JUNEAU, Alaska — I stand at the water’s edge, allowing the sea foam to kiss my wetsuit booties. The early morning’s gray water churns and jostles, whipped by southeast winds. I glance at my two friends beside me, and we exchange a smile before plunging into the 40-degree water.
Even with a wetsuit, the water is sharp and steals my breath. I focus on steadying my breathing as we swim toward where the sea blends with the dark October sky. Beach walkers gawk at the three of us giggling in the turbulent seas, but I couldn’t think of a better way to start a gloomy fall day.
I met my swimming companion girls through my summer job; we bonded over the idea of cold-water surfing. The odds were stacked against us from the start: None of us had proper gear, none of us were experienced surfers, and, perhaps most importantly, Juneau doesn’t exactly have surf. The town is tucked behind Chichagof and Admiralty Islands, which shield us from the open ocean and its swells. So, we were left to figure out how to ride the elusive wind swell.
In the meantime, the three of us managed to get our hands on wetsuits, booties and gloves, and we started swimming. We went once a week, usually cramming it in early before work. It was like meeting for coffee, but instead of sitting in a warm cafe, we were floating, splashing, swimming and exploring the colorful seafloor.
I’ve never been much of a water person — especially not a cold-water person. I don’t like cliff jumping, I skip the trendy cold plunges, and I remember once crying on a diving board at my best friend’s 10th birthday party.
But something about southeast Alaska’s cold and mysterious waters, mixed with the dreary months leading up to winter and my motivated new friends, excited me.
As our connection with the ocean deepened, so did our desire to surf. There’s almost no information online about surfing in Juneau, so we started asking around. As it turns out, a handful of hardcore Juneau surfers were more than happy to help us.
Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place. Our equation became simple: cold winter months, plus north or northeast winds, sustained at 35-40 knots, plus a north-facing beach, at low tide. The tricky part is to get all the necessary elements at once.
A perfect storm
Our “surfs up” group chat dinged on phones one evening in late November.
“Tomorrow morning’s forecast is calling for north winds at 35 knots. Meet at Lena Beach at low tide?”
I leave my house at 7:30 a.m. My car’s thermostat reads 18 degrees, and I navigate black ice as I drive toward Lena Beach, a small north-facing cove.
I pull into the parking lot and can’t believe my eyes: perfect, consistent, 3-foot waves. My two friends pull in next to me, and we greet each other with childlike excitement as we rush to get our gear on.
My toes feel like ice cubes jammed into my already frozen booties, as we race down the rocky beach toward the water.
We have the beach to ourselves. We dip in easily, like seasoned pros, thanks to all our practice. I flop onto my board and start paddling out. Salty waves slap my face and I break a sweat swimming against the powerful windswell. I make it past the “break” and sit on my board, gazing toward the Chillkat Mountains erupting from the horizon line. The lingering moon hangs above us in the pale blue sky, and the sound of crashing waves is mesmerizing.
I spot my first wave. I paddle as hard as I can, checking over my shoulder to make sure it’s still coming. I feel the wave beneath me and try to pop up, but I’m too far back on my board, and it shoots out from under me, sending me into the icy water.
I pop up on the next wave, but the nose of my board dives underwater, bucking me head over heels. Again and again, I wipe out. The three of us scream, laugh and cheer as the ocean delivers its ego checks, one after another.
My eyes lock onto the next wave, determined to catch it. I paddle toward the shore, building momentum, until I feel the wave bubble up beneath me. I pop up to my feet, balancing on the wave’s crest for a moment before leaning forward and dropping in. The wave takes me, and I ride it all the way to shore.
That feeling of connection to the ocean, like I was tethered to the wave, made me understand why people dedicate their lives to surfing.
Gratitude in numbers
Exhaustion pulses through me as I trudge back toward the beach. We’ve lost track of time, and two hours have slipped by, leaving me late for work. But I couldn’t care less. My cheeks hurt from smiling, and I’ve developed a newfound love for the power of the ocean.
I’ve always been drawn to adventure sports — snowboarding, mountain biking, trail running, rock climbing, mountaineering, rafting — and now, surfing. I’m starting to realize that it’s not about the sport itself, but how these activities allow you to pause, be present, and play along with nature. The sport of choice is just an avenue to engage with the environment around you.
With salt water stinging our eyes, and frozen strands of hair framing our faces, the three of us high five. I would have never started this monthslong cold water journey without my friends’ shared stoke and encouragement. I feel gratitude in remembering taking a leap off the deep end is always better with others.
Until the next perfect storm.
CDN outdoors columnist Kayla Heidenreich writes monthly, of late from Juneau and beyond. Reach her at heidenreichmk@gmail.com.
