cedars and palms

Growing up in Montana, I’d spend afternoons that faded into sunsets in any body of water I could throw myself into — lakes, rivers, the local pool. You’d think I was born with gills. Those waters held me, but something always felt like it was missing. When I was twenty, I took my first surf trip and finally understood that it was the ocean all along. It’s something so vast you couldn’t possibly get to know it all in a lifetime. As foreign as it was, it felt like home.

The ocean wears different moods depending on when and where you meet it. This trip began on Vancouver Island, with icy waters, ancient trees standing guard on the beach, and pulling on a sweater after surfing. Then to the Island of O’ahu, where the water is warm, palm trees swaying in the breeze, and a bikini was the daily uniform.

Hours slipped by in the water. It wasn’t until it was too dark to see that we knew it was time to return to dry land.

One plane to another, to a train, to a short walk through the city, to Harbor Air in Vancouver. The float plane was the perfect way to experience the island for the first time and get a sense of the landscape. This area can be relentlessly rainy — but to my luck, the skies were clear.

The water from above was like looking through a window. You could see right through until the dark blue depth consumed the light. Inland, a maze of near-vertical peaks that touched the clouds. Networks of logging roads scarred the surface. Then we reached the island’s edge, where it merged with the Pacific. Smaller islands dotted the coastline, and the banks were dense with trees. The beauty from above sparked my excitement to see it all up close.

Haze blanketed the morning, heavy and calming. Light filtered through the cathedral of trees, like stained glass. It was like being caught in the forest’s dream.

This photo felt like a small victory — an experiment that turned out. I carefully balanced my camera on a rock (who needs a tripod), set the timer, and dialed the shutter to 2 seconds. Click. Crossed my fingers. This is the first frame I looked for after I got the film back.

There were moments on the island that left me without words. Even now, it’s hard to sum up my feelings. The way the afternoon sun sparkled on the water, an otter running on the beach, cooking dinner by candlelight, meals shared with friends, stargazing while sipping rosé, the jammy taste of handpicked thimbleberries, slow mornings, bundled up on the beach drinking tea.

The next stop — Hawaii. I traded a 5mm wetsuit and booties for bare skin and sunscreen. I kept checking my flight — it felt a little unreal that I was getting to spend time in these two worlds back to back.

The first thing that hit me was the warm breeze of the trade winds. Then came a truck full of laughing friends, hugs, and a lei around my neck. I kept thinking: “I’m so lucky.” It’s an honor to experience life alongside all these people I love. We’ve shared days where we’ve laughed so hard we cried, and other days when tears were all we had. The past couple of years have been tough, but I’m especially grateful for Nirvana Ortanez, who was there through it all. Having a friend like her is a gift. Not only can she sit with you in the dark but she’s someone who sees your light — even when you can’t see yourself.

As long as I’ve known Nirvana, she’s had these flip-flops — these may have even been with her for half her life. Every trip, I’d laugh that they were somehow still in one piece. These flops reached their final resting place. Let’s have a moment for the shoes.

A recurring theme in my life is how much I learn from my friends. Megan Godinez, “Auntie Megz,” was born and raised in Hawaii. There couldn’t have been a better person to take us around. On our drives through winding mountain passes or bumpy dirt roads, she’d share the tales she grew up with — painting a picture of the island’s rich history, reverence for the land, and its living creatures. The stories were layered in lore and spirituality — ones of warriors, or the legends of how the mountains got their names... I know this is just the beginning of learning about this remarkable place.

The next lesson: watching Megz fish with an ‘Upena (throw-net). She moved low and deliberately along the rocks to keep her shadow from scaring the fish away. Her trained eye spotted a flash of color. The net flew gracefully from her hands. Not a second later, there was a Bluespine Unicornfish (better known in Hawaii as Kala) tangled in the net. I hung onto her words as she patiently studied the waters. I knew that if I paid attention, I could start to understand the wisdom she carried — lessons not only about fishing, but about patience, persistence, and respect for the ocean.

I love learning, and most of the time, that means getting into uncomfortable situations, which brings me to the next lesson with Jenna Kuklinski: shelling. We got suited up, rubbed crumpled Naupaka leaves in our masks to prevent them from fogging, and made our way to the water. I was a tangled mess of hair, sand in my fins, and couldn’t quite get all of the water out of my snorkel. As I looked over to Jenna, gracefully floating underwater, finding beautiful shells among the reef, I couldn’t help but laugh at my momentary scramble. I paused, smoothed out my hair, cleared the sand from my fins, took a deep breath, and found my rhythm. Jenna explained how to ensure the shells weren’t someone’s home and which ones could kill you if you didn’t grab them from the back. Seeing her hone this newfound passion is beautiful to witness.

There was a point when I stopped looking for treasures and started to take in my surroundings. I entered such an inner calm that I forgot I was holding my breath. Colorful fish weaved through arches and spires of the reef that resembled a jagged underwater forest. The sand moving across the ocean floor sounded like a gentle rain on leaves. I wouldn’t have guessed I’d feel this peace diving twenty feet underwater. I’m seeing the ocean from a new perspective, and I have Jenna to thank.

A recent reflection keeps circling in my head. I often felt like I needed to ask permission to live my life. Why? Where does this feeling come from? And who the hell am I asking?! I think back to moments I’d cram myself to fit into a space. Looping doubts, ‘Should I be doing this? This caption isn’t funny. You’re too sensitive.’ I hid the fullness of who I was.

But there was another side. The side that cared deeply and wasn't afraid to show it. Who loved fully. Who wasn’t worried about falling flat on her face. This was a part of me that I loved, and it was starting to emerge. Instead of letting her grow, I buried her.

For a moment, I lost who I was. My spark was gone, but I fought hard to get it back. What I’ve learned is there’s power in softness. Sometimes showing this vulnerable side feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

With every leap, I’ve been caught with gentle hands. Each moment of safety has built trust and shown me that it’s okay to be myself.

This experience made me realize my deepest fear isn't judgment, it’s handing my value over to someone else.
When moments of doubt creep in, I ask myself, ‘What do I want to do?’ instead of ‘What should I do?’ This small shift in language gave me power back. I owe a great deal of gratitude to those close to me for loving me throughout this journey.

Like the cedars and palms — I’m learning when to stand strong, when to be soft, and when to dance in the breeze.