over the radio, and the guide pushed me off the platform. The next thing I knew I had zipped past the trees and was soaring almost six hundred feet in the air! The wind rushed by and the pulleys on the cable hummed as I felt something akin to flying. I felt small against the backdrop of the volcano, the lake, and the sprawling forest. The tiny platform on the other side looked like a beacon of civilization drawing me in. I slid into the platform with a grin on my face and braked to a stop with the help of the friction devices. Since I was the first to go, I was worried that some of the others would chicken out, but when I stood on the platform and filmed their arrival, all of them had the look of exhilaration on their faces, especially Glen. When we finished I told Britt I wanted to be a zip line guide in Costa Rica when I retire. Pura Vida!

The hot springs of the Tabacón balanced out our adrenaline-filled morning. We relaxed under steaming waterfalls and wandered from secluded pool to secluded pool soaking in the hot mineral water and letting the tension of paddling the raft and the adrenaline of flying high above verdant forests on a steel cable melt away. That evening we dined at the buffet, and reported to the spa for a couples massage. I am not a regular massage customer, and for Glen it was another first. They escorted each couple to a private area behind the spa nestled among the trees. I could hear the rushing water of the river mingled with soft meditative music as I lay on the table letting the masseuse push all the cares of the world from my body and mind. I was able to let the rhythm of my thoughts settle and pick up a cadence that carried me to clarity. Pura Vida!

If soaring through the air wasn’t enough, the next morning we headed out to rappel down waterfalls with Pure Trek Adventures. At this point my fellow travelers accused me of trying to kill them. It was our fourth day in Costa Rica and everyday we had participated in something that required a helmet. I just smiled. After a short drive up into the mountains in the back of a truck that reminded me of being in the military, we filed out and got fitted with our rappelling gear – including the helmet. Having rappelled several times, but by no means an expert, I took special note of the gear, the ropes, the anchors, and the belay system. By the time I saw the set up at the first 165-foot waterfall, I was satisfied that we were in competent hands. Once again, Britt and I went first. They made me wait as I watched her scurry down the cliff beside the rushing water. When they gave me the green light, I found my rappelling legs quickly and began catching up with her. Suddenly the guide on belay stopped me and pulled me into the cool rushing water of the falls for my morning shower.

We high-fived each other, and stood at the bottom cheering on everyone else. The guides followed the same pattern for the next few couples until Kelly and Leroy started down. After dousing Leroy in the waterfall, they decided to pull the already-terrified Kelly into the waterfall as well. That induced a kicking and screaming fit, and when she finally got to the bottom she punched the mischievous guide in the shoulder. (See video below.) By the time we finished the fourth waterfall, Glen was over his fear of heights and Kelly was a pro. Pura Vida!

After another afternoon in the hot springs, and a very sound sleep. We started our longest travel day from the center of the country to the Pacific coast to Manuel Antonio and the town of Quepos. We took in the countryside, a butterfly observatory, a fruit stand, and watched crocodiles fight over pieces of meat - not exactly the same as driving across Kansas. When we checked in at Costa Verde, we were ready for some down time.

Costa Verde hotel sits on the hillside above the beach and offers spectacular views, including a B727 that has been converted into suites. They boast that they still have more monkeys than people, and true to that slogan, we saw several monkeys during our stay. At dinner across the street in La Cantina we contemplated the remaining activities and decided to cancel our guided tour to the national park the next day. Instead we would rent scooters and spend the day on the beach. Then the last day we would go horseback riding. In the process of helping a fellow traveler, I spoke with Fabricio Mengarelli, the executive chef of La Cantina. Right away I noticed his Argentine accent. We ate at his restaurant two nights in a row. The ribeye was excellent, and my wife said the pineapple chicken was out of this world. If you are ever in Quepos, go see Fabricio. Pura Vida!

To start our “relaxing day” on the beach, we rented scooters. Of course, that meant putting on a helmet. We zipped down to the beach and got snookered by the parking attendants alongside the road, but when I left the keys, I must admit they were honest, and brought them to me. We overpaid for chairs and umbrellas, drinks and burgers, boogie boards and a ride on the banana boat, but Leroy used his negotiating skills to secure us some time on the wave runner unsupervised. Between boogie boarding the nice easy waves, wrestling with the wave runner, and getting thrown off the banana boat several times (I could not stay on!), we topped it off with a game of soccer on the beach with the locals. By the time we scooted back to the hotel, I was exhausted! Pura Vida!

After dinner at La Cantina, we hopped on to our scooters and zipped down into Quepos to Escalo Frio in search of ice cream. We found the ice cream, but while we were there we heard the rain start pounding on the tin roof. It was coming down in buckets with no end in sight. We got the ladies a cab and sent them back to Costa Verde. While we waited for the rain to subside, Leroy and Glen sampled the pizza, but I was too stuffed with ribeye to eat. When it became obvious that the only way we were getting back was through the rain, we fired up our scooters and charged back up the hill amidst the lightning. Cold rain pelted my face and pinged off of my helmet, but I was grinning from ear to ear. Pura Vida!

Kim was worried about horseback riding the next day, since it would be her first time. The horses were small and looked like they could use some more oats, but they seemed docile enough. It turned out they were maybe a bit too docile, except for mine. The guide was an experienced horseman that paired us up with a horse based on our experience, and how we acted around the animals. I got the horse that wanted to run. While everyone else prodded their horses into a trot along in the sand, I got my horse to gallop circles around them. After all the adventures we had completed by then, we were jaded. What should have been an enjoyable ride on a beautiful beach, turned into a slow trot in the sand. We had officially become adrenaline junkies and needed more than a simple ride along the beach to impress us. As the end of the ride came in to view, I spurred my horse into a run and galloped to the finish.

That afternoon it rained. We ate pizza again and took a siesta. When the rain subsided that evening, Britt and I went for another ride on the scooter. The undulating hills along the beachfront took us in and out of pockets of cool air. We scooted along the deserted road looking for monkeys. The moist wind felt good on my face. After twenty-five years, my wife’s arms still felt good around my waist. Pura Vida!

If you want to book an exciting vacation of your own to Costa Rica, contact Catalina - info@crreferrals.com. She can help you find your Pura Vida!

Britt loves the Britt Shop!

Waterfall on the Pacuare River