I was supposed to write a love story. You know the type: blonde, blue-eyed girl gets wooed by a local. But it felt a little generic, and I’m too stubborn for clichés and too chicken to admit when I’ve caught feelings. I did consider a surfboard analogy, but instead I’ll tell you about something else I fell for…community. A community. The El Gigante community.

Because falling for El Gigante feels a lot like falling for someone.

At first, it’s awkward and new. The kind of first date where you spill beer on yourself and the chair wobbles. You fumble introductions, pretend you’re cooler than you are. The bay is one single street that dead-ends into the sand, but it makes a hell of a first impression: boats launching full-throttle at the shore like untrained dogs, fishing hooks hiding underfoot, pigs rooting around like nosy neighbors. The town doesn’t seduce you with candlelight; it throws a beer pong table at you on Thursday, forces you into trivia on Wednesday, and hands you a burger on Monday before you can even ask.

If you’re bored, walk to Chimi Churri Ding Repair and bug Huggo. He’ll roll his eyes, you’ll talk trash, and somehow that’ll count as friendship. You’ll develop a soft spot for the owner – a blunt, vegan Argentine who’s either smoking like he’s timing the periods or fasting like it’s a sport. Keep walking – Amarillo’s just ahead. You’ll stand there five minutes before every session, watching waves line up like promises, stingrays gliding underneath like they’re in on the joke. “Sure, that’s safe,” you’ll mumble, and shuffle straight into it.

It starts small – ankle biters, a few messy rides. Then, like every good summer fling, it catches. Pregame a once-a-year rave at some local girl’s quinceañera, dance till your hair’s plastered to your neck, and promise yourself you’ll take it easy tomorrow. You won’t. You’ll paddle out at dawn, still dizzy, chasing that same feeling – your eyes stinging of salt, heart stuttering on the drop.

Then comes the drag – waves that used to lift you now knock the breath out. The shine dulls, the dings show. You start thinking about quitting, selling the board, reclaiming the space it takes up. But habit’s a strong current. You trek the forty-five minutes over the headland anyway, heat pressing down, air thick and quiet, until you reach Colorados. Maybe Panga Drops if you’re still clinging to what’s left – telling yourself it’s the last time. It never is.

And then – familiarity. The kind that sneaks up on you like a hand brushing yours. Karen’s pulling little bags of homemade ice cream from her freezer before I’ve even stepped through the door. The lady at the tienda slips me Tricks and Prix with a grin that says she knows my vices. Friends whistle at me in the street. Even the pigs I named ignore me with a kind of loyal consistency. They don’t just feel familiar to me – I’m familiar to them. And isn’t that the most dangerous stage of love? When someone else starts to see it too?

From there, it spirals. Routines grow roots. I wake up and I’m not a visitor – I’m part of the furniture. I crash on a friend’s mattress, steal their cigarettes, drink their beer. I sit at the same plastic table night after night, sand under my toes, sweat sticking my shirt to my back, and slip into the conversation as if I never left. I’m like the sand on a cold beer bottle at a bonfire.

A fishing trip in the rain the day before you leave. Caught two yellowfin tuna but was secretly hoping to catch something more. You’ll see turtles having sex, think it’s a once in a lifetime siting, then see another two having sex an hour later. Isn’t that telling? My phone went all green and blotchy after a dip in the salt – but honestly, who needs the outside world when this one’s already in your bed?

Love stories have teeth. They demand a choice. Stay, or go. And I’m not here to stay. So, my version is a string of unfinished goodbyes – like being kissed and then shoved onto a departing bus, each farewell feeling more incomplete than the last.

So, this is the part where I learn about letting go. I’ve never been good at it. To me, letting go always sounded final – like never holding on again. But maybe you don’t have to grip it forever for it to matter. Maybe you just let it press its fingerprints on you, knowing you’ll carry them even when you go.

Guess I wrote the damn love story after all.