God of Transformation

Carlos the driver swerves our Toyota Hi Ace into a gap in the herd of long-horned Brahman and Zubu cows who’ve taken over the road. All loose skin and floppy ears and long, upward sweeping horns, they saunter, hooves clomping down the yellow lines of a two-lane road formed of interlocking concrete paving blocks with geometric patterns that suggest they could’ve been laid by hand. Not that the cows care about this detail. They’re just moseying, unperturbed, driven along by two small boys riding a bony pony, one slowly swinging a long stick that’s been skinned of its bark and flexing nicely, like a fly rod, to snap the odd bovine.

We’ve been in the truck for hours, covering the snaking track from Managua northwest past Leon and then a left at Chinandega for a final run to the coast, where Carlos brakes suddenly, and our vehicle bounces off the edge of the curving road to proceed straight down a rough dirt track. The open windows usher in smells of the sea, now closer, as the truck rumbles down a tree-shaded lane of exposed boulders and twisty runnels. A high wall appears on our right and then an archway over a large, white-painted wooden gate. The doors swing open and a shirtless, muscled man with interlocking Incan tattoos inked over one shoulder and down his arm, dark curly hair and smiling eyes says: Welcome to Amaru.

A toothy white grin that’s impossible not to meet with one of my own. This will turn out to be Victor, our affable local surf guide. He smiles as I juggle my backpack while filming with the little vlogger cam and also shaking the hand of a lithe young woman in a flower-print summer dress who sounds American-born but happy to be far away.

I’m Willow, she says, moving smoothly to take my carry-on bag from Carlos.

Hands are shaken and the sort of small talk you’d have when arriving at your cousin’s house, the cousin you haven’t seen since you were seventeen, but have been following on the socials and know that they are cooler than you in a way that you can only hope rubs off and stays with you until you can wow the gang back home.

We are headed to Casa Blanca, says Willow as she leads us in a line across a bricked courtyard with several trucks and vans with surf racks, motorcycles, a few bicycles, and a loose sort of order to the property that feels purposeful, but in a mañana kind of way. Under mango trees and palms and over chunky pavers, conversation covers the typical ground of inquiries about the trip, and I hear Rob share the fate of his surfboard.

Denied by Delta, he mutters. Turned back in Salt Lake.

Oh, that’s sad, says Willow in a voice that actually does sound sad and not merely paying lip service.

I know, Rob agrees. That’s the word.

Well, we’ve got more than a few boards here, she says, but it’s never the same as having your own.

A wind chime provides welcoming chords as our little line snakes through the kitchen of The White House, where surfboards form the décor and line two walls, stacked neatly and reaching varying heights. They indeed have a few boards.

What is it about surfboards?

I’ve been in hundreds of ski lodges and ski shops and ski cabins, all displaying the tools of the trade as décor, and I’ve never gotten the same cool, freedomy vibe that merely looking at a surfboard brings.

Our rooms are on the second floor, accessed by a wide balcony of hardwood and teak railings. My room has three beds, an attached bathroom, and, high on the wall, a remote-controlled air conditioning unit that immediately brings me feelings of bourgeois guilt and quiet gratitude.

Amaru Surf and Yoga Camp is where we’ll live for the next week. The proper title for this place includes the word Resort, rather than Camp, but in my mind, it remains more of the latter than the former. We’ve only just arrived, but I already feel more like I’m visiting friends in their hacienda than checking into a hotel. And then we meet the boss: Gerritt Cooper.

Blonde-haired and goateed, Gerritt was raised in Sun Valley, Idaho, and also Southern California, but it’s difficult to picture him anywhere but here at Amaru. He just seems as much a part of the scene as the palms or the sand or the waves. Amaru seems an extension of his presence, and he seems to have been nurtured in and grown out of this space. Natural and loose-limbed, he has the lean look of a surfer, his skin a toffee tone with the buttery smooth finish that rarely, if ever, sees a shirt.

As I’ve come here to learn what about this place supercharged Rob’s conversion from suit to surfer, I sit Gerritt down for a filmed interview, starting with the name.

First off, how does one pronounce it?

Some people say AH-mar-ROO and some say ah-MAR-roo, he tells me. But it’s Pa-TAY-toe/Pah-TAH-to. It really doesn’t matter.

I got that. Matches the chill vibe. I continue with the hard-hitting interview: Is it a made-up word, or does it mean something?

Amaru was an Incan deity with the body of a serpent, the wings of a condor, and the head of a puma. Each animal symbolized one of the three worlds: the world below, the middle world like Middle-earth, and, of course, the sky world. Amaru is all about transformation between the realms. It’s an Incan deity of transformation.

Wait a minute, I say. So the place where Rob had his Road-to-Damascus transformation is actually named after an Incan god of transformation?

Gerritt lights up with a smile.

Cool, huh?

Cool, I repeat, with considerably less enthusiasm.

If I wrote that bit into a screenplay, some junior executive assigned to cover the script would take this opportunity to groan, take a long pull from his Coke Zero, and toss my hard work into the circular file.

But wait, I tell myself, why is the specter of a studio executive appearing to me now? I’m on a remote peninsula in the Central American jungle for hell’s sake. Can’t we just leave Griffin Mill back where he belongs?

Didn’t get that reference? My bad. And I do mean bad. Even dredging up the Tim Robbins character in the Robert Altman film seems like something Older & Bolder Bill would probably be better off without. Do I really need the smarty-pants, indie film snark?

As I sit in an Amaru hammock, the breeze coming off the beach, I can’t help but wonder how often my inner cynic keeps me from seeing something that my soul might be seeking. Maybe cultivating boldness in my oldness means silencing the inner know-it-all for a hot second. Hasn’t 64 years of semi-responsible adult behavior earned me the right to chill the f out and accept a bit of serendipity?