First things first. The coffee. Costa Rican coffee in a Costa Rican tree house? About as ideal as a morning can be.
Your java stupor might even make you willing to let Pops take a bunch of photos.
Until he persists and you must persist in making the photo session difficult.
But it's all so nice out, you forgive him.
Since he knows how difficult he's been, he packs you on a rackety bus that costs two Colones each (about 75 cents) to go to the beach in Manuel Antonio. You hurkety-jerk along, but you don't mind because this is the bus the locals take and far more interesting than the tidy, tourist options. 
The bus lets you off at a road-side market full of colors and happy expectations. Suddenly, you don't mind being a tourist. You buy a sarong for the beach and walk down the way to the sandy shore.
Where Pops is determined in how he will spend his time.
And I cheer and applaud him from my chair in the sand. I wave and smile and then go back to reading a book and drinking coconut water from a old man who walks the beaches calling, "Frush-a Cocanuta Wata." If you give him a little nod, he'll pull the cooler off of his shoulder, pull out a shaved coconut, give a hack or two with his startlingly large machete, and pop in a straw. 
When your hair is matted with sea water and you are sticky with sand and sunscreen, you find a little place to eat and remark over how tiring doing very little can be.
And then Pops remembers how magnificent he was on the surf board and exults from his chair.
And you laugh.
And are grateful once again.
