Travel Archives - Confessions of a Surfer Girl

Big Wave Fever: Portugal

December 5, 2025/in Big Waves, Travel /by confessionsofasurfergirl

Ericera, Portugal and a point picking up some swell.

I told ya I have a bad travel bug. Thanks for your patience with my obsession, I promise it is subsiding as I am realizing my bed has never felt so good. Work has also been sending me on a few trips and that more than anything has made me miss certain routines and my kitchen hobbies and kitties.

As I become more adult-ish, it’s easy to see my dad’s perspective and understand the person he was. He was an avid traveler, mostly for work, but found adventures in it and made friends everywhere he went. Though both of us are different in many ways—he never met a stranger and I see them everywhere—we are similar in the sense that we love experiencing new places. As long as those places have a reputation for being awesome and full of adventure.

And Portugal was.

In fact, I asked my dad before he passed, if he could go on one trip with me anywhere, where would it be?

He would vary in responses, sometimes Jacksonville for a fishing trip or the Caribbean, back to his favorite island, St. John, but this time he said Portugal. He and I laughed when he explained that the food is supposed to be excellent.

I’d like to think my dad goes with me everywhere I go—for me, there’s been definite signs he’s there. And if I share with you how I know, maybe you’ll think I’m a loon, but at this moment, I knew he wouldn’t miss this trip.

First leg was a 12-hour flight to Munich with an eight hour layover where I attempted to explore a tiny bit of Germany. The second leg was to Lisbon, a starkly different experience than my mini-German stint. Cold, wet humidity hung heavy with the smell of the sea and overtook my nostrils the second we left the plane.

Everyone had been coughing and hacking on the ride to Munich. I hesitated to breathe in the air because I am a germaphobe.

During the entire duration of my Lisbon flight, a lady refused to let one bit of silence settle in the otherwise quiet plane ride and proceeded to, what I suspect, henpeck who I thought was her partner in the seat beside me. I can’t tell you who was exhausted more—myself or him. All this drove me to my propolis throat spray though I later came to find out this didn’t matter.

First night was an interesting hotel in Lisbon where I attempted to de-germ myself…I shouldn’t have slacked on my zinc, I thought, as I reorganized my packing. The next morning, I found croissants, Nutella and a cafe Americano and then my rental car—Ericeira was my next stop.

Pasteis de Belém and a cafe in Lisbon, Portugal.

Renting a car seemed like the right ticket for me though, a bus sounds better for future Jackie. Nervously gripping the wheel, I’d catch glances of landmarks and architecture but have to quickly pay attention—European drivers are a force to be reckoned with. I’d frequently miss my turnoffs through the many roundabouts and got lost more times than I could count, despite Google

Maps. In fact, one of my miscalculations had me literally off-roading on what appeared to be a one-way path down a dirt road reminiscent of a greener Baja. It was a local road in Sintra and irritated Europeans would come rip-roaring from the other direction, though I couldn’t exactly pull off to the side as there was a very old stone wall to one side and a nice 10-foot ditch to the other. My face would burn from stress and embarrassment, or maybe that was the fever? Oh yes, for the first time in my adult life, I got sick during a trip.

My long, toll road-free drive found me cruising down cobblestone streets of Ericeira, Portugal’s equivalent to San Clemente, in my opinion. Hurley, Billabong, Rip Curl all within a very short walk of me—even an immersive surf experience sharing all of Portugal’s protected surf spots or “surf reserves.”

The town welcomed me with open arms as I collapsed in my hotel. Every night I ventured out, I found new friends to chat with—the first night a young German girl and an older Italian guy who talked of secret Euro surf spots and trips to Bali and “nothing is more gnarly than New Jersey.” The second night, a young French girl and an Argentinian guy, who described their surf world tours, whimsical ideals—all conversations about surf, all perpetually stoked, most eager to learn everyone else’s story when egos weren’t involved.

Then the fever hit me like a ton of bricks, right when the swell started to arrive—I didn’t realize it at first and walked to Praia Do Sul to check the waves. I couldn’t understand why I had no energy. I had a fair amount of pasta the night before. Could one espresso martini really put me under like this? Nah.

I found a bench grounded on the rocks right where the right-hander was breaking…barely. A guy, who for some reason, insisted on wearing no booties but donned a helmet, carefully negotiated the rocks to jump off into the break. I chuckled to myself. He was carrying a potato chip board and the waves were barely allowing logs in. They stood up outside and teasingly died as they mushed to shore. I was trying to picture myself paddling out.

Belly of the beast, Nazare, Portugal.

I could, I should paddle out…but I don’t want to. I sincerely don’t want to fight for mush and quite possibly pass out from exhaustion. Holding my head up feels excessive right now. I regrouped back at my hotel—everything smelled awful and nothing tasted good. My tummy bubbled. Did I exceed the dairy budget? I didn’t hold back on croissants, pastel de natas and espresso, that’s for sure. After barely surviving my drive through Sintra, I collapsed in my hotel room to deduce that from my aches and hot/cold sweats I had a fever. I was due at Maria Fernanda’s big wave photography workshop the next day, but I feared I wasn’t going to make it. I scoured Dr. Google, which only made my anxieties worse. I called my travelers insurance who told me I could certainly go to hospitals that were several hours away, I even called United to see if I could hitch a ride back home for fear I had something more serious. Comfort was needed, but the time difference made passing ships of all my friends except Cassie, who feigned to the hotel front desk that she was my mother and that I would be staying an extra day, of which she paid for. My other friend Heather put me in contact with her travel agent for advice and Debbie checked on my kitties, much to my crazy cat mom paranoia. Maria messaged me every hour, worried and offering a driver to pick me up. Friends are terrific. I am so lucky.

Finding comfort food in a foreign country is challenging when you are sick, the least of all trying to find the Portuguese equivalent of chicken broth and saltine crackers and ginger ale felt impossible. But I committed to the bit—I’d quarantine myself for the evening for one day and would do everything I could to break the fever. Arrested Development was my only solace until I found crackers and sprite at a grocery store via Uber Eats—Uber Eats! What a decade we live in. Everything else had dairy or sugar or required physical effort.

Hoping for a nice tuck-in inside of Nazare.

The fever broke the next day and I decided to stay in bed and rest, unfortunately missing the first day of Maria’s workshop. Sunny, her business partner descended upon my quarantined encampment like an angel bringing medicines and two different types of soup to save the day. She felt my forehead and said I was warm—back to the battlefield I go. If I wasn’t so worn out, I would have hugged her tighter. Maria still making every effort to get me to Nazaré.

The next day, I woke up with more color in my face and was determined to leave the stinkiest hotel room I’ve ever stayed in—the smell leaked through a drain in the bathroom and would make me gag every time I used it. Nazaré never sounded so good, despite my lack of energy, though I would miss the apnea training by the time I arrived. Maria’s hugs alone are a cure all—the second I pulled into OHAI Resort, excitement got the better of me. The last time I saw Maria, she was riding on a motor bike with her friend in Sumatra heading to— for another epic photography adventure.

This adventure had Maria and Sunny teaching a small group of students including myself exploring all things surf photography in the water, jet ski and on land at none other than Portugal’s premier big wave spot: Nazaré

No joke, this was the real deal. Skills endemic to surviving big surf while capturing stunning images, like breath work, paddling techniques, the importance of CPR and first aid, reading the waves, understanding ocean safety all paired with in-water photography sessions. Photographers are truly an unsung hero out in the lineup—literally carrying a weight out in the water to capture beautiful waves and surfers charging said beautiful waves.

The cake tho? That was the jet ski experience. If one thing wiped the sick slate clean as well as the last month of intense work days and travel, it was this.

The biggest off-the-life I’ve ever seen in person.

I’ve never been sky diving or heli skiing, but I imagine jet skiing out to and in the Nazaré lineup during a swell, granted the beginnings of one—we will call it “small” for the Herculean humans in the big wave world, is a similar feeling. Antonio “To” Cardoso was my jet ski driver and didn’t hesitate to gun it out of the harbor with me whooping and laughing as we jaunted over the swell and out to the rocks. I had seen images like this in surf movies—photographers capturing the ride out to Mavericks or Nazaré, but now that was my reality, and in the distance, “small” mounds of water stood up and broke outside. I’d watch jet skis whip surfers into waves as they’d drop in like ants on the silver faces. “To” would take me right in front of a breaking wave or on the shoulder as it detonated 15 feet below our ski. We would watch the Go Bigger team drop in and carve the face smoother than Thanksgiving turkey. It was as though they were skiing down a double black diamond—carving inverted sections, only I don’t think a floater was warranted but one surfer busted an air as though perfectly posed for my little iPhone lens—it’s so cute, you guys.

My eyes were wide with excitement and everything I saw made my heart explode in sheer confetti-style stoke. There was what felt like organized chaos—jet ski drivers and tow surfers zipping in and out, paddle surfers, walkie talkies, conversations and pure stoked in Portuguese verbals. Huge peaks crumbling and barreling left and right. I had surf lineup ADD and taking it all in was, at one point, overwhelming the senses, dizzying almost. My instinct was to figure out the break and the peaks and the landmarks and there was constant action, no time to focus. Adrenaline rushed through me similar to when I’d cover a breaking news story involving SWAT or police. Heart thumping but man, I’m ready.

Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and practically blown away at Supertubos.

But To paid special attention to the horizon, always focused, always safe and always ALWAYS stoked, pointing out great shots for my wittle baby lens. The teams all work together to ensure the safest and most fun surf session for everyone. I don’t think I saw one angry person out there—smiles ear to ear. I could get used to this contagious vibe.

There was a healthy amount of fear when an outside set would come through but I had the luxury of escaping certain destruction with To’s insane ski skills. I felt safe, in fact, we rescued the same surfer who busted the fat air. He was caught inside, so we gave him a lift on the ski and had some blood trickling from his nose, but the sandy-haired fellow was all smiles and laughs as we drove him to his Go Bigger teammates. I caught sights of Mykayleah — on her hot pink —name of board—

High fives from Rodrigo Koxa, founder of Go Bigger team and world record holder, after he scored an insane left.

Rush after rush, wave after wave, I had more energy than I had been in the last three weeks with the biggest smile to boot. Adrenaline pumping, words are escaping me and thoughts can only be expressed through the photos, though I am kicking myself that I had no DSLR, but the iPhone worked out okay.

And my, how the lighting terrifically changed the mood of the place. Photographer Ryan Osmand and I were the first on the skis, which gave us grey skies and moody clouds. Analia —-and Natasha —-saw the sun come out the second they stepped onto the ski, which made their photos dazzling hues of blue and transformed the canktanerous grey barrels into deep blue caverns.

Each one of these photographers shared a special talent that reverbs in my memory—their struggles, their feats, their successes and journeys reflect in each piece they capture and edit. An expressive bunch, it motivated me to be curious about water photography—always thinking it was for very talented people with expendable budgets and technical minds. But like anything, if there is a will, there’s a way.

And after our day out at Nazaré, we were bedazzled with overwhelming emotion that only expressed itself through our feverish edits and ravenous appetites (mine came back!) Just in time for a traditional Portuguese dinner at Rosa Dos Ventos, courtesy of our talented mentors Maria and Sunny.

As we were walking down the street to the restaurant, I could hear the surf pounding, tenderizing the beach through the dark, thick sea air. The restaurant hung images of fishermen pulling in their catch while the surf exploded over the rocks in the background and I just kept wondering about life before Google Maps and Uber Eats. Before Surfline and buoy readings, surf report hotlines and cars that yell at you when you speed. The connection with the sea felt deep in the brief time I experienced Portugal. Wouldn’t mind coming back…maybe with some Imodium in tow.

Some video footage, too.

As seen on Frothy Fools.

I‘ve also got tips to share on The Inertia.

Some video footage, too.

Sampling the North Shore

November 2, 2025/in Big Waves, Surfing, Travel /by confessionsofasurfergirl

I can’t tell if it’s the cold brew or the sheer adrenaline feeling I get from sitting on the sand and watching Pipe explode in glorious and violent close outs, but in short—I got the shakes.

Boogies are out, nary a surfer in sight, but plenty of people and tourists, including me, trickling onto the sandy arena to watch what most of the world spies on from a Surfline cam and jaded North Shore locals snooze through: walled Pipeline

For a brief moment, a window in the wall at Pipe.

No shame in acting like a tourist now, as I hide in the shade, perched in front of bushes. My phone battery is about to die, but I’m trying to capture any semblance of the iconic break showing its face for the boogies charging. I gotta pee so bad, but that urge is corked the second a set rolls through, my heart pumping, my eyes searching for a clean wave.

Nope! As a boogie pulls out to save their neck.

I wonder where Polly is surfing as I pontificate, watching waves detonate on the reef and burst onto the sand. She would be surfing today, she charges.

I hear Pidgin and Portuguese; my stomach screams for food from the previous night’s lilikoi cocktails at Turtle Bay with Christie. I’m due at Emily’s house and then KK’s on South Shore, not sure how I’ve made it this far running around nonstop, surfing with some of my favorite surfer girls, and eating more poke than I care to disclose.

Between this and my recent serving gig at a sushi restaurant, mercury poisoning might be a thing if I keep up the pace of eating what feels like the Pacific Ocean’s entire tuna population.

There is an energy to North Shore—one that separates you from the hustle and bustle of the outside world and keeps you obsessed. A beautiful and strange culture clash of trust fund kids or the insanely rich shooting the breeze, tourists with surface level thoughts of surf lore, and those scraping to get by in the name of surfing, well, really, big wave surfing. All here to take in more than just the plumeria scent that dances on every breeze twisting and blowing toward the next rain cloud that hosts a rainbow on every corner. Starbucks? Nah, rainbows—everywhere. And they get you hyped, too, heart pounding in fact. It’s like the earth just smiled at you and no matter what mood you’re in, you smile back because: rainbows and North Shore.

But for kicks, drink some coffee, because it’s pretty damn good, too.

Pipe ebbed and flowed in a soupy fashion with swells marching over the lesser groomed sandbars and reef—supposedly the sand needs to move around more and the west swells can help with that from what the girls tell me. But as a tourist, I’m here to watch and observe, zero percent desire to paddle out, just watch it up-chuck boogies like frogs ejecting themselves from a hot frying pan. A cleaner, much more frightening freight train version of Newport’s Wedge. Not at the level of literally feeling the ground shake, but I’ll take it, my bucket list mostly satisfied.

The last time I stumbled upon Ehukai Beach, it was the week of the Fourth of July in 2009, and some kind of wind swell showed up. I had no idea at the time where the hell this break actually was, but I was there at hallowed ground all the same. No match for the raw power combusting in front of me now—shape be damned.

surfer girls north shore oahu chuns reef

Great to be back and surfing with these chargers.

I could’ve passed out in the sand from all the hopscotches I’ve played for the last several days, but hunger drives me onward to Hale’iwa town to Emily and a breakfast burrito with kalua pork calls my name.

North Shore makes you start over—square one, except you face moving carpet currents, at similar annoyance levels of HB. Small is firing by SoCal standards, at least that’s what I kept telling KK when we were out.

“If you weren’t here, I might not have paddled out today, it’s small and windy,” she laughed in between blustery north wind sets.

“Really? You’d be surfing with 50 of your best friends if this were California,” I joked back.

For the second time this year, I felt like a Floridian, only this time I was frothing over what some consider small waves, still shoulder to head high on me. First time Floridian feels was during the SurfAid donation rally, where I was met with afternoon chop slop waves—something that our east coast kinfolk are accustomed to.

My opening day on North Shore began paddling out with Tori at Shark’s Cove to a spot called Laniakea, or “Lanis.”

A familiar sight: KK’s smiling and sunglassed mug in the lineup, all three of us wearing team black surf suits—mine finally worn the correct way (hint: ask KK about the incorrect way). I tried out Tori’s XO Coco Bliss 5’3 fish. Waves were extremely manageable and fun, and fish was fast enough to make the sectiony lefts.

But because it was North Shore, my heart was still in my throat and all I could hear in my brain were the tall tales from books and friends back home who had surfed it a million years ago, pre-kids, pre-mortgages. Talking to me as though every story was a precautionary tale, as though I might drown in those random, bigger sets, while my Hawai’i friends laughed and hooted when a bigger set came through.

Sure, bigger sets would come through and my eyes would go wide, but somewhere in between KK’s laughs and the pit of my stomach, I managed to crack a smile and sing a song out loud—much to KK’s dismay:

I’m guessing this was an add-on…

“Pinky pony club! I’m gonna keep on dancing down in West Hollywood!” I busted out

“Damn, Jackie, now that’s in my head, only I changed the lyrics because some grom kept paddling right in front of me last minute—‘get out of the way…grom stop dropping in on me,’” she chimed to Chappell Roan’s tune.

I laughed and continued to sing it every time the horizon darkened.

As soon as I took a wave, I got the jitters out; there were maybe four other people out. Everyone else saved their energy for what came later in the week and where one might eventually find my tired ass burrowed in the sand at Pipeline.

Chuns, Piddlies, Hale’iwa and Lanis some more—nothing death-defying, just sampling and exploring. I forgot about the size for two seconds after my obnoxious singing and KK helped me crack a smile. Then I wondered what my reaction would be if I saw a solid triple overhead wave—I might short-circuit…or maybe need some loudspeakers.

Christie says I could handle it. I chuckled because she has an impact vest and gets towed regularly, so she surfs that size no problem.

“Seven seconds, Jackie, that’s the most you actually get held down. You’d be fine.”

Regardless, it makes me proud to know these gals. Maybe I should stick to my “exposure therapy” strategy.

In Terminator fashion (because what else would you expect a Connor to say): “I’ll be back.”

As Published on Frothy Fools

Highway 38 to Big Bear Mountain March 2025

Pardon My Mountain of Grief

March 20, 2025/in Anti-Surf, Travel /by confessionsofasurfergirl

Icy times call for Icy drives. Watch those fishtails.

As if I thought 2024 couldn’t get any worse, 2025 reared its ugly head—I got dumped. The person I thought was my support system, my rock through 2024’s personal challenges, namely losing my dad and ending the year with a sucker punch losing Terry—now upended a new type of loss and grief. I’ll spare you the details because it doesn’t matter, but it wasn’t my choice and for a truly despicable reason unbeknownst to me. Trust shattered. Frustration, anger, and sadness set in as I knew never to ignore my gut feelings again. But thankfully, he showed me who he really was all along.

Thank you, next.

So, fuck it—I went snowboarding like I had originally planned. A nice storm system swept through SoCal and the temperature dropped just right to create perfect conditions for local mountains. I didn’t have the energy to schlep to Mammoth or June and keeping it simple sounded like just the ticket. It would be my first time driving the icy Highway 38 up to Big Bear—again, I say fuck it.

After so many “fuck it’s,” my Subaru was packed, no need for caffeine on the anxiety diet, so I had that high alert taken care of. Just pop in an audiobook on relationships, because fuck it, let’s learn from this 3.5-year disaster and see what the mountains bring me. Several tears, affirmations, and light bulb moments later, I pulled off to the side of the now slush-filled Highway 38 to put cables on my front tires. The guy selling them, of course, said, “It’s pretty bad up there, you’re gonna need these, even though you have all-wheel drive.”

Guess what—fuck it.

It only took me seven miles into my very cautious 42-mile drive on the windy highway to realize—I am so glad I put cables on my tires. Layers of ice and snow clung to the concrete like a grieving 40-year-old clinging to any semblance of hope, with relationship expert Matthew Hussey blaring through my speakers serving as the all-weather tires. Don’t lose your mind, stay focused, you will get through this, I kept telling myself, realizing I was speaking to not only the nerve-wracking drive but also, my newly established grief. White knuckled, jaw clenched, I took turns at 10 MPH, no shame because the person behind me was doing the same. Snow and fog blinded me—there were moments when I could barely see the road. My windshield wipers started to stick and I had to PEE.

Claiming my mountain of grief and it can weigh in as heavily as these ominous clouds.

There’s something extra humiliating about getting dumped at 40. Sure, 31 or 36, 37 even—but the last trace of your 30s to be drained—it gets to a point where you feel like a damn fool. Especially after you thought, and for legit reasons, things were one way, when they actually weren’t—but fuck it, how was I supposed to know?

My car fishtailed across the tiny road and I quickly snapped back to reality—a near panic attack atop my already-heightened nervous system. Where was that self-soothing chapter?

I now stand atop a mountain of grief.

Mr. Hussey, I must exchange you for some form of music.

Every song. Though honestly, he criticized most of my music, but still, every song, even if he hated my tastes, bore some kind of memory.

Relieved as I made it literally out of the windy woods and into Big Bear, never so thankful to see traffic lights. I turned into Snow Summit, in the back of my mind humiliated because he would’ve made fun of this small mountain and angry because I should have been snowboarding with him at Beaver Creek in Colorado for the first time. He knew I always wanted to do that, but SIKE.

I carefully parked in the tight, snow-filled parking lot and started to get myself into literal gear. A lump formed in my throat—ah fuck, we have matching gear. We were THAT couple. And worst of all, I like my gear. It’s good gear and he helped me pick it out. Guess I gotta find a new jacket. Forcing myself through the parking lot, I trudged through two feet of powder with a scowl catching whiffs of beer and weed and ski bums freaking out.

I kept fighting the need to run back to my car and collapse in my front seat, donning a fit of tears. Betrayal really sucks.

I spied a chairlift—take me to the top, IDGAF. Scooped me up into the grey abyss—it was what you might refer to as “nuking.” Small snowballs quickly collected on my lap during my solo chairlift ride. No smiles, my face felt as cold as the frosty air. How am I ever going to drive back in this, I thought.

At the top, the signage was kinda poor, I couldn’t make heads or tails of where to go, but again: FUCK IT.

Cruising up and down the mountain, I met a guy who shared a foreign feeling: empathy. He showed me around the mountain and we tackled a few black and blue runs. Any trace of flirtation was quickly dismissed by my very raw, heartbroken feels. He knew the game—be the friend. And thank you, sir. I needed a real hug because, as far as I was concerned, the blizzard swept into Orange County a few days ago, ‘a-la’ black compensator truck and a 6’3 frame.

Snowboarding at Big Bear Mountain powder day

I beg to differ–there are, in fact, friends on powder days.

As we made our way down the mountain again, a few cracks of thunder set fire to my speed. Shit, that was wild. I could picture the headline: “Salty ass woman disintegrates while snowboarding local mountains.” I could see my ex, laughing at the thought.

The drive home was scarier. I clung to every ray of daylight, still listening to Mr. Hussey’s encouraging and empathetic advice on toxic traits. One icy turn at a time, I told myself: Nice and slow, there’s no rush. A terrified woman in the SUV behind me followed my every move.

I made it home with an actual appetite and got a decent night’s rest for the first time in a week, with my new friend checking in to see if I got home okay. Sure, my body arrived just fine, but as The Pixies ask, “Where is my mind?”

The next day, I woke up and hit the road again, this time taking Highway 18, which felt even more sketchy. The roads were nothing but pure snow and ice—guess I was glad he got me those all-weather tires at the beginning of our relationship. Love bombing has its perks. I maneuvered my way through snow and slush and stalled cars and eventually parked in overflow parking—ugh crowds. I hoped they could behave themselves.

A new day, a new way, I thought. I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want to do today. No friends, just me. Fuck it. Couples rode the chairlifts, holding hands, laughing and helping each other down the mountain and a pang of sadness washed over me, realizing I’m once again on the outside looking in. I was in the “ugh gross” bitter phase, but secretly, was also thinking about how adorable they were and how much I wanted that.

My goal that day: get lost.

Colorado who? Funny how things work out.

Let’s do this how I want to do it. Every run, blue, black, green, fast or slow, I was there. Not needing to keep up with anyone, not worrying about anyone else but me. I rocked up and down the mountain more than a headbanger at a metal show. And guess what, I had ONE bad fall—thankful for my helmet.

But one sweet run had me flying through untouched powder and I said beneath my steamy breath, “Now I know why they say ‘there are no friends on powder days.’” I whooped and hollered to myself as I flew past a flat section, smiling ear to ear. Man, who cared if I had the same gear as him, who cared if I didn’t make it to Colorado? I’m here now and I’m doing the damn thing and having the best time on my own. And I’m actually doing a great job if I do say so myself.

That day, the chains were off, and the sun poked through the clouds to melt my intrusive thoughts away, if only for a few hours. Grief is a process and I’m ready to tackle another mountain once again. Small but mighty baby steps toward my independence—I drove through ice and snow storms, had a blast cruising the small mountain and thought of all the people who love and support me. There’s a lot! I’m coming out on top of this mountain, weathering through the storm, focused and fearless, and I get to do what I want for the first time in over a decade.

Cliché as it might sound, I thought: I DON’T NEED NO MAN.

I just want (a good) one…eventually.

dad and daughter st john caribbean snorkeling

For the Man Who Taught Me to Love the Ocean

June 16, 2024/in Nature, Travel /by confessionsofasurfergirl

When I was nine, my dad took my stepmom and me to St. John, a smaller, less touristy Caribbean island in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Go ahead and call me spoiled now so I can tell you the rest of the story.

I loved the water, there’s no denying, but I was terrified of the ocean…terrified of the drain at the bottom of the pool…terrified of not being able to see the bottom. I had seen “Jaws” way too young. But my dad wasn’t afraid of anything. Not according to a little girl who often attached herself like a monkey to his back, constantly nagged him to throw her in the air in the pool, begged for piggyback rides underwater and would bail after three seconds. Nope. My dad was so brave–he may have even slain Jaws in my nine-year-old mind. So when he told me we were going to go snorkeling in St. John, I had some hesitation but trusted my dad to protect me no matter what.

doug connor jaclyn connor first time snorkeling st john

My first time snorkeling and my dad leads the way in St. John, USVI.

The first time he took me snorkeling, it was a sandy beach somewhere in St. John and I’ll never forget being so terrified, I clung to my dad, especially as the water got deeper. But! I could see to the bottom (spoiled, yes, I know) and after a while, I saw a green sea turtle! My dad, so enthusiastic about the ocean and all it’s creatures, got so excited and pointed, and through his snorkel gear a distorted and muffled:

“Jaclyn! Look! A turtle!” with his eyes wide and a smile through his snorkel.

Immediately fear left me and my dad was my favorite snorkel buddy. We went to Trunk Bay, which required me to swim to an small island, of course still clinging to my dad, and then to Cinnamon Bay, which was just as it’s name sounds–speckled with reef. I think at this point, I struck out on my own, but immediately dashed into shore when I saw a giant barracuda. But snorkeling and the ocean had sailed away with my heart and my dad was always watching at the helm, excited to see my expressions.

We stayed in a place called Chocolate Hole. Not going to lie–it was pretty badass. A giant villa all to ourselves, lots of rooms for me to run around in, just no AC. But the ocean was right there and what we referred to as “firecracker beach”–grapefruit-sized rocks that made a crackling sound when the small waves would crash on the shore. I wore cheesy neon water shoes to walk on the beach–it was the 90’s.

And of course there were palm trees with coconuts.

One day my dad got an itch he absolutely needed to scratch. I am very familiar with this itch. For my dad and me, once we’d get an idea set in our minds, there’s no going back. A local let him know there was excellent lobster diving just off the beach around a rocky point. Of course my dad found a way to make it an adventure. He grabbed me, our snorkel gear and pool mat and told me we were going snorkeling just out front. I was freaked out. There was no soft sand, it truly looked like shark paradise, which meant a turbulent ocean crashing against rocky cliffs. Does it get any sharkier?

I hopped aboard the S.S. Pool Mat with Captain Doug Connor and headed out to sea. Terrified, I didn’t want to look in the water, though my dad kept saying,

“Jaclyn! Look in the water! There’s so many fish! I see squid, too!”

SQUID?! What is this, “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea” ?! Where are my friendly sea turtles??

doug connor snorkeling chocolate hole st john

That’s my dad–Doug Connor snorkeling in front of those rocky cliffs. Pretty sure this was right before we saw the shark.

I peered into the water and it was dark–there were creatures indeed, but the warm Caribbean water was sloshing over the pool mat and made it hard to see at times. Colorful coral stuck out of the rocks, giant sea urchins as big as my head poked their spines out as if they were searching for a way to stab me and fish I didn’t recognize darted away. We rounded the rocky point and suddenly my dad got really quiet. His face was the most serious I had seen during this entire trip. He calmly set me on top of a small rock directly beneath a sandstone cliffside and very calmly and quietly said,

“Jaclyn, there is a shark in the water…”

PANIC.

The rest of his words were drowned out by my freaking out. At one point, my dad had cut himself on a rock and was bleeding. When he set me on top of the small rock, I cut my foot, as well. Locals were spearfishing in a nearby kayak and my dad tried to ask for help…and for lobster, of course. It appeared they didn’t speak English, but they did see what all the fuss was about when my dad pointed and said:

“Shark!!”

Scouting out the rocky point in Chocolate Hole on St. John in the USVIs.

They excitedly lifted their legs up into the safety of the plastic kayak and tried to catch the shark. Their cheers trailed off because my dad and I now faced our next adventure: Getting back to firecracker beach.

For some time, we sat beneath the cliffside with me still on this tiny rock and debated on whether to get back into the water and swim our way back to firecracker beach. But instead, we decided to climb up the cliffside with our pool mat and snorkel gear in tow. Dusty tan dirt kicked up and caked our arms and legs–there’d be no piggyback rides as this cliff was vertical, but thankfully not too large for my dad who forged the path, but large enough for a nine-year-old, all the same. Grasping at trees, shrubs, vines and whatever else would hold us, we made our way to the top, step by step with the pool mat flopping behind my dad as he dragged it up the cliff.

Dusty, scratched up and lobster-less, we walked down the gravel path back to Chocolate Hole and firecracker beach.

But man, did we have a great adventure and a story that lives in Connor family legend.

I can just hear my dad laughing about it now.

Limon is Adding Flavor to Your Day Trip Experience

October 5, 2022/in Travel /by confessionsofasurfergirl

The startup is changing the way you discover new adventures…and find waves.

If you haven’t been traveling lately, you may have avoided the very definition of “hot mess.”

It’s no surprise that the travel industry has been anything but a pleasant experience since the pandemic, with canceled flights, extreme weather events and several other mishaps that are out of our control. Many have resorted to weekend getaways and, being a part of one of the largest generations who seeks that special experience, Millennials like myself and Gen Zers have paved their own pathways through the last few years’ red tape a la day trips in hopes to find that magically uncrowded (or less crowded) beach or wave.

Put a pin in that because Orange County startup Limon has big plans for your day trip experience.

Originally hailing from the Bay Area, Limon co-founders Lili and Ramon Montes, a sister-brother dynamic duo, are socializing your day trips via an interactive app so everyone can have a good time, minus those annoying checked baggage fees and security lines.

Lilli Montes Ramon Montes Limon startup founders

Sister-brother duo Lili and Ramon Montes plan to make your day trippin’ much more exciting through their startup Limon.

Limon will allow a user to document their journey, including posting photos and video, and providing advice, and recommendations on activities, dining and other points of interest on the area they visited. Create an account, answer some questions so Limon can provide you with travel recommends and also connect with friends who have the app or make friends on the app and check out their recommendations.

“If I have a friend who takes the best beach vacations, I can just look her up and scroll through her recommends to see what I want to do. It’s hard to decide where to start when planning a day trip, but if you follow local influencers or friends, then you can make it easier on yourself,” said Ramon, cofounder and chief operating officer.

But wait—do we want to divulge our most super special secret surf spots?

“I know in the surfing community, you don’t always want to give away all the best surfing spots, so you will be able to make private posts or posts that only your close friends can see so your favorite surf break won’t get overcrowded,” said Ramon.

Whew.

The pair plan to officially launch their alpha version January 2023.

When building a startup, there is no such thing as a straight and narrow path, and funding always seems to be a white rabbit of sorts, according to Lili, cofounder and CEO, who got a taste of the struggle early on after developing a key sharing business during her undergrad years at UC Santa Barbara. Limon has been through a few iterations including a recent branding change. To better reflect their Hispanic cultural heritage, the duo changed their startup name and branding from “Coast” set in purple hues to Limon, equipped with more eye-catching green and yellow tones.

“In the startup world, only around two percent of venture capital funding goes to Hispanic-owned startups. We want to help shatter the glass ceiling with diversity and inclusion through Limon,” said Lili.

According to a Crunchbase report, despite making up half of the new small businesses from 2007-2017, Latin founders and entrepreneurs have received very little support during this most critical phase often resulting in the startup closing down operations. Fortunately, some progress has been made with new VC and Angel firms solely dedicating their attention and funds to women and underrepresented entrepreneurs and startup teams.

Since launching their startup in 2020, the team has raised $70,000 from a friends and family funding round and is aiming to raise their seed round next year.

Secret spots can still remain a secret on the Limon app set to launch January 2023.

“We want to close out the Friends & Family round soon so we can put all of our focus into launching the app and creating a buzz around it,” said Lili. “We have been building a foundation of the business, and we are just about to be at the tipping point where the startup really begins to accelerate.”

If sibling rivalry was a thing, you would never notice with Lili and Ramon because the pair have developed a professional working relationship that includes honesty and constructive criticism among their top tenants.

“We call it sibling mentality…we are always ready to cut through the fluff of tiptoeing around things and just say—‘let’s fix it and move forward,’” said Ramon.

Together they represent an innovative startup ready to burn rubber down the “Baja-esque” terrain of startup land, but individually, they are completely different sides of the business—Lili is the planner and implementer whereas Ramon is heavy on the tech side of the app.

“It worked out really well that we like different categories of business so much and that we can serve it differently, so it’s been great working together,” said Lili.

Armed with a team of interns from UC Irvine’s Donald Bren School of Information and Computer Sciences program, the co-founders have been working tirelessly behind the scenes not only creating the app, but also curating content, developing a supportive founder community and audience base as well as tapping into local day trippin’ opportunities through the O.C.

No stranger for attracting all KINDS of day trippers, the 2022 U.S. Open of Surfing, ladies & gents.

“We can really have a strong community here and kind of use it as a testing ground in a way to see what works or what doesn’t and then build a model that can scale. So yeah, [our interns] have written hundreds of day trips around Orange County already so that way, so the very first user to see the app, it’s not going to be empty, there’s going be a lot of recommendations,” said Ramon.

From day adventures to nightlife, shopping and entertainment, Limon aims to lift the “orange curtain” and share in the fun that this coastal community brings. After all, sharing is caring, right?

Just remember that when the next big swell comes in, ‘kay?!

Learn more about Limon.

*All photos courtesy of Limon

5 Camping Mistakes I Made in Zion and Why

March 16, 2021/in Anti-Surf, Shameless Rants, Travel /by confessionsofasurfergirl

trees framing the outlook to Kolob Canyon

Kolob Canyon overlook

Not every trip is full of sparkly images of you living your best life. Flights get canceled, surf or snow doesn’t show up, we mistime, we plan too far ahead or not enough, oh and this pandemic thing…we fuck up, we make mistakes and rarely do we admit it publicly…and we should more often because our lessons might help others.

What normally I reveled in for the past several years (camping, nature, snowboarding, etc.) became a trip full of “damn why didn’t I think of thats!” In case you haven’t noticed, for the past couple of years, I’ve been camping at Zion National Park and have been soaking up the challenge of conquering my fear of heights by hiking Angel’s Landing and recently made it a point to stop by Brian Head for a snowboarding session.

I think in between the recent death of someone falling off of Angel’s Landing on the same day and getting bad dizzy spells while hiking Angel’s Landing for my third time, I began to realize…I need to calm down. :D

But don’t worry—I’m not going to quit adventuring, I think this is one of those trips where there are lessons learned as opposed to goals achieved. I’m confessing my mistakes so you don’t do the same things I did:

girl with braids and a beenie holds camera in front for a selfie

Quite literally-NOT a happy camper.

1.Sleep is essential. Get some at all cost!! I am the world’s lightest sleeper. A pin drop would wake me up. So when 40 mph winds came tunneling through the canyon, shaking and jostling my tent All. Night. Long, every night… I had a hard time with everything I did. It didn’t help that I forgot a pillow, so I bundled up my puffiest gear, but guys—a zipper or button on the face all night long doesn’t exactly feel or look grand the next day. Not mention my neck was tweaked all six ways of something special. The next day, I woke up and rode my bike 6 miles up hill to the Angel’s Landing trailhead and on other days, went hiking and driving to Kolob Canyon and drove for 1 1/2 hour to snowboard. I can say-because of lack of sleep, my motivation and patience was at an all time low, like I had never seen before. Not a good feeling to have.

bike, firewood, snowboard and camping gear all piled in the back of a car

If you look close enough, you can see a kitchen sink.

2. Check your gear. The normally free Zion shuttle was charging $1 for rides and you have to book in advanced to get a ticket. Each day was completely booked and full, but I will add that you can find tickets at the last minute, but my phone didn’t have a great signal, so I brought my bike.
I didn’t know until I was about a mile biking into the canyon on the Pa’rus, but my tires were flat and I was beginning to wonder why I felt so out of shape. Fortunately, I met this nice couple on the trail & they kindly filled up my tires and, already winded, I was on my way a lot faster. It really is a beautiful ride, I highly recommend, but make sure to bring proper gear, like a bike pump.

3. Hydration. Hydration. Hydration. Sometimes when it’s colder, we might forget to drink water, but it’s imperative to do so, especially if you plan to do a strenuous bike/hike and it’s a desert climate. I was so focused on getting to the trailhead, I also forgot to drink water.

It was late in the day when I finished my 6-mile bike ride & started at the trail (around 11:00 am) and there were a crapton of people. No sleep combined with minimal water and beautiful nature distractions and my literal insatiable determination had me sending one foot in front of the other up the trail. I wanted to get to the top of Angel’s Landing around 1:30 so I could eat something. Why didn’t I eat something before hiking? The crowds + stupid COVID were making me nervous, so my mind was focused on completing the trail and catching the views…and eating my tasty sandwich at the peak, of course.

waterfall and a tree hanging over the water

Don’t drink the water! The beautiful Virgin River ain’t too pure, lots of signs everywhere warning you why.

By the time I got to the beginning of Angel’s Landing (the last quarter mile of the West Rim Trail), I heard that someone had fallen off that morning and died and they just reopened the trail. I still went for it. Fuck it. I thought. I think my mentality wasn’t all there because I was pissed off at the world for the unimaginable crowds, the pandemic and the poor person who fell off that morning. Fuck it fuck it fuck it. I’m going.

Mindlessly, I proceeded down the spine and clasped the chains. Not shortly into my climb, I slipped and went a-sliding and made a family totally panic. (Sorry, guys) and still thought -fuck it. I continued to go forth, my nerves making me forget to drink water. Even though my stare was mostly straight forward, I still got dizzy with head rushes. By the last couple hundred yards before the official peak, I got so dizzy, I had to sit down. And yea, I was in between hyperventilating and tears when this lovely gal from LA who was climbing behind me, immediately came to my rescue. She sat with me and gave me some electrolyte powder, which I straight shotgunned into my throat and immediately felt like I was foaming at the mouth. Her and her group adopted me and I was so thankful they did. So, nice folks in LA DO exist. :) Before my 6-mile bike ride back to camp, we all shared some margaritas and stories, hydration be damned.

Rocks stand high in the sky, you know how I feel…

4. Eat real FOOD. Maybe I haven’t gotten this camping thing down 100 percent, but I brought dehydrated meals to save on space and to get what I thought was adequate protein. I also brought fresh fruit and snacks for daaaays and plenty of protein bars. After day 2 of dehydrated meals for dinner as well as snacks, sandwiches and fruit, my body wasn’t having it anymore. I couldn’t make myself eat any of my stuff, honestly because all I could think about were eggs, hash browns, bacon and toast with tea or coffee. As I left Zion, I got exactly that at Oscar’s Cafe in Springdale and I could feel my body doing a little happy dance in between bites.

girl with sunglasses and a backpack smiles under red rocks

Don’t ask how I mustered that smile. All along the Watchman Trail.

5. Check yourself before you wreck yourself. With closures far and wide and the confines of stay-at-home orders, businesses biting the dust and extra safety protocols for public spaces, people are longing to get out and literally breathe fresh air …without contracting covid, of course. With all this pent up energy, I think I got ahead of myself and forgot to pause and check my mentality before pursuing my annual Zion + snowboarding trip. I was so focused on getting away and getting out…just like everyone else. And my expectations of low crowds, beautiful scenery and adventure did not match the pandemic reality. Crowds were aplenty and I’m trying to learn patience with people and the pandemic times while also looking at what I want out of trips versus what I will actually get.

My normal positive mental attitude wasn’t 100 percent there, in case you can’t tell. :D Signs of the times were everywhere, including not only the one death but another suicide at Angel’s Landing earlier that week, crazy crowds like I’ve never seen and constant roadblocks that never used to exist. In hindsight, which, ironically, is always 2020 (haaaa), I should’ve just hiked past Angel’s Landing, found a way to get better sleep and made more of an effort to hydrate myself and eat real food.

Brian Head Resort in Utah cooled off my hot head.

Snowboarding, on the other hand, was my one saving day and had me leaving southern Utah with a very tired smile.

Hindsight…Maybe we can change that “hindsight is 2020″ thing…

It wasn’t ALL camping mishaps. Check out a few more photos from Zion, Kolob and Brian Head in my album below!

And a long compilation of my videos from Zion to Kolob Canyon and Brian Head, too:

Ventura: A Change of Scene and Wave

December 3, 2019/in Surfing, Travel /by confessionsofasurfergirl

Despite torrential downpours, I decided to stick to my plans and head up the coast solo for Thanksgiving. Turkey be damned. I crossed a few lakes and rivers on the 5 freeway north, tamed the 101’s penchant for stop-go torture and sat in bumper-to-bumper while heavy drops pelted my car window…once again, and are we surprised? I was determined.

If you’ve learned anything about me in my almost 10 years of “confessing,” I do not give up so easy, especially when it comes to travel plans and escaping the holiday’s choking crowds.

A cold, chilly C-Street.

I’m jinglin’ my damn bells out of the O.C. and oh what fun it is to ride on…the 5 freeway?….said no one ever.

Would Ventura’s chillier breaks hold anything less crowded? That was the hope as I peered over my car’s dusty dashboard at the rain-soaked Thanksgiving morning. The last time I surfed Ventura was in 2013 before my cousin’s wedding. I was anxious to be going back.

After conquering the concrete jungle’s arterial jugulars, Oxnard and then Ventura came into view like a breath of fresh farm air. Instantly my heartbeat picked up, a huge grin spread across my mug and I let out a small squeal of excitement to myself.
First stop on my list? C-Street, of course. It’s easy enough to find.

The parking lot had open spots—hmm bad sign? All longboarders hoisting their airplane wings out from their trucks—another bad sign? Out front were some fun waist-to-chest high rollers combing through, but what’s this? I spied a semi-chunky wave north of C-Street equipped with a chunkier crowd. Ventura point and the locals, it must be.

The next morning, the tide was too high for C-Street, so I relocated to the point. The point was crossed up and peaky from more downpours and wind the night before, so I settled for a less crowded option just north of the point. The lineup crowd was, shall we say, the strong silent type? Definitely no need for conversations, but occasionally I heard a few encouraging hoots in my direction… I’m pretty sure I was the only gal in the water.

Asking the name of the break quickly gave away my non-local status and questions ensued:

“Where are you from?”
Orange County.
“Where do you surf there?”
Trestles.
A few locals let out some grumbles.

The water felt balmy compared to Ventura’s 40-degree air temp. It was the first time I busted out my wetsuit hood since Humboldt.

The rain-soaked Ventura Point

Easy takeoffs led to a nice shoulder every once in a while, if you waited for the bigger sets. The murky water and occasional kelp brushing against my legs had me on higher alert. I’m not a fan of not being able to see my own feet in the water. The inside definitely liked to thump ya, if you weren’t paying attention, which I’ll admit was hard to do since there were gorgeous snow-covered mountains within view. After eating shit a few times on the inside, I realized the water was only a few feet deep, so I stood to drool over the mountains. My heart soared—waves and mountains, how can it get better?

The morning wind, which had been a chilly northeast, had turned to an ugly west and white caps started to dot the horizon. Damn—it’s only 9:30? After deciding on one more wave, one local guy quietly let me know we were surfing “second point” and that Rincon was only a 10 minute drive north.

Found my afternoon plans.

After my last wave, my very neoprened-self left second point in search of a warm drink—a nice warm chai tea sounded like perfection. At this point, I’d welcome a warm chai shower as my numb fingers attempted to towel change in the now 48-degree air.

So necessary.

I don’t know how locals in Norcal …or Maine or Canada or Alaska… do it, I thought. I could feel my blood freezing as I attempted to change out of my wet bikini top, no free peep shows warranted. At least the water wasn’t cold comparatively. I’m waiting for the duck dive that makes my boogers freeze.

After touring downtown Ventura, I found my beloved chai and croissant, and feeling returned to my fingers and toes. I quickly left the tempting retail stores and jumped onto the 101 north towards Carpinteria. I had been this way many times before and have seen the Queen of the Coast both microscopic and gigantic. Judging by the conditions in Ventura, my expectations remained low, but hopeful.

Today, it was semi-microscopic, but occasionally, a decent set would roll through with a total of four people bobbing in the lineup. Done. Sold. I am finally surfing this place and quickly changed into my dry 3 mil, paddled out to a crowd of mostly longboarders and caught a few decent waves on my Russell retro quad. I can see how this place can make a surfer froth like a mad dog when WNW swells are off the charts.

A few rain clouds closed in and a cold wind blew. That was my cue.

In Terminator fashion, I thought: I’ll be back.
And next time, I’m hoping for bigger, better things, your highness.

Check out my Flickr album below:

Watch my video:

Five Least Likely Surf Spots to Consider

August 20, 2019/in Listicles, Surfing, Travel /by Confessions of a Surfer Girl

If you are any kind of surfer, you understand that crowds have been and still are an increasing factor in your wave search. Some have quit surfing all together (NEVER!) while others play hookie in hopes to score two-foot mini-drainers. Those “sick days” no longer apply as more kiddos are now home-schooled and groomed to be the next Slater or Reynolds. Midday lunch session escape? Nah–you’re surfing with your boss and the marketing team on their Wavestorms and funboards at Creek, if you are so lucky.

“Hey, can you teach me how to surf?! I just got this 9-foot board and I don’t know how to duck dive it.” *bangs head against desk repeatedly*

Good luck, buddy ole pal!

Within the last decade, surfers have really pushed the limits to reach out to the corners of an otherwise round globe in search of their perfect ride with minimal crowds. If it has a body of water and some form of wind, there is wave potential, right? After my experience with the latest wavepark craze in Texas and coming out the other side mostly healthy, (albeit slightly worried–see ‘amoeba’ and ‘BSR Cable Park’), I recognize that not everyone needs Trestles to feel satiated…well, except for me and 50 of my best friends on a Saturday morning.

I want to believe and know for a FACT there is a secret adventurer in all of us aqua wanderlusts…someone who’s been cooped up since the Endless Summer days and so desperately needs to get out of the park-pay-surf routine. If you’ve got the bengies, balls and/or brains, below is a list of options you might consider when scanning the discount travel interwebs.

Now, I wonder if Germany charges for board bags…

Antarctica

Is your surfing mission to solely avoid all people and/or crowds? While I might recommend an easier remote Baja trip, this blog is not about the typical and the easy, but more focused on the “WTF mate?!” reaction. If you’re hell-bent on being completely antisocial with a frigid ‘tude to boot, the approximately 11,000 miles of Antarctica’s icy coastline is your best…friend? Crowds will not be a problem here. If it ever becomes one, I quit. Even with my crappy screen shot here, you can see major point break potential. Chilean pro surfer Ramon Navarro was the first pro to brave the freezing waters of King George Island in 2014. If you’ve got the grapes (assuming you don’t mind frozen ones), I challenge you to surf the sub-zero temperature ranges while I venture to warmer parts unknown comparatively.

The Great Lakes

Not exactly balmy. Great Lakes for the win! Photo: secondwavemedia.com

The Great Lakes are nothing to sneeze at–they hold 6 quadrillion gallons of water and are considered one-fifth of the world’s fresh water supply. First: have you ever even heard of anyone using ‘quadrillion’ outside of space travel? I haven’t. The lakes also offer more than 10,000 miles of shoreline, which, according to magicseaweed.com, is more than the U.S. West and East coast combined! Because of the Great Lake’s size, the fetch produces large, surfable waves–with the right conditions. Often requiring lots of neoprene and vasoline (protect that mug!) as well as patience and an interest in surfing in the snow, the Great Lakes can have good waves, but do you have the balls? Someone did and I wonder where he got them–The first Great Lakes surfer was a G.I. with a longboard, who was returning from Hawaii in 1945. According to the same site, the eastern shore of Lake Michigan and northeastern shore of Lake Erie saw more surfers combing their shores throughout the 60’s and it now exists today–remember that part in Dana Brown’s “Step into Liquid” movie back in 2003??

Eisbach River–Munich, Germany

In the most landlocked of European countries, it turns out surfing is a thing in Munich, Germany–namely ‘River Surfing.’ The mile-long man-made Eisbach (aka: “Ice brook”) river is a side arm of the Isar River. Although at this point crowds MAY be a factor since pros like Mick Fanning have given it a go, the wave is not exactly ‘friendly.’ Also known as “E1,” the wave was specifically

Germans mean business about not just beer. Photo: Riverbreak.com

created to be ridden by experts. Folks literally sit in line and take turns (imagine that!) for waves, so dropping in on someone is completely unacceptable. Not gonna lie: I would absolutely LOVE to hear an errant tourist get bitched out by a German local.

According to this website, the concrete baffles that support the wave’s flow can break your neck and the fast-moving current combined with a rocky riverbed will gladly take out your board that probably you paid a hefty travel fee. Is there ding repair in Germany? The wave and the crowd may be tough, but getting to the lineup isn’t: Throw your board in front of you and use the river’s momentum. But, beginners be warned: according to the site, if you’re a beginner, “just forget it.” However, there is a spot named “E2” that is supposedly more approps–not sure how the Germans view the Wavestorm crowd or how they define “beginner” while they nonchalantly slug “Das Boots.”

Clarks Fork River–Missoula, Montana

Brennan’s Wave in the Clark Fork River, Montana.
Photo: Sean Jansen

My longtime friend Sean Jansen wasn’t planning on moving to Montana, or planning anything that does not involve being outside and in nature. The San Clemente local-turned Montana resident is no stranger to thinking outside the box or shall we say, wave? With the nearest wave being over 2,000 miles away, Jansen has taken up river surfing in the icy waters of Clarks Fork River. Just as in any kind of wave, there is a science and adventure to river surfing and Jansen is no stranger to either. See his river surf explanation below:

The same winter storms that hit Washington, Oregon, and California keep marching inland after they hit. Once in Montana, those storms land as snow, coupled with storms from Canada. Once spring hits and temperatures rise above freezing, snowmelt happens and floods the river, hence the brown water. And river surfing is born.

Brennan’s Wave is the name of the wave and it is an artificial wave created by concrete submerged.

Silver Dragon–Qiantang River, China

I hate to disappoint, but this is NOT Game of Thrones…or were you already disappointed by that anyway? :) However, maybe I will take my cool braided locks and my future …Lost board, which will have Drogo painted on it, to China to surf the elusive and rare Silver Dragon -Qiantang River Tidal Bore. A tidal bore happens during specific conditions–the spring or fall tide and full moons. There’s even a festival dedicated to this occurrence known as “The Tide-Watching Festival” held on the 18th day of the 8th month in the Chinese calendar. The festival brings 170,000 people and has been celebrated for hundreds of years. The break is named the Silver Dragon because it is first seen from a distance as a stroke of silver on the horizon along the Qiantang River located in East China. The river and Hangzhou Bay are known for the world’s largest tide bore. As you can see here, the wave is really nothing to snub. It’s got some juice.

Facing Fears Solo in Zion National Park

April 5, 2019/in Anti-Surf, Nature, Travel /by Confessions of a Surfer Girl

Timing is everything.

And it just so happened that minutes after I gushed to my boss about wanting to do a solo camping trip, my co-worker messaged the team saying that he had an extra camp site at Zion National Park. Instantly, I responded with “mine…please.”

Watchman Campgrounds picturesque peaks.

It has been 10 years since I’ve camped by myself…Big Sur in 2009, right around the same time of year, was the first and last time I had pitched a tent, lit a fire and truly struck out into a space with zero cell phone reception. I toggled with the idea of bringing someone along, but my mind immediately screamed: NOPE. There were times where I’d view the estimated air temps for that week and it mostly read in the mid 50’s for the high and the upper 20’s for the low. Again: still going.

I got yelled at by both parents and most co-workers were in disbelief.

Still.
Going.

Of course I began to question myself: Could I still light my own camp fire? Build my own tent? Cook my own food? Protect myself from predators in and out of the park? YES.

The first time this tent has seen the light in five years. Sad, but true.

After staying Thursday night at the disgusting Rio resort/hotel in Vegas, I powered through Sin City’s dust, desert and debauchery for a couple more hours to Zion and arrived (after many photo stops) Friday afternoon. I could not wait to escape that blasted hotel room that reeked of smoke. Despite it’s salacious party-hardy reputation, Vegas has never been interesting to me. In fact, it makes me want to run far far away every time. Funny enough–I got more bug bites in the hotel room than I did camping.

When I arrived to my campsite, the beautiful landscape jutted towards puffy white clouds that swiftly blew past the peaks of the park’s beautiful precipices. I was in utter shock and awe having done zero research (naturally) before my solo adventure outside of consistently bugging my co-worker for info. I immediately began to set up my more than 10 year old tent–it’s previous adventure was five years ago in Baja with six wave-hungry boys and myself. The Baja dust and dried mud still sifted around the tent’s interior and, as I opened it up, I let out a big “AWWWWE” remembering that epic surf trip five years ago while, in the same breath, scoffing in shame as it was the last adventure this tent had seen.

After the tent was set up, my co-worker and his wife stopped by to say hello. I also got to know my fellow semi-solo female camper neighbor, who helped me pull up my tent. I later spied her chopping firewood with an ax, which made me feel oddly proud that I asked for her help. Shortly after the set-up, I hopped onto a free shuttle that takes people into the park. I decided to check out the Upper Emerald Pool Trail, a small half-mile trip to a water fall, stocked with crowds, kids and strollers. YAY. So after the brief stroll, I made my way down Sand Bench trail, which had no one. As the sun started to set, I turned around and headed towards camp, where I successfully lit a camp fire and cooked freeze-dried soup and paired it with a salad I picked up from the grocery store earlier.

The night came quickly and after my fire died, I huddled in my tent equipped with quilts, two sleeping bags, beanies, gloves and a solid book. But, I never sleep well when it comes to camping. I woke up at 3-ish a.m to the distant sound of coyotes barking. As I stirred in my sleeping bags, the frigid air felt numb against my face and proceeded to sneak through any available crevice.
In short: brrrr

The first portion of the Angel’s Landing hike, right before you get to Refrigerator Canyon.

My 7 a.m. wake-up proved even more difficult than sleeping as getting out of the warmth of my sleeping bags was especially challenging.

Wellll, I’m up! Time for breakfast and the infamous Angel’s Landing hike. No big deal, I thought, as I scarfed my oatmeal and green tea. I will do as much as I can and there’s zero pressure, despite my dizzying fear of heights. But–I often push through because am also very stubborn and goal-oriented. I knew I had to do the hike that has a reputation for treachery. Six people have died attempting the last half-mile and the park makes sure people are aware of that and recommends anyone with heart or lung problems and anyone afraid of heights to not attempt. Of course, I had to at least SEE this beast of a climb.

This hike certainly ain’t no Angel…in fact, she’s a real bitch.

“The Spine” looking nice ‘n spiney.

The first 2 miles of the Angel’s Landing follow along a paved road of the West Rim Trail and I will mention, you really start to feel the 1,500 elevation gain towards the top of the longer switchbacks. Try not to get too dizzy because it might not be the highest point of the trail, but it’s still a long way down. After this portion, you come to the only shaded part of the trail known as “Refrigerator Canyon,” which has a small creek and hanging plants and trees. I recommend doing some calve stretching because shortly after this section, you arrive at “Walter’s Wiggles,” which are 21 switchbacks named after the park’s first superintendent. This, outside of the climb, is the most difficult part of the trail as it will wear you down.

If you make it through Walter’s Wiggles, you come to what looks like the top, but no. It is merely a resting/lunching place before you (or should you) take on the last half-mile of Angel’s Landing known as “The Spine”–duly noted for it’s narrow shape and sheer drop-offs. When I tackled this part, there was a hefty line of people (somehow) going both ways on the very narrow path that is, YES, mostly lined with chains for grip. I stood in line and the first third of the half mile climb (not really hike), was what I thought to be the peak, but no–my mouth agape as the rest of the “spine” came into view.

I thought, well I’ve come this far, and it wasn’t as bad as I thought, maybe I’ll just keep going.

Thank you for being my model, fellow photog, because I really didn’t want to take a selfie. No fear at the peak of Angel’s Landing.

A small part of my stomach was doing loop-de-loops as I climbed up and down, over and out very VERY carefully. One step in the wrong direction, one trip over a jagged rock and you fall to certain death thousands of dizzying feet below. The people in front and behind me became my best friends as I climbed with an 15 extra pounds on my back. I think I would’ve felt a little safer without my 15-pound backpack, but I wouldn’t have been able to eat my delicious turkey avocado sandwich at 5,790 feet. No, I wasn’t having that.

So, I committed to the rest of The Spine and eventually made it to a very unobstructed 360-degree view of Zion National Park. As I got to the peak, my heart bursted with excitement and fear all at once. I dare not test my balance coupled with my tired legs and quickly found a lunch spot. My turkey and avocado sandwich never tasted so good. I sat for a moment, took in the beauty that is Zion and then decided to go back down since it was, at this point, past noon. I felt the sun fry my cheeks as I carefully stood up to hike down. Despite the fact that I was still shaking in my hiking boots, I was so proud that I made it to this place and didn’t give up.

Not too close to the edge. Yay, conquering fears!

The climb back down, however, felt scarier than climbing up. For you climbers/hikers: capitalize on SQUATS because you gonna need ’em. No matter how much my thighs trembled, I forced myself to keep moving despite my semi-lighter backpack falling around my shoulders with each steep descend. At the Spine’s final third portion, there were some rude people who decided to not wait for oncoming traffic on the narrow one-way ridge, and some other folks had to literally grab me and hold me so those rude people would not push me over the edge. I am very grateful for those who were keeping me and the two girls behind safe.

Once I got to the resting space, I felt a wave of relief wash over me as my thighs continued to tremble.

I did it, I thought. I fucking did that shit.

As cheesy as this might sound, a special feeling remained in me for the rest of the day. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face as I continued to hike more of the West Rim Trail, Weeping Rock and a small portion of the Narrows. I absolutely HAVE to come back here–no question in mind.

My only real question that remains is: will I attempt Angel’s Landing again? Maybe or maybe not, but, not gonna lie: hang gliding, sky diving, rock climbing…these activities have a little more potential for future fear conquering.

A Few Things to Expect When Surfing Hawaii’s Big Island

March 22, 2019/in Surfing, Travel /by Confessions of a Surfer Girl

I’ve noticed the very utterance of the name “Hawaii” often sends surfers into either one of two reactions: pure froth or pure frustration.

Like that one who got away or that one you’ll never forget, Hawaii has a tendency to have these effects on surfers alike, although I’m no well Hawaiian-ized surfer gal. Yes, I have surfed Oahu’s Waikiki a few times, but never the famed and over-photographed North Shore. And more recently, I can now add the Big Island to my list of “have surfed there” spots, namely a not-so gentle break called Kahalu’u located in Kailua-Kona.
The Big Island is, so far, my favorite spot out of the three Hawaiian islands I’ve visited—Kauai, not included above because I did not surf there. As a pasty gal from the mainland innocuously asking random locals for a nug of info about surfing in Kailua-Kona, I was met with more discouragement than anything. At first, I wanted to blame it on the fact that they just didn’t want a mainlander to take their waves, but as I learned, the big island locals and I share similar sentiments about sharing waves and wave-hog tourists.
Here are some tips for fellow mainlanders and anyone else who thinks about surfing the Big Island.

1. It is reefy—not rocky, well, yes, razor sharp LAVA rocks make up the majority of the island’s beach landscape. However, once you paddle out, don’t forget to look into the water to double check for reef that is pretty much everywhere. Right up there with lava, reef can be ultra-sharp, so it is in your best interest not to eat it feet or head first on waves (see number “4”).

A Kona reef doing it’s thing.

2. Respect the locals
—as one local lady told me with some serious ‘tude to boot: “this ain’t Waikiki…the locals wait all year for their waves.” And, thanks to our LA-folks, out-of-town people have inherited a reputation for wave hoggery. Once again, LAliens, THANKS. This ain’t a competition…wait your turn on the shoulder or hang out in the channel and watch the locals put on a clinic. If you show some respect and not paddle straight to the peak, they will most likely let you catch a few, but don’t paddle out thinking you’re going to take every wave. When I checked Oahu’s surf report and compared it to the Big Island, I noticed Oahu gets far more (and bigger) waves, so these locals are HUNGRY. Let them gorge themselves before you start nibbling at the peak. Oh & avoid the “Billy Badass” attitude—pretty sure that gets you nowhere.
Show the locals some R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

3. Sit on the shoulder
—as I mentioned above, avoid the “Billy Badass” attitude. Billy Badass goes nowhere with Hawaiians. These are some of the hardest-charging surfers I’ve ever seen, so just because you’ve surfed double-overhead El Porto doesn’t mean you get to take everything that comes your way. The question is not whether you can surf, it’s whether you can take the time to respect the locals and the wave. During the winter months, Kailua-Kona is a little less exposed than it’s neighbors, like Oahu and Kauai, so the swell is little less consistent and, while it’s still pretty damn impressive, the size was not as significant as the neighboring islands. The locals need their waves and it would behoove you to let them gorge before they have to go to work or home. Nothing worse than a grumpy local, right? Take the back seat and let the locals have their waves first…and don’t be a jerk about it.

Cruisin’ the shoulder. Photo: Kona Surf Photos

4. For the love of all that is holy: starfish

–to state the obvious, if you are surfing over reef, which is a living, breathing organism/ecosystem, be sure to “starfish” when you eat crap. Unless you want French fries for toesies, or want to find out what it feels like to have your skull pierced, make sure to flatten your body or aim that bootie towards the water, if you can help it. I was specifically told by the locals to not eat it feet or head first.

Although they told me that there is a slight buffer between the white wash and the reef (apparently you are more likely to roll over the reef rather than straight down to the bottom), it’s always good to exercise caution and give the seasoned local a good chuckle and flatten out as much as possible. Take a page from that epic T.V. show ‘Sponge Bob’ and absorb your best Patrick impersonation. In the interim, try not to belly-flop.

5. If you really want to surf, don’t give up

—Mini-story time! Despite the fact that I ran into a lot of

I played nice and the locals played nice back. Reaping the rewards.
Photo: Kona Surf Photos

discouragement from some locals, surfing was going to happen, come hell or double over-head high water. Kahalu’u had piqued my interest after I tried to paddle into the wave during a building swell and a dropping tide. At the wave’s peak during the low tide, the wave turned into a mutant exposing dry reef and the drop-ins looked damn near impossible. So, I sat on the shoulder, told myself I was being polite for the locals while my heart pounded in my chest and waited patiently for a small-ish shoulder to come through in between thumping well-overhead sets.

Over the next couple of days, the swell climbed to double-overhead and all along Ali’I drive in Kona, the reefs were seen straightaway from the road firing on all cylinders while lifeguards posted red flag warnings.

I really wanted to surf one more time, even tho I was scared shitless of the wave. I just wanted to give it another go. I found another place to rent a board right in front of Kahalu’u, but “because the conditions were red flag,” the shop refused to rent me a board because they didn’t want to be held liable. In the meantime, I watched them rent a SUP to a 10-year old—an excellent way to make my blood boil.

Kona Boys rented me this pintail beaut for my last day to surf Kahalu’u. Very stoked surfer girl.
Photo: Dave DuPre

I was so put off …I felt sized up…angry…discouraged…I tried to look beyond their blatant rejection and obvious “see you coming” attitude, but only saw red.

After some encouragement from my boyfriend, I picked up the pieces of my shattered ego and rented a stunning board from Kona Boys Surf Shop—polar opposite experience. In the end, I scored some great waves and the locals, who had come to refer to me as “Trestles,” were hooting me into sets. I left the water with the biggest smile I’ve had in years for surfing. Don’t give up.

P.S.
After a surf, I highly recommend trying out Da Poke Shack off Ali’I drive. It will ruin any inkling of “fresh fish” you’ve ever had, even if you live by a coastline…on a boat…or in the sand. I watched them slice and dice the fish, which (sorry vegans!), was a beautiful array of hues ranging from deep blood to bright red. On our first attempt to find the place, we arrived just in time for them to sell out–it was noon.