Written by the legendary Brendan Buckley…

There was a time, not long ago, when Myspace was the place to be on the web. You could make your own profile, talk to your friends, and even put up your oh-so-sick surf clips so all the chicks could see that you’re a real ripper. Totally awesome!

There too was a time when Costa Rica was the place to be in Central America. You could surf six-foot Hermosa, grab some Imperials, and maybe even hit Jaco for a night. So rad! Most of us were left believing that we had found the mecca, and things just couldn’t surpass the joys of Myspace and Costa Rica. Then, along came Facebook. And Nicaragua.

It’s funny how the popularity of one thing can lead to negligence of another. Most people neglect their Myspaces now, and likewise, a majority of pro bros and average joe bros alike seem to neglect that silly little country called Costa Rica.

Well, Zack Humphreys, Michael Dunphy, Chris Kelly, Carmen Vicari, Ryan Struck, and I decided to get back to our roots and rekindle the flame with Myspace. That means we went on a trip to Costa Rica, for those of you who are not so metaphor savvy…

We all log on to social networking sites in hopes that we will have a notification, private message, or, at the very least, a good old-fashioned friend request — just like we all go on surf trips hoping for perfect swell, winds, and weather. While our trip consisted of a few notifications here and there, it did not include the inbox message from that smoking hot chick you’ve been out of touch with since the 7th grade. But you know what? The notifications were enough to get by. And in the end, it was great to be back on the good old Myspace.

Surfing-wise, we never got that message from Cindy Lou either — but that doesn’t mean we didn’t have fun. The beachbreak in front of our hotel offered up some fun ramps from time to time, as did another beachbreak about an hour away. At one point, a swell that had us jinxing ourselves by using words like “firing” and “sick” was flanked by awkward tides. Thanks a lot, full moon. We still got some fun waves out of the swell — just not the kind that you drew on your notebooks in 7th grade so that Cindy Lou knew you surfed. No one day really stood out from the rest, but every day there was enough of a wave to provoke optimism: “I could totally land a backflip out there.” Sure you can, Brendan…

Outside of the water, it was the same old routine everyday surf trip. Our time was mostly spent talking about our feelings, reading and discussing the literature of Hemingway, and having abundant and meaningful debates centered on the state of our country’s economic instability. Oh, and when the occasion arose where we felt festive, we would grace our palettes with a sip of fine merlot. Sometimes pinot noir.

Whoops, sorry, I was recounting a dream I had in which Matt Damon and I went to Machu Picchu. Except in the dream, Matt Damon had braces. Anyway, back to the trip… We would drive, sometimes recklessly, from spot to spot, making up excuses as to why a spot wasn’t all-time. “Tomorrow it will be for sure!” Occasionally, the car was graced with the presence of a Taylor Swift song, courtesy of Dunphy’s iPod. We also listened to a lot of rap. We are so hood. At the hotel, we would eat unhealthily and drink beers, sometimes irresponsibly. Dinner was usually eaten on a table weighed down by Macbooks. Eyes were glued to screens, and half-thoughts were occasionally grumbled at one another: “I am sooo getting laid when I get home.” Thank you, Internet.

On one particular evening, a few of us decided to check out the bar scene in nearby Tamarindo. Tamarindo, as I learned, is a place of promiscuity that is teeming with derelicts. The bar that we were directed to was a place where Pitbull’s latest hit played loud and surfers, smelly ex-pats, creepy drug dealers, and Swedish students could come and drink together, united as one. It was like a prelude to Celebrity Rehab on VH1, except without the celebrity part. Or VH1.

As the night grew older, the Pitbull became louder, the Swedes more attractive, and the drug dealers creepier. My other two intellectual standouts and I had made the mature decision to drive to Tamarindo on a near-empty gas tank. Filling stations are a scarcity in the area, so at 2:00 a.m. when I left the other two behind, opting instead for a $40 cab ride back to the hotel, I knew I was really being a team player. By 10:00 a.m. the next morning, Dunphy was getting anxious. He wasn’t worried about our friends’ overall health and wellbeing — he just expressed concern because his iPod was in the car and his flight was coming up. Within an hour, the other two returned, sleepless, with a mangled tire and many a story far too inappropriate to tell.

All things considered, Myspace is still pretty rad. You cool trendy folk can have your Triangle Beach and Flor De Caña-induced hangovers. Go ahead, book your ticket to Nicaragua and change your Facebook status to let all 562 of your friends know you’re going, you world traveler you. Then just send me a Myspace message and let me know how it goes.