Jalama

Jalama is a place that insists on being itself. The road in curves past ranches and open fields until the ocean appears all at once... loud and indifferent. The wind starts before you open the car door and doesn’t stop until you leave. It has a way of clearing out everything you don’t need. I grew up camping there with my family and still go whenever I can. There’s something about setting up a tent in that kind of wind that makes you feel both ridiculous and alive. Nothing stays put for long... chairs, tarps, hair, expectations. By the time everything’s tied down, you’re laughing because there’s nothing else to do. That’s the rhythm of the place. The days revolve around small, reliable pleasures... Jalama burgers, fries that cool too fast, long walks with sand in your shoes. The gulls are relentless. They’ll stare you down for a single fry, and somehow they always win. The sunsets look staged until the fog rolls in and swallows them whole. I film there sometimes, but mostly I go to remember what unpolished beauty looks like. It’s hard to be precious about anything when the wind is howling and your dinner’s blowing sideways. The light shifts every few minutes, and if you’re lucky, you catch one frame that feels honest. Camping at Jalama feels like pressing reset. The noise of everything else fades, and what’s left is simple... wind, salt, fire, and the people you brought with you. That’s enough.