June’s South Swell

There is something about the surfers, skaters, artists, and adventurers in my life that refuses to conform to my preference for certainty. Over the years, they've taught me a lesson I seem incapable of learning any other way: the best moments rarely arrive with a plan.

Person in a wetsuit surfing on a wave near the shoreline, with two others in wetsuits in the water in the background and another person holding a surfboard watching from the shore.

Group of children and teenagers with skateboards at skatepark, some wearing helmets, in an outdoor setting with trees and a house in the background.

Since March of 2025, I've walked down to Steamer Lane every week with a camera in hand. I've spent hours standing on the cliffs in the early morning, during a lunch break, and most afternoons. Occasionally, a stranger would ask if I got any good shots or whether I lived nearby.

Ocean waves with a boat wake, blue sky, and distant mountains on the horizon.

When one of the largest southern swells in years hit Santa Cruz’s coast the second week of June, I was standing in my usual spot atop the cliff closest to the action. The reports said that the waves were going to be big, but you never know until you’re there, so I walked the couple miles from my house, hopped the fence, and made my way to the cliff.

The waves were heavy and full of energy. The biggest sets of the week started to roll in every twenty minutes at double overhead. The lineup was a ridiculous combination of carnage and hype.

Not long after I arrived, a few regulars joined me. I tucked my AirPods into my pocket, shook some hands, and tried not to get too excited as sets kept rolling in and their cheering had us all jumping up and down.

Maybe it was the excitement of the swell. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was the cumulative effect of showing up over and over again. But, for the first time since moving here, I felt like I was a part of something. I cheered alongside them as their buddies charged the bigger sets. They put names to faces and gave me an inside scoop on the history of The Lane. I made a friend who invited me back the next morning.

Four people at the beach, one kneeling with a camera, two standing and observing, a woman looking at the ocean, and a man with a backpack, all dressed casually. The ocean and distant shoreline are visible in the background.

Group of people standing on a beach, some taking photos. The sky is clear, and there are trees, water, and hills in the background.

Black and white photo of two people on a rocky beach; one person is filming with a camera mounted on a tripod, the other person is holding a surfboard and standing near the water; waves are crashing against rocks, and cliffs with a railing are visible in the background.

For most of my life, I have been a witness. I’ve stood just outside of life and preserved it from a documentarian's perch. Observe. Notice. Document. Understand. It's a beautiful place to be, but it isn't the only one.

Lately, I've been trying to spend more time in the outside world from a perspective that is deeply inside the moments I find myself in. On a quest to find belonging and what it means to feel at home in a life.

For a long time, I’ve thought belonging was looking around and realizing no part of me is asking to shrink. Recently, I know belonging to reward curiosity over certainty, grow quietly, and be grounded in a steadfast desire to remain true to self.