For those unfamiliar with the East Coast of the U.S.—particularly central Florida—it’s a region known for its warm weather, diverse wildlife, and its share of tropical storms. And of course, the infamous image of the “Florida Man” has made headlines worldwide, adding a layer of chaotic charm to the state’s reputation.
Despite being home to the U.S. Space Force, Florida isn’t exactly celebrated for world-class surf. Yet, somehow, it has produced some of the greatest surfing talent the world has ever seen—Kelly Slater, Caroline Marks, the Hobgood twins, and the Lopez brothers, to name a few. Collectively, that’s 16 world titles born from this coastline. Naturally, I imagined a thriving surf community rich in history, culture, and soul—its roots laid by the legends themselves. It felt like a hidden gem waiting to be explored.
With flights booked, I set out for a two-week dive into the coastal stretch that raised Kelly Slater—intent on exploring its mangroves, surf breaks, local surf shops, and the broader surf culture. My aim was simple: to draw comparisons with the tight-knit, Mediterranean surf scene I know so well back home in the Maltese archipelago. Within minutes of arriving, I was greeted by a stunning sunset, pelicans gliding overhead, dolphins circling shipwrecks, and reptiles roaming freely along the sand and roadsides. Nature here is untamed and abundant—a stark contrast to Malta’s arid landscapes, where wildlife battles daily just to survive. Abundance seemed to be the running theme, and I couldn’t help but wonder how this translated to the people and surf community.
By day two, with two hurricanes (one a Category 5) approaching the coast, the surf itch had fully set in. It was time to find a board. What I expected to be a simple errand soon turned into a frustrating scavenger hunt. I bounced from shop to shop, repeatedly met with impressive displays but little substance—few rental options, minimal local knowledge, and staff who seemed more disinterested than helpful. I had my list of surf spots ready, but I was hoping for insider tips, local wisdom, something human. Instead, I got cold shoulders and vague shrugs. It quickly became clear that, while surf culture has been oversaturated and commercialized in some places, this stretch of coast was suffering from the opposite—a lack of passion, stoke, and basic hospitality. It felt like a ghost of the culture I expected to find, a surf scene stripped of soul, and the contrast with the raw beauty of the landscape couldn’t have been more jarring. Just as my patience was wearing thin, I wandered into Flohana Surf Shop and met John Quinones, a surfer from North Carolina working the counter. His warm smile and relaxed vibe were a breath of fresh air. While his board selection wasn’t great, in just a few minutes of conversation, he offered more insight into the local surf community than all the other shops combined. This sun-kissed, easygoing East Coast surfer was exactly the kind of local I had hoped to meet. We exchanged Instagram handles, and I left with a spark of optimism. A day and a DM later—still no reply. And so, I’m left with more questions than when I arrived: Should I buy a second-hand board and try to flip it later? Why are rentals so scarce here? Does a true surf community still exist in this place, or has it faded away? Is there something deeper to discover, or have I already seen the surface of a washed-out scene? One thing’s for sure—the hurricanes are coming, I’m still without a board, and I’m not ready to give up yet. Whether I’ve just had a streak of bad luck or there’s something truly special buried beneath the surface, I’m here to dig deeper and find out what’s really left of this historic coast’s surf legacy
