In the year 1989, I was pulled into the tide of a world I’d never quite known but had always seemed to long for. It was a time when the ocean was more than a playground—it was a cathedral, a place where the sun and salt baptized seekers, and every wave carried the whispers of an ancient tradition. Surfing wasn’t just a sport; it was a language spoken between the sea and the soul. Back then, Kelly Slater was just 17—a boy with a board and dreams as vast as the horizon he chased. He hadn’t yet made the leap into professional hyperspace, but even then, the spark of something extraordinary was evident. I met him at Orlando's ASR, a young talent searching for sponsors, his family just getting by. My ex-husband, Bill Johnson, lived down the street from Kelly, and by January 1990, my path had fully merged with Florida's vibrant surf culture.

This was an era of neon wetsuits that shone like the dawn and shortboards that cut through waves like knives. The ASP was in its infancy, and names like Tom Curren and Tom Carroll ruled the tide with an effortless grace. The beach was a gallery of progress, with boards evolving into sleek, double-concave masterpieces, their curves echoing the fluidity of the waves themselves.

When I was 16, my friend Mark Hartmann produced Son Riders, a Christian surf film, and through it, I met legends like Mike Lambresi, Jim Hogan, Joey Buran, Peter King, and the Dakota Motor crew. The world of surfing was tight-knit, a traveling caravan of dreamers chasing swells from shore to shore. From 1987 to 1997, I lived within this rhythm, as though the ocean had set the tempo for my life.

Kelly once joked that being part of the surf culture was like joining the mob—a notorious, wave-riding mob. There was truth in his laughter. We were a tribe, bonded by saltwater and the pursuit of the perfect wave. Bill, working with Bob Hurley at Billabong, brought surfers like CJ and Damion Hobgood into the fold, expanding our ranks. Together, we pushed boundaries, shaping boards that were bold and progressive, pieces of art designed to conquer the ocean's raw power.

But like all things, the tide began to turn. The spiritual essence of surfing—its connection to nature, its roots in ancient traditions—started to erode under the weight of commercialism. Hand-shaped boards, imbued with the soul of their makers, were replaced by mass-produced imports. The magic began to wane. Surfing, once an expression of freedom, became a battleground for competition, and the soul of the culture felt adrift.

Now it is 2025, and I find myself gazing back at those years with a mixture of nostalgia and resolve. The ocean, timeless and eternal, still holds its secrets, waiting for us to listen. The allure of big-wave riding has captivated this new generation, and the call of the endless summer—the dream of exploration, of escaping the humdrum scroll of modern life—has returned.

It is time to reconnect, not by resurrecting the past but by reinventing what surfing can mean today. To ride the waves not just with skill, but with reverence. To remember that the sea isn’t just a playground; it is a sacred space, a mirror for the soul. Only a surfer knows the feeling—the pull of the tide, the rhythm of the swell, the infinite dance between humanity and the ocean.

Let us return to the sea—not just to surf, but to find ourselves again.