These are fragments, diary pages written in saltwater and foam. Each swell writes its own entry, its own confession. Some days the ocean held me close, other days it wrung the breath out of me.

July 1

Colorado’s. Just a walk around the headland, no privado sign in the way, and suddenly I’m standing in front of a barrelling machine. My only thought: holy shit, I’ve never seen a real wave before. A flawless line of glass, blue and hollow, peeling endlessly.

I wanted the wave that wouldn’t take me, the one that asked for something but not too much. Dropping in felt less like a choice and more like surrendering to a truth you can’t outrun. Tucked inside, the world goes quiet, your body suspended as you rush against the close.

If you make it out, everything’s sharper – like life itself just clicked into focus. If you make it, it was the best wave of your life. And with vacationers parked up on the beach, I swear you could feel their scorecards flipping upward as the wave shot you out.

July 6

A secret spot. There’s a left when everything else is too much. When the sets close out, when the weight of the water crushes your chest, and your head turns against you. This wave is mellow, warm – a gentle hug that doesn’t ask anything of you. It just lets you move, lets you breathe.

Just mind the reef in the mid-section. You won’t notice it until your skin starts to sting.

July 10

Panga Drops. Don’t expect to see the wave you’re meeting until it’s already on top of you. A couple of heads buoy at the peak and I thought I’d cleared it – thought I was safe. The second my paddle slowed; the horizon stood up. heaviest set of the day, and me right in its teeth.

The first wave hit like a prayer – long enough to feel buried but short enough that my eyes didn’t bulge. The second wave rolled over me and then release, clarity, my body folded into the current like it belonged there. And then it hit me: fuck, my leash. I was no longer waiting for the beating – I was fighting it, gasping, my eyes darting across the surface.

There it is. Just the rip between us and a race against the rocks. Finally, my fingers close on the rail. Triumph. Relief. Breath.

I won’t make that mistake again. Sitting sour on the sand, an hours walk from home, watching my friends pull into slabs while strangers pass with their pitying eyes.

July 25

Amarillo South. It feels like home now. A wave that greets me like a friend from childhood. It has taught me patience, offered me gentle lessons, and never once shut me out. It’s where I found a community, tight-knit and unhurried, as generous on land as they are in the lineup. Mostly you see the same familiar faces, but every now and then a traveller drifts through, folded easily into the rhythm.

No wind, a thin crowd, the sky soft as linen. The tide pulled back gently, as if to make room for me. I found one small line and let it carry me, trim and fade, no heroics, just presence. Amarillo didn’t demand much. And after spending every day here shifting to a new break after a month feels like a hard truth to swallow.

July 27

Amarillo North. When the swell goes soft, I head north. Always waiting, it rises out of the rocks with a playful kind of energy. The peaks aren’t serious, but they’ve got character – they’ll pick you up, spin you around, maybe even toss you if you’re not paying attention.

Some days it feels like they’re teasing, other days like they’re letting you in on a secret. If you’re lucky, it leaves you laughing with a kiss of salt on your cheek.

August 28

Maderas. I gave her a month and never found my place. Left or right, I couldn’t make either work. I’d hold my breath on the drop, only to let it out as I collided with someone chasing the opposite line. My head felt blunt, every choice slicing like a dull knife through overripe tomatoes, everything turning to mush until I couldn’t even tell what I wanted anymore.

One day my fin carved across my forehead, sharp where I wasn’t. A reminder. Maderas had a way of being cruel like that – steep takeoffs, heavy water, no forgiveness. I never fell into her rhythm. Each drop felt like a guess, each landing like an apology.

And when she feels too big, she shuts down completely. A wall of water that won’t let you through. Better to stay on the sand and watch from a safe distance than let her close her hand around you.

I read back over these pages and see not just waves, but the moods of the ocean itself. Each spot left its own mark – punishment, joy, play, rejection, grace. And none of its washed off. It’s stuck to the nape of my neck, hiding between my toes, jittering under my fingernails.