(If you haven’t yet, check out part one of this story.)

The YZ450f arrived in San Jose last week in one piece. Considering we declined shipping insurance, this was extremely good news. Especially after a casual search online for Maersk – the shipping company that was responsible for transporting our motorcycle on a 10-day voyage over the Pacific – returned this result:

And this:

And these:

And all of these:

OK, I went a little overboard with those last ones (disclaimer: not all of these ships are Maersk’s), but still. Yikes.

Back to the good news: “our” ship completed its voyage, and the motorcycle was delivered without a scratch. It was now sitting in a customs yard in San Jose waiting for Natalia and David to pick it up.

But, we had yet to find out:

Will we make money or lose money? Two things still need to happen:

1. A customs official in Costa Rica needs to assess import taxes on the motorcycle.
2. Natalia and David need to sell the motorcycle on crmotos.com (Costa Rica’s “craigslist” for motor vehicles).

Let’s run through the numbers.

Our hope was a net profit of $1000-$2000. Natalia, David, Kirk and I all agreed at the start that we’d split the profit (or the loss) 50/50. That would mean $500-$1000 for each couple. Once we worked out a system, it wouldn’t be a bad return for a few days’ work.

So far, the motorcycle and expenses (gas for Kyle’s truck, tie-down straps and swapping out the paddle tire) totaled about $2000. In November, Miguel of North Atlantic shipping had quoted us $375 to ship the bike to Costa Rica.

$2375. Bam. OK, we still need to know the – DUN DUN DUN DUNNNN! – import tax. Somewhere along the line, we all got it in our heads that the import tax might be only a few hundred dollars. I don’t know where that came from, because 40% is the typical amount. (Again, 40% of what number? We had no idea.) Realistically, at the very least it would be $480 (that’s 40% of our $1200 declared US customs value). If this proved true, our net profit would turn out as predicted: $1000-$2000.

We were

SO WRONG.

On Friday, January 13th (go figure), Natalia told me via Skype that she had just talked with the customs office:

FUU…DGE.

Weeell, that’s awesome. Our expense sheet now tallied…

…nearly $3900. With a sale price of $4500, that leaves us with a teeny profit of…

$600.

Split 50/50.

Ugh.

It could be worse. We could have lost money. Either way, it looks like our motorcycle export endeavor has come to an end. What can we say? We tried. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Besides, in between all the uncertainty and the craziness, we learned a few things, and had fun doing it too.

Right now, Natalia and David have the bike listed on crmotos.com for $4700.

Let’s hope it sells. Fingers crossed. ☼

Kirk and I are in Costa Rica. It’s April 2011.

The four of us, having finished dinner, are sitting around the table brainstorming business ideas. With Kirk and I in the United States and Natalia and David in Costa Rica, we can use our respective locations to our advantage. Opportunities exist to make a profit on products shipped from the US to Costa Rica. Prices are often double or triple in Costa Rica than in the US. This goes for clothing, electronics and vehicles, for example. Vehicles, including motorcycles.

“I think motos are a good idea,” says Natalia. Kirk and I agree. Both Natalia and David are motorcycle savvy. They’ve owned a handful of bikes over the years and have knowledge of the current market. Kirk and I? We’re not motorcycle aficionados, but it’s not as if we’re opening a repair shop. We’re buying and selling. (Not to undercut Kirk’s motorcycle experience – he once owned a Honda CB250.)

Making money without a job has become our obsession. It’s the pursuit of freedom in its purest form. To be able to pick up and leave whenever we want, to move to Denver to ski over the winter, to surf in Hawaii when the swell picks up. To visit the relatives I just found out I have in Monaco, or my sister in NYC (before she decides to move herself!) Traveling is important. But more so, making money without a job sets your life free. It’s about enjoying your morning coffee – not in your car on a frustrating commute – but rather at the kitchen table while reading the paper. Or, at a coffee shop over conversation with a friend. Or, at the ocean while watching the waves! Making money without a job is about living the lifestyle you choose to live.

October 2011.

After months of talking about the idea we finally make the decision to pull the trigger and buy a motorcycle.

What type of bike to choose? Even with thousands of makes and models available, we needed to find one within our few-thousand dollar budget that would garner the highest profit margin between the two countries.

We decided on a dirt bike. Dirt bikes don’t require license plates in California (as long as you don’t ride them on the road), nor do they require registration or smog testing in Costa Rica. The amount of red tape we avoided by selecting a dirt bike saved us hundreds of dollars. To select the right make and model, I researched prices on craigslist here in San Diego and compared them with prices on crmotos.com, Costa Rica’s website for vehicle classified ads. Kirk created a Google spreadsheet that Natalia and David could review and give the thumbs up or thumbs down to various bikes.

On paper, the Yamaha YZ450f and the Honda CRF450 looked to have the highest profit margin. An ’04, ’05 or ’06 could still be found for around $2000 in California and were selling for up to ₡2,500,000 ($5000 US) in Costa Rica. Gross profit? $3000.

Cake, right? Why wasn’t anyone else doing this? But wait, we can’t forget the expenses:

• Shipping.  A Tico shipping company with an office in LA. offered us the cheapest quote: $350, Long Beach to San Jose. We were stoked! (Until this proved too good to be true.)
• Gas/truck rental. We could go looking for the bike just fine in the Passat, but once we found it, it wasn’t going to fit in the hatchback. It’s a motorcycle, right? Just ride it, you say. Ah, but it’s not street legal. Plus, the one we ended up purchasing was still sporting its paddle tire from recent romps in the desert. Those don’t roll on pavement. Moral of the story: we threw Kyle some gas money to borrow his GMC Sierra.
• Import taxes. This was the scariest of them all. Supposedly import taxes were 40%. But 40% of what? Forty percent of the what we declared to be the US customs value, $1200? Forty percent of what we actually paid for it, $2000? Forty percent of what it could sell for in Costa Rica, $5000?! Forty percent of some arbitrary number they pulled out of their own a**es?! Ohh, motocicleta bonita! You pay much money. No profit for you! There was no way to get our hands on solid number until the bike was under the scrutiny of a customs official in Costa Rica. From what we heard, this was like bringing a clown to a toddler’s birthday party: it could turn out fine, or, really, really bad. This number would make or break everything.

Every investment is a calculated gamble. So what did we do? Rolled the dice.

November 2011.

It was a rainy day in Escondido. With one last look over the chosen 2004 Yamaha YZ450f, Kirk shook hands with Marc, a new father with no time left in his schedule for riding. I tried to keep Marc’s anxious one-year old entertained with a horribly off-key rendition of Itsy Bitsy Spider while Kirk and Marc signed the papers.

Kirk handed over the 100 twenty-dollar bills. We had placed our bet.

By the end of the week the motorcycle was sitting in a warehouse in Long Beach, with many thanks to Kyle and Dana. Besides Kyle lending us his truck so we could transport the bike, the two of them let us store the bike in their garage for almost a week between picking it up from Marc on Sunday and making the day trip to Long Beach on Friday. Without our generous friends, details like this would have been this endeavor’s undoing. We don’t have a truck. We don’t have a garage. Where would we have kept the bike for five days? It’s not like we can park it on the street. This bike doesn’t need a key! Anyone could have kick-started that baby and within a couple of hours be whipping up sand at Ocotillo Wells. (Not that taking it for a joy ride is the first thing a motorcycle thief would do, but we didn’t park it on the street to find out.)

With the motorcycle now entrusted to one Miguel Larios of North Atlantic shipping company in Long Beach, all we had to do was wait. Or so we thought.

A week and half went by. I called Miguel. Did the bike ship yet? “No, no, I’m sorry, there were some problems in Costa Rica, and … ” blah, blah, blah … OK, fine, whatever.

Another week goes by. Did it ship yet? “No, no, but next Tuesday eet will ship.” What? Uh, now this is getting ridiculous.

It was about this time that I endured a sleepless night worrying about the motorcycle convinced that it had been stolen, wrecked or sold to drug runners. After weeks of near heart attacks over this stupid motorcycle – Why again did we do this in the first place, gah!? – I bring you to … drumroll, please …

My Facebook Wall, Friday January 6, 2012.

IT MADE IT! Over 3000 miles by container ship from California all the way to Caldera, Costa Rica and finally inland to the customs yard in San Jose. (Now you can breathe easy, Aunt Cindy!)

But, the reckoning hour has yet to come. Will all of our effort pay off? We won’t know until we can tally our expenses. To do this, we need the customs official in Costa Rica to hit us with our 40% import taxes.

Tax man, what’s your number? ☼

Now wait just one minute. A hangover? Come on. I’m no biology buff, but it shouldn’t take my liver 12 hours to metabolize the alcohol from two (rather girly) drinks from the night before. Even if it wasn’t a hangover, it sure felt like one. Why did I feel like such crap?

Maybe it was dehydration. Or lack of exercise. An omega-3/omega-6 imbalance? Rolling out of the wrong side of the bed. The possibilities were endless less than dramatic and all remediable in one morning.

My grand solution? Eat something. And get some fresh air.

I wanted to find breakfast with a view. For a town that’s built on the edge of the ocean, this should’ve been easy breezy. Not so. We drove up and down the main road from one end to the other, but nothing was open. Manuel Antonio caters to backpackers, and that means a hoppin’ night life. Not exactly the place for early risers.

Just as we were about to give up, I saw a small sign for a restaurant at the Costa Verde Hotel: Breakfast * Lunch * Dinner.

Breakfast, we found you!

And View, we found you too.

The plan, after breakfast, was to get to the beach and rent a surfboard at high tide. Kirk kept an eye on the waves between each bite of his pancakes (courtesy of our amazing view).

Now, for some photographic evidence to justify the title of this post:

Kirk’s done this a few times before.

Me?

I still use the knee approach.

Nevertheless, I made it onto two feet. Don’t you love the intensity?

This is the “I got-up! Twice!” smile.

After our surf session, we showered, checked-out, and scoured the shops for souvenirs.

Then, all too soon, we had to wave adios to the beach and the little town. See you next time.

We had a date with Rocky at noon. It was time to head home. ☼

…and then promptly ended at 6:30 p.m.

Really. The two of us razzy youngsters were tucked in our motel beds (yes “beds” plural – twin beds on opposite sides of the room) and asleep by half past 7.

It doesn’t sound razzy or young to be already snoozing around the time old folks are finishing supper. Come to think, Kirk and I are more dorky than hip, and mathematically closer to thirty than twenty. Eeek.

That morning, back in San Jose, we had loaded the car, dropped Natalia off at work and hit the road. By mid-afternoon we had arrived at the cluster of shops, backpackers and motels that is Manuel Antonio. With no hotel booked (we live dangerously), Kirk and I split up to inquire at various front desks about nightly rates. For a mere $38, Hotel Vela Bar gave us a small cave of a room with a pair of twin beds, a fan, and two — count them – one, TWO — complimentary bars of soap. But we could care less about all those luxuries. All we needed was a place to sleep. After moving our bags from the car to the room, we walked to the beach and went for a swim.

Which, after a shower and a change of clothes, brings us back to happy hour at the Marlin Restaurant. And back to that margarita. Which has now turned into a piña colada.

But never mind all that. Who, on their vacation, goes to bed before prime time TV even starts?

We do. We did. (I shouldn’t rob the future us of potential coolness.) More importantly: Why? I’ve chalked it up to a combination of the following:

• Drinks. One too many, one too few. We unfortunately consumed the magic number of happy hour beverages that puts one right in between ‘Taking the Edge Off’ and ‘Starting to Get Trashed.’ Rather, we were right at ‘Damnit, Now I’m Just Sleepy.’
• Budget. We didn’t have the budget to save ourselves from ‘Damnit, Now I’m Just Sleepy.’ Nor did we necessarily desire to move into ‘Starting to Get Trashed.’ Personally, I prefer to reserve that category for special occasions.  (An hour before TC & Michelle’s wedding reception had even begun, for example.)
• Lack of Electrically-Powered Stimuli. Have you experienced a power-outage in the last half-decade? Isn’t it amazing how everything seems to grind to a halt? You can’t watch TV. You can’t use the internet. You probably can’t use your computer at all unless your laptop has a bit of battery left. You can’t read a book because you keep burning the pages on the candle flame. Kirk and I felt stonewalled by the darkness. (Our electricity wasn’t actually out. We did have lights.)

Maybe we could…

Talk. This was unfortunately thwarted by the ramifications of bullet #1.

Go for a walk. Check. Didn’t last long.

Lastly, Head to a bar/restaurant. Thwarted by bullets #1 and #2.

Final option? Crash early. Oh so early.

Check. ☼

~ ~ ~

Next up: Two Gringos Go Surfing

And the motorcycles. So many of them. Splitting lanes like reverse tight-rope walkers.

“Good lord! That guy almost lost his left arm,” I said cringing. Near-amputee experiences were happening all around us.

“They drive here like how you’d want to drive back home, but would get pulled over and ticketed for reckless driving if you actually did,” said Kirk.

“Ya, maybe how you’d want to drive,” I replied.

The night before, two very trusting Ticos graciously offered their only car – their uninsured car – to a couple of gringos who wanted to take a trip to the ocean. A trip to the ocean was no afternoon jaunt; it was 350km there and back to the our desired destination: the beach town of Manuel Antonio. And since Natalia and David’s short vacation time was up, Kirk and I were going it alone.

“Don’t stop for nothing,” David warned us the night before. “Keep your camera, your phone, hidden. If the guys see that, they run up to your car and point a gun at you, and say ‘Give it to me.’ You can’t do nothing.”

“Make sure you check the tires after you park somewhere,” advised Natalia. “If they see you are a tourist, they slash your tires, and when you come back and try to leave, they rob you.”

“And the police,” David continued, “if the police stop a Tico, they just let ‘em go. But you, they see you a gringo. They say, you pay a fine. $100 maybe, maybe more. In cash. They pocket it. If the police stop you, say you speak no a Spanish.”

Feeling significant elevation in our personal threat levels, we remained on edge even through San Jose’s suburbs. Finally, after passing the third and final toll booth, the highway thinned down to two lanes and the traffic lightened up. We relaxed and absorbed the passing environment.

We admired the fence-building practices of Tico farmers. Why use dead wood that needs to be replaced over and over when you can grow your own live fence with a handful of seeds?

We drove for another hour or so, passing miles of palm tree farms hanging in the sky like rows of green fireworks.

A semi-truck heading in the opposite direction flashed his headlights. “Was that meant for us?” I asked Kirk. “Maybe there’s police up ahead?”

Rounding the bend, we saw the reason for the warning.

Loose livestock frequently roam New Zealand roads too, but instead of cows, the runaway culprits are sheep.

It was nearly noon, and even with the windows rolled down, the car was heating up. We longed for cool sea breezes and a bathroom break. Some food wouldn’t hurt either. Preferably casados from a soda, a Tico diner, near the ocean.

We turned off the main highway a few kilometers before Jaco – the big tourist-saturated beach town we visited the previous week – in favor of Playa Herradura, which turned out to be a bus stop and a few sodas settled on the edge of a dark-chocolate beach, with fishing boats floating in a bay the color of liquid peacock feathers.

Just perfect.

Seated at a table just across from perfection, we enjoyed a cold Fresca while we waited for our order to arrive. ☼

Next up: Two Gringos in Manuel Antonio…