I’m in Manuel Antonio for the first time, staring out across perfectly blue ocean water and a sky that’s clear for as far as my eyes can see.

Let’s back up.

After spending a predicted 9000% of my 2023 caring for sick people and animals (I do not exaggerate, how dare you), I was about to pop like a human pimple. I was angry, I was tired of the inside of my house. I was starting to get to the point where I resented my husband when he left the house to hang with friends. It got to the point where I finally sat him down and told him that I needed to go somewhere — anywhere — that wasn’t a house with him and the kids.

I put it nicer than that, obviously, but the sentiment was the same. And, I knew, it was one that my friends all shared. In a group of about 10 of us, all tired and stretched-thin moms, we’d been musing about how great it would be to take a “Mom’s Weekend” away for a couple months already. It was one of those things — you know the type — where a bunch of people say stuff like “we should do blah blah blah” in that tone that says clearly that they have absolutely no intention of actually doing that thing. Sometimes it’s because they don’t actually like each other; other times, it’s because it would take a lot of moving parts. For us, it was the latter.

I may be ADHD, and I may often have the energy of a ferret with the flu, but when I want something very badly, I’ll make it happen. This trip was badly needed, and so I juggled cost requirements, room arrangements, and contact with the management to make this shit happen.

On May 14th, it happened. Six of us loaded into a minivan and drove a couple hours to beautiful Manuel Antonio.

Which is how I wound up standing on a beautiful beach, breathing in the salty air and wondering when I’d get to have a coconut with a drink in it. I settled into my beach chair and decided that I’d probably nap first. No, maybe I’d read first. Maybe I’d try to do both. I didn’t know how that would work, but who cares? Not me.

Suddenly, my friends came bounding over. “Wanna ride a banana boat?” They asked.

This didn’t sound like a nap or a book, and so I was skeptical. “A what?”

They pointed at a long raft and explained that we’d all sit on it single file, and that the raft would be pulled by a speedboat. This sounded fun, and the weekend was all about having fun I couldn’t usually have, right? Sure. Let’s do it.

Like so.

I was quickly given a safety vest, and we were seated on the raft by height. At 5’2″ I almost always lose at this game, and this time was no different. My seat was at the very, very front.

We were first hooked up to a smaller watercraft, so that it could pull us out to the motorboat. As it revved up, I whooped excitedly, and then promptly fell into the water.

I was fine, just annoyed. In fact, I laughed as the very patient gentleman on the Sea Doo swooped around effortlessly and helped me out of the water and back onto the raft.

“You ok?” One friend asked me.

“Yeah,” I said, “I just hope I don’t fall off again.”

If this was a TV show, a violin sting would play as a form of foreshadowing. Just imagine you hear it, I guess.

Anyway.

The motorboat started to speed up,and I tried desperately to enjoy the sights around me. I couldn’t for all of the salty water shooting from the wake of the boat, into my eyes. Someone behind me finally mentioned that they’d given the drivers of the boat the okay to knock us from the raft. My heart skipped a beat.

Here’s where I should’ve said something. I did not.

From here, the ride quickly became — well, it wasn’t exactly what I’d imagine Hell to be, but it was definitely top three. The boat started driving in circles, making larger and larger waves to drag us over. Our raft started coming out of the water, and we would rise from the raft, only to come slamming back down. I tried desperately to hold on, imagining that I was riding a particularly unruly horse. My eyes were mostly closed, as I’d given up trying to see through the water splashing my face.

I was fucking miserable. But I still said nothing; no way I was gonna be the killjoy, the wet blanket. I’d put up with this until I didn’t have to anymore. What was the worst that could happen anyway?

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. We were rising into the air pretty high at this point. BOOM BOOM BOO-

We were finally tossed, but I came down on top of something. To this day, I don’t know what it was. All I remember is hearing the crack of my face colliding with something, and then being keenly aware of water surrounding me. Was I right side up, upside down? I didn’t know. Didn’t know. Too confused. Was I even conscious? I thought I was; pretty sure I was. Needed to just break the surface and then I could breathe and —

As I came up, I was still rather out of it. All of my friends were laughing and shrieking. That is, until one of them finally saw my face. Immediately, her joy was replaced by horror.

“Arianna’s bleeding.” Was all she said. It was enough.

Suddenly the world came back into sharp focus. I tasted blood, saw that I was in the middle of the ocean with pain blossoming from my nose throughout my face. I started to sob and hyperventilate, because that’s what you do in these circumstances.

One friend grabbed me. The rest signalled for the boat. After I was able to speak, I swore that I was fine, that it was just a tiny cut on my nose, that I absolutely didn’t have a concussion and that I would be fine and that everyone could go back to what they were doing. Even after my people-pleasing had smashed my face, I still refused to rock the boat (so to speak). A friend still rode in the boat with me until I was returned to land, and gave a gentle-yet-firm tongue lashing to the company who owned the boat for not having a first aid kit onboard. I stayed pretty silent and only asked for ibuprofen and ice, because I’m fine really, it’s just a cut and a headache. I will be fine.

The injuries, about two days after

I was not fine.

The following week, after dealing with days of depression, anxiety, and unbeatable tiredness, I realized I had a concussion.

The following month, after seeing in the mirror that my nose was no longer straight, I realized I broke my nose.

Last month, after weeks of feeling like someone is following me around and tasing me in the face, I found out I now have trigeminal neuralgia.

And from all of this, my greatest lesson is still one I struggle with: that if something doesn’t work for you, you say something. Don’t go to the party if you don’t want to. Don’t take the work if you’re not up for it. Don’t agree to “fun” if it isn’t fun for you. And, if you realize halfway through that you made a mistake, say so. Someone else’s hurt feelings aren’t worth your health or comfort, and most times, I’ve found that those hurt feelings aren’t as much of a risk as we tend to think they are.

So if you see this, it’s okay to be “boring.” It’s okay to say “no.” And it’s okay to listen to your gut. It can make the difference between getting out of things healthy, and ongoing suffering for months, or even years.

Also, fuck banana boats. Avoid those at all costs.