The trip kicked off with a one-way ticket to Mexico City and a half-baked plan to follow the Pacific all the way down to Argentina. I’d be surfing whatever broke, burned, or barrelled – chasing swell like it owed me money and collecting my own debts along the way. Oh, and I’m a girl. Because yeah, we surf, we wander, we get into weird shit – and it’s about time those stories got told.

Mica’s a mineral. Its most important job? Making the beaches of Mexico sparkle.

The first time I saw it, I was fresh off two buses and a questionable night’s sleep. My brain felt scrambled, my shoulders raw, and there it was: a stretch of sand that glittered like broken glass in the sun. The ocean winking. The air thick and teasing. The shore break pulling me in with all the charm of a first kiss and absolutely none of the mercy.

That glittering beach? Zicatela, a barrelling break just outside of Puerto Escondido.

And Zicatela doesn’t ease you in. It drowns you, spins you, spits you out with sand in your gums and no idea which way is up. I was out of my depth – literally. No board, no bearings. Just rented foam underfoot and enough ego to paddle into something I had no business touching.

When I wasn’t getting flogged by the Pacific, I was getting drunk… on the Mexican dream Aussie surfers pour down our throats. I was obsessed: with the little coves that swallowed entire afternoons, with volleyball on the beach, and tequila at sunset (or sunrise). I started a fling with the smell of sunscreen and the feeling of the slightly damp swimmers I practically slept in. That hazy heat that leaves your eyes blinking a little slower, and the delirium an afternoon nap puts you in before dinner – addictive. Even the hours were too sun-stoned to move.

And mica, spun in the foam, catching light like flecks of gold – its only job to keep you seduced.

I was an easy catch. So, I drifted further down the coast, bruised and buzzing, and washed up at Zipolite – a beach that felt like a fever dream with sand stuck to its lips. No clothes, no shame, and somehow still surf.

I paddled out in boardshorts, dodging both sets and swinging anatomy, trying to keep my eyes on the horizon and my composure intact. The waves rolled in like they didn’t care if you caught them or not. But it’s hard to commit to a drop when a naked German is doing warrior pose in your peripheral vision.

Still, I managed a few rides. Loose, gliding, golden. And yeah, I got a tan in some deeply unplanned places. But in that sun-slicked lineup, it felt less like surfing and more like slow-dancing with the Pacific – if the Pacific happened to be hosting a nudist retreat.

I was officially in it now. The way the ocean glistened at me, glancing over its shoulder, inviting me in. I was hooked. Sunk. Gone. I knew I wouldn’t be getting out, even if my fingers pruned. Like any good crush, I was chasing it all the way down.

To Argentina, it is.

And then, all of a sudden (a four-hour flight up to Tijuana) it was fucking cold.

I should’ve known. I mean, Tijuana’s practically making out with San Diego. I’d pictured Baja as golden desert meets warm swell. Rookie move. What I got was 5mm rubber, offshore gusts, and a new kind of solitude. The waves did not flirt here.

As I scraped together pesos for a crusty rental wetsuit with blue fingernails, I reminisced on my fling. What else are flings good for, if not to keep you warm in tough times? And although the sun was shy and my tan was fading fast, the ocean sparkled here too.

I’d sit on the bank with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, looking past the decaying fish that had washed up a couple days ago (grimace), and watch a silver shimmer roll in and out.

Mica was the very feeling of being right where you’re supposed to be – the reminder that what you’re doing is what you’re meant to be doing. That abandoning your life and running away to Mexico is always a good call.

And then, one afternoon, sitting in a half-assed thermal bath my friend and I had just dug ourselves on a beach near Ensenada, I went on and on about how the sand and water glowed out here.

And she said, unremarkably so:

“Yeah, so many microplastics.”