Florida Files Part II: Come Hell or Hightower

I barely slept last night. Maybe it was jet lag. But more likely, it was the fear of missing waves. John from Flohana hadn’t replied since we met the day before. At 5 a.m., unable to wait any longer, I gave in to desperation and messaged local folks on Marketplace, hoping someone would rent out their board (buying would be last resort). Two replies came almost instantly. Both were out of town. Another hit to the psyche.

Still, I asked if they knew anyone else. To their credit—despite the no-nonsense tone of their listings—they offered a few words that would shape my day: “I haven’t noticed anybody renting quality boards.” That was it. I’d have to buy a secondhand board—for less than two weeks of surf. It felt like a loss. But maybe I was pushing too hard, too fast. Maybe I needed to step back and absorb this place in other ways. So I found myself at a shooting range, holding a former Navy SEAL’s Kahr pistol, surrounded by kind hearts and dry humor.

One man shared a joke, deadpan: “One dark night I saw a girl by the road so I stopped to ask if she was okay. Turns out she was French! I offered her a ride to which she replied, ‘Oui, oui.’ Stunned at her response, I told her, ‘Not in my car you don’t,’ and drove off.” The laughter was sharp, but warm. Disarming. Lunch followed at a beach shack just south of Kelly Slater’s hometown. The waves outside teased me, curling and crashing while I drowned my frustration in a greasy burger. Still, hope lingered. I noticed a surf shop down the road. Despite how raw the morning had left me, I went in. And I’m glad I did. Catalyst Surf Shop on Ocean Avenue—not Cocoa Beach—was the turning point. The guys there were solid. Surfers who understood.

They set me up with a used board for $250, plus a discount on fins and a leash. I left with something more than gear—I left with the sense that things were finally shifting. Minutes later, a notification: John messaged. He’d be surfing tomorrow and was willing to share some waves.

In the excitement of finding a board, I frantically made my way to Hightower Beach. A local was mid-air on a wave as I arrived, his girlfriend watching from the lineup. They left as I paddled out—alone, unfamiliar board under me, unfamiliar spot ahead, with a Category 5 hurricane somewhere on the horizon. Still, it was time. The first wave came fast. The lip broke quicker than I expected—I went down. The second, I found my feet. I raced down the line and hit a snap. A few more average waves followed. Then it happened. A perfect peak rolled toward me. I paddled hard, piercing the bumpy surface. Pelicans skimmed the water beside me. I popped up—and my kneecap popped out. Sharp pain, sudden and cruel. I bailed, thrashed underwater, and forced it back into place. I screamed underwater—more in frustration than pain—loud enough to spook any shark within earshot. Reality set in fast. If I wanted to surf again this trip, I needed to get out. Back on land, I self pitied for a while in the subtropical rain. Strangers asked how the waves were. I wasn’t the one to ask.

Maybe this was karma—for my earlier judgments about the local surf scene, or for dragging Kelly into this. (He’d be feeling pretty smug right now, I thought.) I kept thinking: I should’ve waited for John. I shouldn’t have forced it. I spent the rest of the day beating myself up by visiting mainstream shops like Ron Jons, where I couldn’t even find a poncho to buy. Later, I watched a movie and crashed, exhausted. Today is a new day. I slept better, but still not enough. Despite all the Tylenol—enough to send the Trump administration into a frenzy —my knee is worse. I don’t know if I’ll get another chance to surf. And even if I do… would I risk it?

Florida is proving to be a mental and physical trial. I now still have unanswered questions and instead has turned the tables and is asking questions I didn’t know I came here to answer. I still don’t understand this place—and maybe that’s the point. Maybe the answer is out there, hidden in the mangroves where crocodiles roll, or whispered beneath the murky waters where manatees drift. Only time will tell.