Portugal: March 2022

Day 1 – 3rd March

Flight from Gatwick in the morning; arrive in Lisbon in the afternoon. I’ve never been to this part of Portugal before, only the South, the Algarve; a cultural wasteland full of foreigners and new builds. I spend the journey to Peniche staring out of the bus’s window, the Women’s heats playing in my ears. It’s beautiful here: small homesteads with fields and farmland and full of orange orchards.

I travel from Peniche town center to Casal Moinho by taxi and I get let into our rental house by the neighbor, Angela. Communication attempts end in giggles with my weak Portuguese and her weak English. I like it here.

I dump my board in the hall along with my bags and run to the beach. It’s just before 6pm, mellow lines of pinks and blues from the setting sun. As I make my way over the sand dunes, I can hear the loudspeakers and cheers. The ‘smell of Portugal’ (I think it should be made into a candle that I can use at home) is almost cloying, but I love it. It reminds me of my childhood in Dunas near Albufeira.

And I can see it. After, two years and 5 months of trying to come and watch this event, I am at Supertubos.

Just as I reach the crowds in front of the judge’s tower, I catch Italo land an air; the crowd goes mental. I sit by myself watching the heat, my heart racing and pounding. I dig my bare feet into the cool sand, enjoying the feel and the tickle. This is so exciting. I cheer for Italo and watch in rapture as the heat progresses. I’ve never seen surfing at this level live and so close before.

The day of competition is over when the sun has set. I make friends with some surfers from Aberdeen and have a good chat about the heats I missed. They’ve been staying here for a while, in Foz, and we talk about the best waves in the area. They say that the break by the wall that I can see at the end of beach, stopping the town from being battered by the Atlantic’s waves, is fun. The other side of Casal Moinho has some good peaks as well, they tell me, quieter than Supertubos and Baleal.

I make my way home for some food and the wine that our host left. I sit and decompress after the day of travelling and socialising and surfing. At 10pm the others arrive, and I let them in the garage. The girls, Tess and Liv, I’ve never met before, but immediately get on with. Both from surfing families and both studying in Wales. Kester pops his head out of the car and I’m shocked as he reveals that all of his lovely long blonde locks have been cut short, he looks more boyish now – he gives me a grin and a hug. Felix was a last-minute addition to the trip with Syd being stuck in Austria struck by COVID, but he's just as stoked as the rest of us to be here on the Silver Coast. We all agree that surfing here will be much better than anything we’ve experienced in the UK, as we look at the swell forecasts before going to bed.

I’m grateful to be here.

Day 2 – 4th March

I wake up at 7 to see if the event will be running today. It is. I go in search of some breakfast only to realise we have no food beyond some dry pasta. So, I make myself a cup of tea and wait for the others to wake up. When Kester comes back from his run, we make the decision to go and wake them up ourselves; we’re too hungry to wait.

We drive through Pencihe, past the big banner advertising the Meo Pro Portugal in bold colorful lettering. The main road to town is bordered by wind swept dunes where I can just about see through the grasses and into the bay, spotting the mushy waves stretching out into the horizon.

Liv organises us when we get to the InterMarché or tries to. Kester and Felix’s shopping technique is to wander around aimlessly, without rhyme or reason, until they find what they want, so the whole shop takes a lot longer than what we wanted.

Home. Eat. Kester and Felix leave for Lisbon. Liv, Tess and I go down to Supertubos to watch the surfing.

The day is glorious. Bright sun and a fresh wind off the Atlantic as we set up camp to watch the next few hours of heats in the elimination round. The waves are nice and clean; nothing bigger than 8 feet; the wind just about offshore. I fan girl over all Kelly Slater and we find a great St Bernard dog belonging to a French couple wearing a John John Florence jersey – he was enjoying the show. We leave when the round is over. I tell the girls about when my mum was my age, on holiday in Hossegor and knowing nothing about surfing ended up watching a young Kelly Slater compete in some competition for the afternoon. It felt full circle as we watched Kelly run back up the beach towards the competitor’s area. He won his heat.

Back to the house for a late boozy lunch. We sit on the roof for the afternoon, with glasses of cheap but very drinkable Portuguese rosé in our hands, dissecting the surfing we had watched and reading. It’s just warm enough to forego jumpers.

The boys return early evening, and we promptly decide that because we hadn’t been in the sea yet we should probably get in the sea. We drive over to Baleal, five minutes north of Peniche, to Baleal Norte where the conditions are too mushy, onshore and therefore utterly useless for surfing. We take our boards in finless and see if we can have some fun in the white water. We mess around for about half an hour until we decide we are all too tired and cold; there is a chill evening wind running across the shore of the bay reminding us that it isn’t quite Spring yet. That, and I had completely forgotten my leggy, leaving it at the house, so every time I kicked out I would lose my board and have to chase it 30 meters back into the beach. Not a mistake I will be making again any time soon.

We go out for a drink in Peniche. Java House being the bar of choice, buzzing with people drinking with friends and family after the long day. And I don’t remember much else of the night because I drank too much.

Day 3 – 5th March

I find an old short board whilst rootling around in the garage, an absolute win. 5,7 with a thruster set up; slim. Whilst waiting for Felix and Liv to wake up, I have a lot of fun taking off the old wax. Satisfaction max.

We decide to go to Baleal again, the conditions are looking good. The spot just off of the north beach of Baleal, Lagide. We get there at about 11, half an hour after low tide, so it’s on the push. 4-7 feet, 15 second swell period, 5 mile per hour winds, offshore south to southeast. As we pull into to the carpark Tess and I catch sight of an absolute bomb, A-frame, one rider up, arcing across the wave’s face, sending spray up as they stick their fins out above the lip. Glassy conditions and lines rolling in. This will be fun.

The water seems warmer than it was last night, so no gloves or boots needed. I paddle out back on my board (6’8 pin tail – I love a mid-length) and sit, acclimatising myself to the raucous boom of the waves breaking the other side of me. The power. I’ve never surfed waves like this before. Even in Sennen and Fistral, it’s never this good. It’s unreal. I paddle for a few but am scared to snake the locals. This isn’t my home; I have no claim to any of these waves. And if I’m honest with myself, I’m scared to wipe out here, at a new spot, new people to impress. I go for the scraps, ends of the waves, sitting just outside of the line-up. I get some nice pieces though, white water that stands up to form a little bit of green for me to travers.

I paddle around for an hour or so and end up swapping boards with Kester, he has an ancient 7’10 Torq, wooden and lots of volume. I enjoy paddling it around and into the smaller waves, catching the mush right into shore.

We’re all burnt at the end of the day. Frothing too much to have remembered such a menial thing as sun cream. Our pale skin, unaccustomed to spending hours in the magnified rays of sun, is rosy and tender.

We return home and make the trek over the sand dunes to catch the last of the day’s heats at Supertubos. The sun sets just before seven, setting the sky aglow in the colours of our burnt faces.

Day 4 – 6th March

We sit on the beach until 10 watching the men compete. Baker, Moniz, Mesinas, Andino, Slater, Colapinto, Andre, Slater, Ibelli. Surfers I never thought I would have the privilege of watching surf in front of eyes, metres from where I dig my feet in the sand. We leave the event to go in search of waves of our own, away from the crowds. Our hands are full of free merch: we walk back over the dunes in our new matching beanies, the words WSL and Meo Pro Portugal emblazoned in neat white stitching.

Back to Praia do Baleal Norte and Lagide. It’s low tide and around 11. The waves are 4-7 feet again with a 13 second swell period, but the wind is onshore and 15 mph. It’s mushy and we’re disappointed. Out of laziness we stay, fed up with squishing into our car, crushed by boards and bags. It’s sunny at least and I remember to put some zinc on today, the white lines under my eyes marking me out in the line-up, not that there is much of one today.

We spend a couple of hours fighting the white water, trying to find some cleaner peaks out the back. No such luck. I end up cocking about in the shallows after a couple of hours, catching the white water and seeing what I can do with what I am given.

Felix, Tess, Kester and I (Liv sleeping at the house) find ourselves back at Supertubos in the afternoon, Coronas in hand and sunglasses on, watching the women compete. It’s Sunday, no one is working, and everyone is on the beach. The crowd is huge, the cheers even bigger. The wind here is offshore. Whilst the morning’s surf session might have been a bit shitty, I am more than made up by the fact that I get to meet Tyler Wright, one of my personal heroes. I have a photo to prove the encounter. We sit in the sun for hours, right until the event is done for the day and the last rays set over Peniche and the local surfers move back in to claim Supertubos as their own. Their swooping silhouettes against the pink sky as we walk home is stamped in my memory forever now.

Day 5 – 7th March

I wake up with a panic that I am missing the finals. I run out the door, down the road and onto the dunes. I can hear the loud-speakers disrupting the calm morning air. Phone in hand and WSL app open, heats playing live, I make it to the beach to catch the end of John John and Griffin’s heat. I’m so excited about today, the finals, that I want to throw up. Or that could have been the running, but I’m here. The others wake up and join me down at the beach about an hour later, they’re not so much morning people.

We sit and watch as Steph loses to Lakey, then Carissa loses to Tati. And by 9.30am we all have a beer in our hands. Felix wants the Corona cups you get ‘for free’ with the beer. I don’t think he realises that you’re just paying for the cup as well as the beer. It goes down surprisingly well at such an early hour. We wait for the finals to begin, and I manage to catch Tammy Moniz for a quick conversation about living in Hawaii. She’s a beautifully humble human.

And then the finals are over. An hour of competition finished so soon. My voice is hoarse from cheering and my hands are sore from clapping. I’m happy to have watched Griffin win his first CT event. I’m happy to have watched Tatiana get carried in her winner seat, board at her back. I’m happy. And what an experience! To have been standing on a beach in a different country, surrounded by thousands of other surfers, all watching a battle ensue in the water. Watching those we place on a pedestal for their skills and their drive, the best surfers in the world. We are all feeling giddy.

The feeling doesn’t go away. Cantinho da baia, South of Baleal, is firing: 6-9 foot with 13 seconds and 7mph winds running north-northeast. We arrive half an hour after low tide, the sun beaming down. It’s our last full day and we decide to stay in the water as long as we can. As we stand in the car park and look down into the bay, we see beautiful little lumps appearing and forming sets, clean and glassy.

Wetsuits. Zinc. Boards. Beach. Paddle. It’s not too far to reach the line-up and there are nice lulls between sets; my board being just a bit too big to duck dive. I catch some good waves. The take off easy and a smooth transition into a bottom turn, trimming down the line and just standing, taking in the beauty of the day and the place. I paddle into one wave, taking off a bit late and getting caught in white water; the wave suddenly stands up and I drop in down the face, knees popping as I land and turn my hips to the left. These are perfect waves for my goofy body.

We surf for over four hours. And I would have kept going if my shoulder injury (an impingement in my left rotator cuff) hadn’t given out. It is enough though, I am panting and smiling and salty. We are all smiling.

We spend the rest of the day mooching around. We visit the big Rip curl shop on the way to Casal Moinho. There are too many boards that I want to buy. I find going into surf shops a dangerous game for my wallet. I often end up a few hundred pounds shorter when I leave than when I go in. I try to stick with buying stickers to put on my board at a maximum this time.

At 6pm we make the trudge over the dunes from our house to Supertubos for the final time. I have my board under my arm. I am determined to surf this break. One of the most famous in the world. I’ve been too nervous over the last few days to get in. Too many people watching and too many people in the line-up. Too many surfers better than me - I didn’t want to get in their way. But now it’s quiet, I count only three others out. It was high tide about forty minutes ago. The forecast is saying 3-4 foot with an 11 second swell period and winds of 9 miles per hour just about offshore. The sky is clouded over, a deep grey that is reflected on the sea’s surface, but that doesn’t reflect my mood. Inside, I’m excited.

I paddle out directly in front of the judge’s tower, still standing before the crew packs up. I pretend that I have judges watching me, about to score me, critiquing every inch of movement I make. It drives me.

After four waves I stop. I can’t see anymore because I have lost a contact lens. It was a good four waves: short and sweet and fast. I’m proud, though, that I surfed those four waves. I was worried my body would be too tired, but I did it and I am proud. I can now officially say that I have surfed Supertubos.

I can’t bare packing when we get back to the house. I just want to surround myself with the happiness and joy that I have experienced over the last few days.

I want to dream of the feeling of catching those waves at Supertubos.

Day 6 – 8th March

Wake up early with a sense of something like dread. We’re leaving today. I don’t want to go. The waves have been too good, the sun too warm, the people too nice to return home to the UK.

We pack, clean, load up and move out. Soft racks on the roof with the boards on top we head off in the direction of Ericeira. In an attempt to miss the toll roads, we end up on the N247, and I’m glad we do. The journey is just flashes of orchards then flashes of cliffs then of Atlantic, creating a gorgeous tapestry of the Portuguese landscape. We stop somewhere, overlooking a beach and go out on the cliffs. The air is fresh but mild, briny. It is stunning. The hues of red rock and slate sea and verdant vegetation set a scene for a story of a land of soul and surf.

Ericeira itself is such a sick town. Tess spent a lot of time here in Autumn 2020 whilst travelling, so knows a lot of the best surf spots and shops. And there is a lot on offer. So many surf shops, little independent outlets and the big brands a like. The streets cobbled in the traditional style, calçada. Little alleys leading onto more streets with their own treasures. Even though it is off season, the coffee shop and restaurant fronts are bustling with life, Portuguese and English and French and Spanish all being spoken at once.

The town proper of Ericeira is sandwiched between the villages of Ribomar and Carvoeira, between the three are nine beaches and countless surf spots. It is dreamy. A place I can imagine myself living and working and surfing.

After lunch and a mooch, we decide to move on. Kester drives us on a random route, following the curve of the cliffs and ocean. Windows rolled down, the car filled with the scent of salt. We pass through lots of beautiful little towns on the way to Lisbon. I like Azenho do Mar, with its stream down to the beach – the beach a mere inlet with courtyards and windows peering down onto the shoreline. Sintra, as well. Just inland and situated on top of a ridge, the beginning of a spine leading into the heart of Portugal. We drive along side little train tracks – for the shuttle to take tourists up and down the hill – winding around and around the hill. We can spot the colourful red and yellow peaks of the Palace of Pena on its mountain in the distance. A marker for how far from the coast we are traveling, what we are leaving behind.

We arrive at Lisbon airport in the late afternoon and checking the boards in on the flight takes forever – many arguments in Portuguese taking place at the check-in desks before us. The fatigue catches up with me whilst I stand in the queue, my muscles and bones weary. When we are finally on the plane, having traversed the politics of the airport and queueing (Lisbon is deeply unorganised and chaotic), I plug my music into my ears. There’s a playlist that I have been creating through out the trip, just for myself – each song evoking different memories and moments from the last week. And as we speed down the runway, wheels bouncing along, a tear leaks from my eye as the first lines of Idris Muhammad’s Could Heaven Ever Be Like This starts playing.

Thank you so much to Tess, Liv, Kester and Felix for making it such a special holiday x