A Road Trip from Jalisco to Michoacán

After a few wild months, shooting our first documentary in the salt flats of Maras, Peru, then jumping straight into the chaos of an F1 campaign with Heineken in CDMX, my body and mind were fried. I needed to reset. That reset came in the form of San Pancho, a sleepy beach town tucked just beyond the buzz of Sayulita on Mexico’s west coast.

I arrived not knowing a soul. As always, I checked into a hostel, the great equaliser of solo travelers and, like clockwork, by day five I’d found a new crew and a mid-term rental tucked back in the jungle. The surf wasn’t massive, but it was clean and friendly. I rented a crusty longboard from a beach shack and began logging long, glassy October mornings sliding up and down the coast.

That’s when I discovered San Pancho proper, through a Tinder date, of all things. One morning I woke up in her place and walked into the kitchen to find a guy who looked like he was carved out of surf wax: tan, lean, and rocking a California jawline. His partner, glowing with that particular West Coast optimism, introduced them as a couple from San Diego. They’d driven down in a dusty old Toyota with surfboards on the roof and a curiosity about what lay beyond Baja.

“We set out chasing surf, but what we really found was a slower rhythm, stitched with strangers, laughter, and just enough chaos to make it real.”

We clicked easily. The Tinder date, the Cali couple, and I quickly formed a crew, surfing together, sharing meals, and talking late into the humid evenings about life, work, the road. One night, someone brought up La Ticla, a near-mythical wave tucked in the folds of Michoacán’s coastline. It was remote, reportedly pristine, and just far enough to feel like an adventure. The seed was planted.

But the ocean had other plans first. One morning in Sayulita, I stepped on what I thought was a shard of glass. A sharp, searing pain shot through my foot like lightning. I screamed. Locals on the beach rushed over. “Nooo, mi amigo, pisaste una mantarraya,” said a bar owner, grabbing a bottle of tequila. “You didn’t do the Bucerías shuffle. Come, I’ll help you.”

The next few hours were brutal. I dunked my foot in scalding water to draw the venom out while sipping tequila and wincing like it was a medieval torture scene. Thankfully, my not-so-random Tinder date turned hero, arriving with cigarettes and moral support. It felt like my leg had been used for batting practice. The stingray had humbled me.

But the next day, as soon as I could hobble, we packed the car and hit the road, chasing the fabled wave and a bit of clarity. The morning light in Jalisco poured over agave fields in soft gold. Farmers worked the land with slow, rhythmic movements, and roadside shrines flickered with candles even in daylight, constant reminders that life and death sit close together here.

We stopped in Pasquales, where a heavy, fast wave broke just off the beach. Mostly bodyboarders. We didn’t paddle out, just watched and absorbed it. Giant palms lined the beach, their shadows shifting with the breeze, casting slow-moving theatre on the sand. Mexican road trips aren’t rushed. They unfold. You pull over when something smells good or when a cowboy on horseback passes in front of you. You stop when the light is perfect or the silence says something.

By the time we reached Guerrero, not far from Acapulco, the scenery changed, beautiful, but rough around the edges. This was once a playground for rockstars and Hollywood’s elite; now, it bore the weight of history. Faded glamour, peeling pastel facades, and the occasional bullet hole told stories that didn’t make it into the tourist brochures. Still, people smiled. They cooked with love. They made space for us.

Finally, we hit La Ticla, a thin thread of paradise stitched into Michoacán’s coastline. We camped under stars, sharing space with a German couple we met on the road, making me the inevitable fifth wheel — a role I’ve grown weirdly fond of. The waves weren’t firing, and the footage we hoped to get never came. Typical surf film luck. But maybe that was the point: to put the camera down, to sit in the stillness, and just be.

In that week, I watched how little people needed to live richly. Families gathered nightly with tamales and guitars. Kids played barefoot until the stars came out. There was no rush to document, monetize, or package the experience. Life moved slower, but not lesser. In a world obsessed with having more, Mexico quietly reminded me that less can often feel like so much more.

This was my first time in Mexico. I thought it would be sketchy, hard to navigate, too dangerous. Instead, I found warmth, humour, generosity, and grace. I’ve since returned three times, each trip its own story. But this one, this ride from Jalisco to La Ticla, will always be my introduction. And like all good beginnings, it came with pain, friendship, and a shift in perspective.