We spent the morning talking excitedly about the places the boards would visit, an almost endless list of beaches united by that one epic ocean. I explained how over the last few years I’d been exploring shapes outside of the standard HPS – Corey wrung his hands smiling.

“Sweet – so good to hear mate, ‘cos that’s what really gets me frothing.”

I explained that if I was planning on surfing only two boards for the next two years of the journey, I wanted them to feel as versatile as possible. I needed two boards for any scenario. I’m a 6’3 lanky guy with moderate to lanky surfing skills, so we decided on a 5'10" single-fling 4 + 1 all-rounder, and a 7'2" 6-channel widow-maker singlefin with stabilisers…for when it gets good. Purple and Red.

Truth was that I hadn’t told heaps of people about the trip until then. Sometimes I found myself thinking that it was a strange idea for a 30 year old to be chasing when he should be concentrating on more responsible things. Am I really gonna do this? Am I a dropout?  Especially considering I’d disappeared once before for four years, wandering and surfing from Siberut to Siagoa, or Safi to Scotland. This was all compounded by the fact that I’d never owned a motorbike, in fact I didn’t even like ‘em that much, thought they were kind of loud and annoying. What the hell am I thinking?

But then there was this weird idea of freedom beckoning, floating somewhere close and tangible, and quite reasonably attainable - though somehow so out of reach in my current state of living and working. 

That’s where the support of the good people around you, especially your friends and your family, are so important – they’re what gives traction to that slow-burner of a dream, no matter how wild.

“Here ya go mate, I put a lot of love into these – sat up late with them last night – there’s some good energy in ‘em.”  Corey’s smile said it all as he handed over two of the most beautiful boards I’d seen.

I walked off elated - pumped to be leaving Vicco in a couple of days, pumped for the unknown road…

The truth is, like Alaska, much of this trip isn’t as I initially thought.

Adventure motorcycle travel takes more energy than I expected, not only the riding, but the daily ritual of setting and breaking camp. At one point I was reduced to injecting myself with some unknown steroid in Mexico, literally just to get back on my feet.

Everyone tells you motorcycles are dangerous. I reckon they probably are too. But it’s the roads and car drivers that you’ve got to be most careful of. I was hit by a 4x4 travelling at 100km/hr a few months ago in Costa Rica. Then there was the time I was hitch-hiking in a Kombi van and flipped down an embankment to the wet Alaskan tundra.

I’ve had two bikes on this trip. The first one was a custom-built sidecar motorcycle - the one I rode from Alaska to Mexico. It was nicked on my second day in Tijuana. Had my life in it - almost quit right there.   

The idea of a west-facing coastline of that proportion is salivating. The diversity alone is enough to make me want to wax my bank account.

Alaska and Canada were unique, and it’s sort of nice to surf alone. Oregon and California in the fall is all-time. Got lucky when El Nino produced back to back swells through Mexico and Central America for eight months solid - from Killers on Todos Santos Island, to sick reefs in Panama. Spent that historic May, 2015 swell on El Salvador’s points.

A highlight for me was Mavericks. It was a highlight because I was as scared as a small child seeing his first four footers. Probably more. I’d been surfing for a few days in underground Point Arena, stealth camping behind the disbanded shed next to the pub, when I saw that sweet blob on the internet. So I rode south fast, and got the sidecar sideways once or twice in pursuit of it.

Turned up to the cliffs the afternoon before it filled in proper. It didn’t look that big from up that high, so was thinking I could paddle out on my 7’2” – she’d been trusty in everything else.

Turned out I got talking to a nice guy there called Jeff, and it turned out Jeff was the first to surf the place. Turned out he surfed it alone for years before the others caught on. Turned out Jeff’s a great bloke, and when I told him I was on a 7’2” he just laughed, walked me to his truck and handed over his 10’4”, then left before even asking for my last name. It’s funny how things turn out sometimes.

“And remember, it’s just a wave...” he grinned and rolled away.

Bloody hell I thought, at least if I paddled out on my 7’2” I would’ve had the excuse of being undergunned. I’d never even seen a board so long, let alone contemplated using the thing,

I’ve really done it now, Jeff thinks I can actually do this, he’s gone and offered me his board. What the fuck am I supposed to do with 10’4”? He thinks I’m hardcore just 'cos I’m on a motorbike. It’s not true. Now I have to give it a crack. Bloody hell…

That night I camped alone on the Maverick’s beach - the rising swell broke my sleep in the middle of the night. Strange how thoughts can you keep you awake - thoughts amplified by the rumble of whitewater, thoughts through my mind for an hour and a quarter.

Awoke really early to a beautiful sunrise and drank a lot of water for some reason. Not sure why, but something told me you should drink a lot of water. Made my standard brekkie of cold porridge with trail mix, honey and cinnamon, and made my way to the cliffs.

It looked solid to me. No one was out. I wandered back to the car park and met a couple of Santa Cruz lads suiting up, Dan and Jake. I admitted to them it was my first time.

“We’re not even gonna check it – we’re out there as soon as I get this damn inflatable vest on…I’ll show you where to paddle out if you like?” Dan offered.

Quickly started pulling on my wet wetty - hoping that they’d wait for me. I was bought a bit of time when one of Dan’s soda bulbs on his vest goes off, and he’s standing there all inflated. We all laughed, but deep down it just made me wish I had one. I drank more water - but no matter how much, my mouth stayed dry.

Dan was a cool cat; he had that old school camaraderie thing happening. As we were walking he gave me the full run-down of the paddle out, the currents, the west sets, what to do if I got caught in the boneyard, and all his line-up points. I chose the safer, longer paddle out around Mushroom Rock, and afterwards sat in the channel for about half an hour, studying how it broke.

It looked like medium Mavericks to me, definitely not anywhere near as big as it gets, but definitely not as small as it breaks either. Light offshore, low tide, and three guys out. The bombs doubled-up and sucked so hard, I couldn’t even envision how it was possible to make the drop from the bowl on some of them. I edged my way in, slowly. Awesome vibes from the now present crew.

In the end I caught five waves that first day, the guys at Powerlines caught one of them on video. It was a swinger, not huge, but a good one to get me in the groove…maybe not so fun for the guy on the inside.

There’s so much in life to be stoked by. Everyone’s got different goals, but for me personally, I was frustrated with the 9-to-5, and when I replaced it with the mountains and reefs, something inside me changed.

I love riding now, I froth on it. The freedom. The wind in my face, the passing smell of a roadside empanada. The rain. Leaning into that last mountain curve before you blast it down a straight towards the ocean, using only a fraction of the petrol. The free time to reflect inside your helmet. Or when you stop at the lights and the Colombian guy on a bike next to you shakes your hand, then immediately offers his place to crash at for the night - before the light’s green. It’s another brotherhood I never knew existed. So much different than a car – there’s no steel cage.

But it’s not just the riding or the landscapes - this trip has taught me it’s who you get to share the ride and the view with, is what really counts.

I’ve met a lot of amazing people on this journey, from all over the world – inspirational people choosing to live their lives positively. Even had some great, old mates come together for an epic ride down through Baja, they all bought bikes, and we rode that desert for three months like wolves in the night. Scoring all time.

And then somewhere along the lines, a really special girl fell into the picture. Bumped into her whilst surfing on Vancouver Island. We kept in touch. She dropped out and sold her small organic farm, bought a bike, then strapped two boards to it. Now she rides faster than me…

And as for 'dropping out'? I reckon it’s more like dropping in. Into a fast-paddling thick one, it's steep sucking and step-peppered, and if you can only hold your line long enough through the foamballs and chandeliers you might just get spat out…