Asher on Aspen: Pura Vida postcards

It was 7 a.m. in Uvita, Costa Rica, and the jungle was already sweating. Our bags were packed with snorkels, flippers, and scuba gear, and we were jittery with anticipation — and too much coffee. We climbed into a small, worn-out boat that looked like it had some stories to tell. Big enough to feel official but small enough to keep things interesting.

We were a group of four — two snorkelers and two divers — geared up differently but driven by the same pull toward whatever lay beneath the surface. After about an hour, we reached Caño Island. Flippers on, snorkels tight, Kristi and I plunged into the water — no hesitation, just endless blue. Somewhere behind us, our scuba buddies peeled off with their guide, disappearing like spies on assignment. We floated, bobbing in the warm saltwater, staring down into the vast aquarium that is the Pacific.

The colors down there don’t exist in normal life. Electric yellow, flame red, and deep-sea blue. Schools of fish danced below us in impossible synchronicity. Bright, familiar fish from childhood storybooks now flicking their fins just inches away. I hovered over a sea turtle and watched him glide by like some ancient oracle, calm and unbothered, which made me feel strangely human and small.

But the real gem was our guide, Henry. A wide-smiling Tico who moved through the water like he’d been raised in it. He kept diving without gear — just lungs and instinct — and came back up like a human dolphin, grinning and flinging saltwater. His joy was infectious, like he’d just discovered the ocean for the first time and couldn’t wait to pull us in with him.

When the current got tricky and I started feeling that first tickle of nausea, Henry turned and started singing. Loud. Off-key. Beautiful. “Forever young, I want to be forever young” echoing across the waves. We joined in, half-delirious, floating in the middle of nowhere and singing our lungs out. It was bizarre and brilliant — and somehow, it kept the seasickness at bay.

Rain clouds chased us back to shore, but by the time we reached Tiki Villas, the sky had started to open up. The jungle steamed in the heat, thick and alive. As we hauled our bags from the car, two toucans glided overhead, watching like curious neighbors. After a wild morning on the water, we were ready to kick back and settle in.

The lodge itself was something else. Balinese meets Costa Rican — carved wood, open-air spaces, everything alive and breathing. Nine villas tucked into the hillside, each offering wide-open views that stop you mid-step. The infinity pool stretches to the edge of the canopy, calm and glassy, like it’s holding its breath. I stood there barefoot, salty, and sun-drunk, and thought, if you needed a place to lose the noise, this would definitely be it.

Dinner that night was at the on-site restaurant, Las Velas, with the owner and chef, Serge. Tall, animated, and possibly a wizard. He cooked like one anyway. Somehow, the man turned local market finds and jungle-grown ingredients into something that tasted both familiar and entirely new. It was family-style, and every plate was a story.

We started with a green mango salad that hit like a perfectly tuned chord. Sweet, sour, spicy, crunchy — Jett said he could live off it, and I believe him. Then came the dynamite shrimp, lightly crisped, tucked against fried rice with smoky Balinese flair. There was boneless chicken — golden, blistered, addictive. Then came the coconut green curry, smooth as velvet, and a sea bass in red curry broth so good it made the whole table go quiet. Everything was so fresh it felt illegal.

Serge told us over drinks that Tiki Villas is about to undergo a massive transformation. They’re rebranding as Atman Oceana Resort and Healing Centre with plans to reopen in late 2025 as a next-level wellness retreat. Think neuroscience meets ancient ceremony, plant medicine, breathwork, jungle hikes, cold plunges — the works. They’re putting $600K into the transformation, upgrading everything from the villas to the restaurant, and adding new healing spaces designed for serious mind-body-soul tune-ups. It’s still the jungle, still wild and beautiful, but with a whole new kind of energy. If this was the “before,” I can’t wait to see the “after.”

At one point, I needed a ride into town but quickly learned that taxis basically don’t exist on Sundays. I was stranded — until Serge, without missing a beat, offered to drive me himself. His wife smiled and shrugged like, of course, no big deal. So off we went, cruising down jungle roads with the windows down and reggae spilling out of the speakers. At one point, Serge looked back and said, “The frequency is high here. People are kinder, and they move slower.”

I nodded. I felt it in my bones. There’s something about Costa Rica that strips away all the noise. You’re not the same when you leave — and if you are, you did it wrong.