Jalama
Jalama was my first film project, processed and scanned by hand. I grew up spending time there with my family, my grandparents, and close friends who still feel like family. The drive ends where the signal drops, and life gets simple. You hear the wind, the waves, and someone calling your name from the burger stand.The beach never looks the same twice. The light changes every few minutes, the water keeps its own rhythm, and the hills shift color as the day burns off. It’s one of those places that holds a whole childhood inside it. Filming there felt like paying attention on purpose.
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.
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