(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? ☼

I roll over. Kirk’s not there. “Hey, are you almost done?” I call out hoarsely from three hours of sleep.

“I’m finishing up right now,” he says from the couch in the living room. He’s still working. His job is ridiculous.

He crawls into bed next to me. “Hey,” he asks, pending a question.

“Yeah?”

“So we still don’t know if the motorcycle shipped or not, right?”

A few weeks ago, we bought a motorcycle off craigslist – a dirt bike, actually – and had it shipped (or rather, are waiting for it to ship) to Costa Rica. We’re scheming again – trying to figure out how to make money without a job.

My chest feels hollow. “No … we don’t.”

Two thousand dollars. Just sitting there, in a warehouse in Long Beach. Kirk’s worried. Maybe in this moment, exhausted and on the brink of sleep, he’s not, but now my mind is reeling. Where is the motorcycle now? Is it still leaning up against that stack of cardboard boxes in the warehouse? Did Miguel do something with it? Is it even in Long Beach? Has it been sold? Is someone racing it in the desert? Is it on craigslist? Is it in a heaping pile, ditched after being used for a drug run? Who runs drugs on a motorcycle?

“Will you try to get a hold of Natalia tomorrow? Or send me Miguel’s number and I’ll try to call him,” said Kirk.

“Okay, yeah.”

I’m not falling back asleep. My heart’s racing and this stupid song is stuck in my head from a TV commercial where a dorky Asian guy is sitting at his cubicle rocking out with headphones on looking at photos of himself from Vegas on his screen saver. Hit the lights, ohh oh, hit the lights ohh oh …

Miguel, our shipping point man in Long Beach, is worrying me. I sent him an email yesterday. I haven’t heard back from him yet. I called him twice on Friday trying to figure out what was going on.

“It hasn’t shipped yet?”

“No, no, eet has not sheeped yet,” he says, babbling on in his thick Spanish accent something I can’t understand whatsoever.

“Ok, thanks Miguel.”

I hung up. Immediately, Kirk calls.

“So we don’t know why it hasn’t shipped? We gotta find out why, Lauren. From what I read about these guys, we really have to stay on them. Stuff can just sit there, weeks go by, months. Then what happens to it? Two thousand dollars just sits there, unnoticed? We’ve got to look at it as cash. Because that’s what it is. Two grand. Just sitting there. We need to stay on top of this.”

My stomach twists. I roll onto my back. I need to calm myself down. I try to think of something I really like.  A table full of deserts. What? No … how about something I can look forward to. Christmas dinner. What is with the food? Kirk’s family coming to visit. That’ll be fun. The Stone Brewery, the Safari Park, Ruby’s on the pier … But will I get enough days off from work? What if I get hired at this new restaurant? Will they hire me one day and let me take a week off the next? Do I really want this job? Should I even go to the interview in the morning? Damnit, it’s nearly morning now.  Okaay, forget that stuff. How about sheep? Should I count sheep? Who the f actually counts sheep?!

Oh jeez. What if the two grand is gone? Why did we even do this in the first place?

Hey! I say to Myself, that’s unfair.You can’t just shoot yourself in the mental foot with those kind of questions. There’s no need to get all bent out of shape. Your letting your imagination hijack your rationality. Hit the lights, ohh oh, hit the lights ohh oh …

Damn that song.

☼

I hung up the phone. Well that was easy.

It was Tuesday afternoon. I had just landed myself – and Kirk – a job interview for Tuesday night.

The interview was with an adventure photography company that specializes in outdoorsy photo shoots. Get your photo taken while you kayak, snorkel, surf, hike, horseback ride… or even Segway. They wanted to hire more photographers for the upcoming high season.

This gig could be pretty cool. Paddling around in the ocean, using an underwater housing, seals swimin’ by, surfers ripping it up. Ya. This could be awesome.

We walked up the steps to the second floor office area. Suave-looking Mr. Portrait Photographer in his surfer-esque getup greeted us. I could tell right off the bat that Kirk wasn’t keen on this guy. Kirk doesn’t like spit-shined types.

He interviewed us each separately. He asked me how I would entertain my clients out on the water. Well, shouldn’t the whole kayak thing be entertaining enough? Apparently it wasn’t. He asked if I sang.

“What? No. I’m tone-deaf.”

“Oh come on. I bet you can sing.”

“Haha. No. Definitely not. You don’t want to hear me try. Promise.”

“Come on. You can sing ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat, can’t you?’”

“Uhh…”

“Alright. You’ve got to sing. Ready? How bout this: ‘Rooow‘”

He started off in this ridiculously high falsetto. “You’re really going to make me sing?” I ask.

“Was that too high? Ok, lower. Go ahead.”

For the sake of getting the pain over sooner, I actually sang the first line of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” And something about a stream.

After a bunch of other killer questions like “What color is your personality?” and “Can you tell jokes?” the interview was over. I did so well that Mr. Photographer invited me to come back on Saturday for part two of the interview process: gettin’ wet.

Saturday in a Nut Shell: Four other interviewees and I (Kirk didn’t come) went down to the beach separately to speed-shoot a fake client couple running and kissing on the beach. Then we put on wetsuits and used a camera in a housing to shoot each other kayaking into the surf. Lastly, we all (5 of us interviewees, Mr. Photographer, and client couple) kayaked out into the ocean so Mr. Photographer could shoot the fake client couple and show us interviewees how this sh*t is done.

Despite the cold (my feet went numb out in the ocean), the “active” interview was pretty fun. If nothing else, it was a free kayak rental and meet n’ greet session with other fellow photographers my age.

But about the actual job. There was a bit of a drawback. The pay. Yes, but of course. What was the compensation again? $10 an hour. Are you kidding me? You want to pay skilled photographers in the San Diego area $10 an hour? Perfect. That should just about cover GAS to drive to work. Needless to say, despite the fun premise of the position, it just wasn’t worth it.

And as for that Reporter/Photographer job? I did end up going in for an interview. I also found out at said interview that between the time I had first applied for the position (back in November) and now, the specifications of the job had changed. It was no longer a salaried position. The pay was purely commission.

What? This threw me for a loop. I thought I would be writing and taking photos, not selling crap. Turns out that yes, there was still writing and photography, but that stuff wasn’t what I’d be getting paid to do (even though it was required.) The only way to earn my keep was to peddle each business and restaurant I visited a web package. Bottom line: I would be a salesmen.

I didn’t really care for that. If I was going to go cold calling to sell websites to earn 30-70% commission, why wouldn’t I go cold calling on my own, have Kirk make the websites and earn 100% commission? Which begs the question, why in the heck would anyone choose to go door-to-door selling crappy website packages to begin with?

Which reminds me of something else I’d rather not do: sing nursery rhymes to perfect strangers.

A solution must be found for our deteriorating financial situation. I haven’t found a job [that I like]. I can’t completely speak for Kirk, but neither has he.

Alright then. Craigslist? The end has come to searching your jobs section. We are going to begin posting in your services section.

That’s right. We’ll start our own business.

(Pssst. It’s already underway.) ☼

Luna Park is a tiny little amusement park with an iconic clown-face entrance. It’s across the harbor, opposite downtown Sydney. To get there, Kirk and I walked from Circular Quay all the way across the Harbour Bridge (which wasn’t actually that far, just 1149m). Even so, we had worked up an appetite. At the end of the bridge, a fish & chip joint wafting a smorgasbord of seafood delights nearly sucked us in.

No, no. Photos first, food later.

Amusement parks are a photographer’s play-ground. Colorful lights, people, and moving objects abound. I love capturing motion-blur from the rides. The ribbons of light that show up on camera can’t be seen in real life. Normal pictures usually portray a moment in time, whereas a motion-blur image is a time capsule.

We set up shop in the median of the thoroughfare, where we could squeeze both the ferris wheel and the merry-go-round into the frame for a time-lapse capture. The remote shutter snapped only about a minute’s worth of pictures when a security guard walked right in front of the lens, his weight obscuring the entirety of the frame. Hey now! What’s the big idea, mate?!

“Sorry sir,” he says to Kirk, “No professional photography in the park.”
“Oh, no worries, I’m not professional photographer,” replied Kirk.
“That tripod makes you a professional photographer.”
“Oh really? Wouldja tell my mother that?”

Grumbling but not yet defeated, we took the camera off the tripod. Fine then. We don’t need no stinkin’ tripod. We’ll set it on the ground. That worked for a little while. The camera couldn’t really take any other decent photos without something to rest it on. And the angle from the ground got old fast. Our photo shoot quickly petered out. You can see the security guard for a brief second in the time-lapse movie.

We walked back to the fish & chip joint only to discover dim lights and upside-down chairs on tables. Dang it. Oh how battered and deep-fried food had sounded so good! Now what? Up and down the street we roamed, and after much ado, we settled on the reasonably priced Stir Crazy Thai. We ordered one appetizer (Australians call this the entrée) and one entrée (called a main). (Confusing, no? When I first started waiting tables here I kept asking people if they wanted to order an appetizer with their entrée, and they looked at me, utterly confused.)

We split both dishes. The entrée, called “Money Bags”, turned out to be my favorite. As a newbie to Thai food, I wasn’t sure if Money Bags – deep-fried money-bag shaped dough filled with vegetables and chicken – were a typical Thai specialty or just a cool dish that Stir Crazy Thai had created. Although yesterday, I spotted a Thai joint on the opposite side of town that called itself Money Bag Thai. It must be a popular dish. It would please me to no end to be able to order those little tasty bags of goodness at Thai restaurants everywhere I go.