Most stories begin with a moment. Mine began with a fall — into addiction, into secrets, into a world run by ghosts and men who never say what they mean. One domino fell, then another — through orphanages, crack epidemics, CIA backchannels, surf camps, corruption, betrayals, machetes, and jail cells. But at the end of it all, this isn’t just a crime saga or political thriller. It’s a love story. An orphaned Florida surfer collided with Cold War shadows in Nicaragua — and found redemption not in power or money, but in the heart of a woman trained to survive horrors of her own. Because sometimes the final revolution isn’t revenge. It’s forgiveness.

On 09/09/09, I stepped off a plane into the heavy heat of Managua, unaware my old life was ending. Divorced, drifting, and quietly addicted, I had been bouncing between apartments along Jacksonville’s beaches when an appraisal job introduced me to Frank, a Nicaraguan with deep political ties. After one exploratory surf trip with friends, I saw opportunity beyond the crowded southern Pacific and returned alone to build what would become GreenSurf. Staying in a worn-down quinta, sober and hyper-observant, I began constructing a surf camp business while absorbing a world of diplomats, lumberyards, and Spanish conversations I barely understood. The reset had begun.