A longer-than-expected hangout with Sean and Ronnie led to a late-night drive to Red Bluff, where I crashed for a few hours before pushing through the final stretch to Eureka. The goal: surf the Humboldt North Jetty—my first session in Northern California and, in my mind, the first step in becoming a cold-water legend.

I didn’t know the area well. I drove toward the Jetty and—without much hesitation—took the Landy onto the beach. Even with the tires still aired up to 35 PSI, it cruised through the dunes with ease. The surf looked heavy. Thick sets rolled in with no real break between them. No one was out. I figured if I wasn’t going to paddle out, I could at least post up in the sun and enjoy lunch with a view.

Afterward, I checked a few other spots my buddy Jake had recommended. None of them were lining up—the wind, tide, and swell weren’t syncing. And honestly, I was a little relieved. Part of me didn’t want to admit it, but the idea of hurling myself into unfamiliar, overhead waves—especially given my injury history—wasn’t exactly inviting.

Just as I was about to call it, I spotted someone driving down the coast with a board strapped to their roof. I followed them. They circled back to North Jetty.

The conditions had changed dramatically. The tide had shifted, and what was once an empty, heavy lineup was now a buzzing scene—rows of cars on the sand, surfers pulling on wetsuits, people sprinting toward the water. The waves were still sizable, but now they had shape. A few conversations later, I realized how welcoming the community was. I stayed behind at first, walking out on the jetty with my camera to shoot some video and soak it in.

The clips were simple. But video is still new to me, and right now, getting the basics right feels like a big win. Clean shots. Good light. Stable frames. That’s the focus.

Eventually, I felt the pull. I suited up and paddled out—cautiously. It was sharky, unfamiliar water, and the waves were still testing. I spent the first stretch dodging closeouts and staring down walls that wanted to punish hesitation. But I found a couple with workable shoulders, and one long, drawn-out left that gave me the kind of glide that sticks with you. Enough to earn a future return trip in my mind.

I paddled in just before last light and headed into Lost Coast Brewing to catch their trivia night, grab a bite, and go through the photos and clips I’d shot over the last few days. Nothing I was proud of yet—but there was progress. And I still had enough gas in the tank to keep showing up, keep practicing.

That night, I continued driving north toward Brookings, Oregon. FreeCampsites.net let me down—as it sometimes does—and I ended up tucked away in a state park instead. Not ideal, but that’s the toll you pay for choosing the winding, unknown road. And most of the time, it’s worth it.