Wilderness

My first real surf trip out of Daytona was Puerto Rico, a break called Wilderness. We got there the night before and camped: nothing fancy, just tents set up close enough to hear the ocean.

Mine had mesh at the top. I remember lying there looking up. You could see the stars through it, clear and still. The sound of the waves crashed in the background. Constant, not loud, just there.

I didn’t sleep much, not because I couldn’t, but because it didn’t feel like something I wanted to sleep through.

When I woke up, it didn’t feel real. The water was blue in a way I hadn’t seen before—clear enough to see straight through. The break was clean, lines coming in steady. Almost too perfect.

I had surfed before, plenty of times, but I wasn’t a pro. Not even close. Just an average surfer. The kind that catches a few good ones and misses a few more.

When I paddled out, I remember the smell. It caught me off guard. I wasn't like home, gone was that heavy ocean smell. This was lighter, cleaner. Something like coral mixed with salt. It stuck with me.

The lineup had a mix of people: locals, tourists. You could feel a little edge from some of them, like you had to earn your place. But it wasn’t bad. If you waited your turn, you’d get your shot.

Still, I was nervous, not about the wave, but about messing it up. Like if I blew it, that was it. No more chances.

A set came in. I started paddling. Everything slowed down. I could feel the wave lifting me. I pushed up on the board, and for a second it didn’t feel like I was doing it, just happening.

My feet landed. I turned. There was a wobble, small, but enough to notice. Then it settled. I was steady. Moving. I was in it.

I remember hearing someone yell a “wooo” somewhere behind me.

And then it was over. Just like that.

I kicked out and sat there for a second. Didn’t say anything. Just took it in.

We had these gallon jugs of water we’d use to rinse off. We called them “gowers.” Not really showers, but close enough. You’d stand there, pour it over your head, salt and sand running off, and that was it.

Later that night, we were back at the tents. Chicken, rice, and beans. It tasted like a Michelin-star restaurant.

Sitting there laughing with my buddy about the day, replaying it without really needing to say much. The waves in the background again, same sound as the night before, but it felt different.

Like I had earned it a little. The waves no longer sounded like they were crashing. They were celebrating.