By BETSY CROSBY
For the Atlanta Journal-Constitution

TAMARINDO, Costa Rica -- There is nothing worse than traveling with people whose mere existence irritates. Ask our teenage son, Sam. He's had just about as many trips with his parents -- to museums, educational displays and historical re-enactments -- as he can take.

Then, again, there's just so much sighing and rolling of the eyes that we, his parents, can take. So, last spring we planned a trip from a teenager's perspective, to Costa Rica. To reduce the irritant factor all around, we brought along Sam's easy-going friend Gordon Smith.

The key to traveling with two 15-year-old boys is adventure. Costa Rica proved to be just the ticket, offering surfing, an active volcano and a zip line through the rain forest. It also served up activities for doddering middle-aged parents: golf, bird-watching and, my personal favorite, soaking in thermal hot springs. And we were able to check out the Hacienda Pinilla, a resort under development by an Atlantan.

A bonus was the scenery, dramatic enough to impress teenagers and parents alike: breathtaking mountain views, unspoiled beaches and lush tropical landscapes offering a kaleidoscope of birds and butterflies. We kept wondering, is this what Hawaii was like in the 1950s? Or Florida in the 1930s?

In San José, the capital, we got our first inkling of just how adventurous a trip this would be: Our rental car company asked us to agree in writing not to drive our four-wheel drive through rivers. We cheerfully complied, little guessing that this trip would test our road skills and our patience.

We had been told to fly to Liberia, a small town in northwest Costa Rica, whose airport is about an hour's drive to the Pacific beach resorts in the Guanacaste region. Because all direct Delta flights from Atlanta to Liberia were booked, we opted to fly into San José and drive to the coast. Though there were small commuter flights between San José and Tamarindo, the surf town that was our ultimate destination, we wanted the flexibility of a rental car. We also were carrying golf clubs, which sometimes can exceed the weight limits of small planes.

'Go with the non-flow'

What looked on the map to be an easy three-hour drive stretched into an excruciating six as we navigated the potholes on the two-lane Pan-American "highway" alongside uniformed schoolgirls on bicycles. Exiting the San José area, my husband tried to make up time by passing the lumbering trucks on the shoulderless switchbacks. I closed my eyes to survive the experience, diminishing my appreciation of the stupendous mountain scenery. And as darkness descended we got lost, happily near a service station where we received accurate directions in English.

"You've got to be able to go with the non-flow," said Dorothy MacKinnon, an American we met that night at the Hacienda Pinilla near Tamarindo. She and her traveling companion, Kristin Jolly, a recent graduate of the University of Georgia, were working on an update of a Tico Times guidebook to Costa Rica. Relaxing over goblets of planter's punch, the two women cheerfully recounted their experiences of the previous few days. They had flipped their rental car once and had two flat tires. Their attitude seemed to suggest it was all in a day's work.

Relax, chill

Incredibly, the angst of our first day's adventures melted away in the subdued beauty of Hacienda Pinilla, a resort that offers 24 rooms. This 4,500-acre former cattle ranch beside the Pacific Ocean is being transformed into an exclusive eco-resort of boutique hotels and private homes. A tropical rain forest marks its northern boundaries; its isolated beaches at the southern border are inhabited only by the occasional surfers who cross the mangrove swamp at low tide.

Though many of the hacienda's attractions are in the planning stages, its championship golf course is open and has been drawing international golfers for three years. We were traveling in March, the dry season, and a textured vista of brown grassland, spreading Guanacaste trees and green fairways evoked a spaciousness suggestive of Africa. The course has been certified by the Audubon Society as a bird sanctuary, a source of pride for the hacienda's Atlanta-based owner, H.G. Pattillo, who asked golf course designer Mike Young, of Athens to preserve the trees.

Our boys submitted to a round of golf, but then were ready for greater adventure. The hacienda's friendly marketing director, Cynthia Duran, arranged for Sam and Gordon to take surfing lessons in Tamarindo. Two hours later, they were hanging ten -- but at a cost. Gordon had chipped his two front teeth, putting a temporary damper on his pursuit of the perfect wave. But he was soon paddling back to catch the next swell, and by the end of the day, we had accomplished our purpose: For once, both boys were worn out.

Back at the hacienda, Duran assured us that the Costa Rican dentists were very good and very cheap, a sentiment echoed by helpful Costa Ricans the rest of our trip. But Gordon opted to wait for dental relief in the States.

As the days passed, lulled by our surroundings and the graciousness of our hosts, we became de-Americanized. Quirky inefficiencies amused rather than annoyed us. We shrugged our shoulders when the telephone faded out in midsentence. We laughed when the Tamarindo ATM machine whirred obediently but failed to spit out money into waiting hands. We had developed the "benevolent attitude" that travel guidebooks suggest Americans bring with them to Costa Rica.