Everything I do in my life isn’t planned.
If I feel that something good is coming my way, I’ll take any opportunities as a sign and accept it. I will try things I am not good at until I become the most successful. I will get out my comfort zone, considering coffee as my best mate. I’ll take time for what matters to me, and that will be enough to make me happy.
So, when Carapace Wetsuits asked me to be a contributor on their blog, I was quite surprised. Did people really like to read me? That was something I never thought of, but it seems like it. And that was great!
Carapace Wetsuits is a company I got in touch with while I was travelling. Located in California and founded in 2012, Carapace are making their way into the surfing/diving world with the help of their premium custom-fit wetsuits. We just love the quality of the wetsuits and the team, so working with them was something logic for me.

For the first few articles, we decided to talk about my trip to California, sleeping on stranger’s couch and exploring places that I didn’t even knew existed. Here’s the first part of my California Adventure, and be ready for the part 2, coming soon! 

IPhone pictures aren't the best... oh well.

I’ve always wondered – when can you call yourself a surfer? At what point of your surfing experience can you wake up in the morning and change your Tinder status to “surfer” instead of “lover of the sea.” When can you talk to people and say, “Hey mate, I am a surfer, what about you?” It may seem weird, but I guarantee we’ve all thought about it once at some point. But, do we need to call ourselves a “surfer”? Do we want to trap ourselves in a category? Do we want to be defined by a title?
I asked myself that question for the first time when a guy on Couchsurfing accepted to host me for a couple of nights during my surf trip to California. Seven words and a big identity issue followed. “Of course, all surfers are my friends,” he told me. Am I an impostor or something? I don’t think I am a surfer; I just like to surf. I seek the ocean as much as breathing, but I don’t consider myself a surfer! I didn’t waste too much time thinking about it though. Leaving home alone with only a backpack was a big stress enough, so stressing about a meaningless title wasn’t something that seemed worth it.

Before I grew up, before I started to travel, and before I figured out what I wanted to do with my life, people always thought that I was fearless. That I was doing anything I wanted without worrying about what could follow. I was independent, and it was the best thing in the world. Well, most people didn’t know me and still these days, most people don’t. I often get scared and insecure, and while sitting on the stairs of a condo building in Newport Beach, my stomach was all knotted up. Kevin told me he could host me for two nights, but the only talks I had with him was through messages, and he forgot to tell me his apartment number. That was brilliant – I was stuck, with no cell phone. Three choices were on my mind: leaving, ringing every apartment until I found his, or waiting. Luckily for me, it was the Fourth of July and people were more friendly than usual. A young couple and their friend entered the building, looking kind of tipsy, and saw me waiting on the stairs – I jumped onto them! (...)