This all started with a wave.
Or maybe it started before that. Maybe it started the first time I stood on a board, wobbly-legged, arms flailing, saltwater burning my eyes, and thought—this. This is it.
Because once you get hooked on surfing, there’s no going back. It’s not just a sport. It’s not even a lifestyle. It’s a full-body, salt-soaked addiction.
Huntington Beach was home, the Pacific my backyard. If I wasn’t in the water, I was waxing a board, shaping one, or fixing the dings from another bad wipeout. I competed. I trained. I got pretty damn good.
But life’s funny, huh? Just when you think you’ve got your rhythm, a rogue set rolls in and tosses you straight onto the reef.
Spain? Yeah, That Wasn’t the Plan
So, my parents moved to Spain a while back. Gandia—a quiet coastal town, the kind of place where life moves slow, the seafood’s fresh, and the locals can spot a tourist from a mile away. I kept telling myself I’d visit.
Never did.
Then Marisol happened.
Puerto Rican. Crazy smart. Studying marine biology, which is just unfairly cool. She didn’t just love the ocean—she understood it. Talked about it like it was alive, like it had a personality, a mood, a story.
She made me look at it differently.
We fell fast, the way you do when everything just clicks.
Then she got accepted into a research program in Sydney. A year. Half a world away.
I could’ve stayed. Kept surfing California. Waited it out.
Didn’t.
Instead, I booked a one-way ticket to Spain. Six months of chasing waves, reconnecting with my folks, learning Spanish for real this time. Then Barcelona—big city, new language, no idea what comes next.
The Reality Check
Here’s the thing—surfing Spain is not surfing California.
The waves? They exist, sure, but you gotta work for them. One week you’re scoring perfect barrels in Mundaka, the next you’re staring at a flat ocean, wondering if you should just take up hiking.
The budget? Tight. Some nights, I’m living off whatever’s cheapest at the local market.
The distance? Brutal. The late-night calls with Marisol are amazing and awful at the same time.
But there are moments—golden, wild, unforgettable moments—where I remember exactly why I came.
The fisherman in Galicia who told me where to find an uncrowded break.
The first time I paddled out and realized—oh damn, I actually understand what the locals are saying.
The sunrise session where the water was so still, so perfect, it felt like the world had hit pause.
Why This Blog?
Maybe you surf. Maybe you travel. Maybe you just want to see if I crash and burn on this whole “learning Spanish” thing.
Whatever brought you here, stick around.
Let’s chase some waves. Let’s talk stories. Let’s see where this ride takes us.
Because if there’s one thing I know for sure?
The best wave is always the next one.