Queer Surfers Saved Me From a Stingray and Reminded Me of Hope

This week, as we near the end of 2024, the writers and editors of KQED Arts & Culture are reflecting on One Beautiful Thing from the year.

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n a cliffside in Carlsbad, a hundred feet above the lapping waves of the Pacific Ocean, about two dozen strangers unloaded surfboards and strung up their tents. In glitter boots and overalls, muscle tanks and Tevas, the experienced campers lent helping hands to us city folk tangling ourselves in polyester and vinyl.

We had signed up for this trip months before through Queer Surf, a scrappy San Francisco-based org that gets queer and trans people riding waves. It just so happened to be days after Donald Trump won the presidential election. After watching his campaign run on an explicitly anti-trans agenda, with plans to roll back legal protections and civil liberties, the mood in Carlsbad was anxious. That first night, we huddled together around the campfire in our puffer jackets and beanies, clutching mugs of tea. At neighboring campsites, Trump flags gleefully flew from RVs and pick-up trucks.

Processing this new reality over the next few days, we created a buoy of hope through a thousand simple acts of kindness. The early risers catching waves at the break of dawn would switch on the coffee machine; those who got up later scrambled eggs and fried potatoes for our collective breakfasts. Any sense of social anxiety dissipated each time I plopped down on a picnic table and joined a conversation about books, love, the ocean, family or our cultural backgrounds. For that weekend, we all committed to caring for one another — and became friends.

Camp life settled into a luxuriously slow rhythm. Between surfing sessions where we’d cheer each other on — whether someone pulled off a complicated maneuver or caught a wave for the first time — people offered up their skills. One friend led a yoga session in the afternoon sun while another invited everyone to join them for a Chinese tea ceremony. Another friend French braided people’s hair while someone else shared poetry prompts.

We swapped stories and jokes, and napped at our leisure. We marveled as dolphins in pods of three or six leapt out of the water during a sunset surf. I had come to camp with my best friend of 14 years, and we drew a picture of ourselves in chalk, surfing under a rainbow. Our inner children were happy.

On the third day of surfing, after riding a particularly satisfying wave to the shore, I stepped off my board and felt a sharp pain in my foot. It took me a moment to process what I saw: There was a baby stingray attached to me (a California round ray, I’d learn later). I screamed and waved to my best friend, starting a chain reaction of helpfulness that ended with my fellow surfers rushing to me with a giant thermos of hot water for my foot. Back at camp, everyone stopped by to check on me. Fortunately, it turned out the stingray didn’t get me that badly because I had been wearing surf booties. After a couple hours, the pain was mostly gone.

After that shocking encounter with nature, I felt grateful to be the recipient of such love and support. From my bestie, yes, and also from so many new friends. As queer people, many of us have a strong belief in collective care, in chosen families. In the way they showed up for me, that sense of solidarity wasn’t just a nice concept — I felt it deeply.

My time at Queer Surf Camp showed me that no matter what happens in 2025, personally or politically, we have each other, and we can create that sense of belonging and hope through a thousand simple acts of kindness.