By Misha Narine

He places the dehydrated coconut wafer on the counter in front of him, then carefully draws on it with an eyedropper, creating a dark green rorschach of pure hash oil.

"Tell me, what is your intention?"

I'm confused by the question. It's the kind of thing I'd expect to hear from a father whose daughter I was about to keep out past curfew.

"My intention?"

"Yes, when you're using medicines, it's very important to have an intention."

In hindsight, it was a simple question, but I didn't have any premeditated spiritual intentions to share at the moment. I answered as honestly as I could:

"My intention is to eat the hash wafer and mellow out on the beach while watching the sunset."

The sunset at Ostional Beach in Nosara happened around 5:30 and was something to be seen: A long, clean stretch of unbroken black volcanic sand and the last rose-tinted rays of the sun dancing off the Pacific. To view this while stoned, that was my intention.

He smiles back at me, but the look on his face intimates failure. Either my answer isn't good enough or I've misunderstood something.

"It's okay. I'll prepare this with my intentions for you."

He was offering on my behalf. If he was willing to do the work, who was I to protest.