Big Wave Fever: Portugal

I told ya I have a bad travel bug. Thanks for your patience with my obsession, I promise it is subsiding as I am realizing my bed has never felt so good. Work has also been sending me on a few trips and that more than anything has made me miss certain routines and my kitchen hobbies and kitties.

As I become more adult-ish, it’s easy to see my dad’s perspective and understand the person he was. He was an avid traveler, mostly for work, but found adventures in it and made friends everywhere he went. Though both of us are different in many ways—he never met a stranger and I see them everywhere—we are similar in the sense that we love experiencing new places. As long as those places have a reputation for being awesome and full of adventure.

And Portugal was.

In fact, I asked my dad before he passed, if he could go on one trip with me anywhere, where would it be?

He would vary in responses, sometimes Jacksonville for a fishing trip or the Caribbean, back to his favorite island, St. John, but this time he said Portugal. He and I laughed when he explained that the food is supposed to be excellent.

I’d like to think my dad goes with me everywhere I go—for me, there’s been definite signs he’s there. And if I share with you how I know, maybe you’ll think I’m a loon, but at this moment, I knew he wouldn’t miss this trip.

First leg was a 12-hour flight to Munich with an eight hour layover where I attempted to explore a tiny bit of Germany. The second leg was to Lisbon, a starkly different experience than my mini-German stint. Cold, wet humidity hung heavy with the smell of the sea and overtook my nostrils the second we left the plane.

Everyone had been coughing and hacking on the ride to Munich. I hesitated to breathe in the air because I am a germaphobe.

During the entire duration of my Lisbon flight, a lady refused to let one bit of silence settle in the otherwise quiet plane ride and proceeded to, what I suspect, henpeck who I thought was her partner in the seat beside me. I can’t tell you who was exhausted more—myself or him. All this drove me to my propolis throat spray though I later came to find out this didn’t matter.

First night was an interesting hotel in Lisbon where I attempted to de-germ myself…I shouldn’t have slacked on my zinc, I thought, as I reorganized my packing. The next morning, I found croissants, Nutella and a cafe Americano and then my rental car—Ericeira was my next stop.

Renting a car seemed like the right ticket for me though, a bus sounds better for future Jackie. Nervously gripping the wheel, I’d catch glances of landmarks and architecture but have to quickly pay attention—European drivers are a force to be reckoned with. I’d frequently miss my turnoffs through the many roundabouts and got lost more times than I could count, despite Google

Maps. In fact, one of my miscalculations had me literally off-roading on what appeared to be a one-way path down a dirt road reminiscent of a greener Baja. It was a local road in Sintra and irritated Europeans would come rip-roaring from the other direction, though I couldn’t exactly pull off to the side as there was a very old stone wall to one side and a nice 10-foot ditch to the other. My face would burn from stress and embarrassment, or maybe that was the fever? Oh yes, for the first time in my adult life, I got sick during a trip.

My long, toll road-free drive found me cruising down cobblestone streets of Ericeira, Portugal’s equivalent to San Clemente, in my opinion. Hurley, Billabong, Rip Curl all within a very short walk of me—even an immersive surf experience sharing all of Portugal’s protected surf spots or “surf reserves.”

The town welcomed me with open arms as I collapsed in my hotel. Every night I ventured out, I found new friends to chat with—the first night a young German girl and an older Italian guy who talked of secret Euro surf spots and trips to Bali and “nothing is more gnarly than New Jersey.” The second night, a young French girl and an Argentinian guy, who described their surf world tours, whimsical ideals—all conversations about surf, all perpetually stoked, most eager to learn everyone else’s story when egos weren’t involved.

Then the fever hit me like a ton of bricks, right when the swell started to arrive—I didn’t realize it at first and walked to Praia Do Sul to check the waves. I couldn’t understand why I had no energy. I had a fair amount of pasta the night before. Could one espresso martini really put me under like this? Nah.

I found a bench grounded on the rocks right where the right-hander was breaking…barely. A guy, who for some reason, insisted on wearing no booties but donned a helmet, carefully negotiated the rocks to jump off into the break. I chuckled to myself. He was carrying a potato chip board and the waves were barely allowing logs in. They stood up outside and teasingly died as they mushed to shore. I was trying to picture myself paddling out.

I could, I should paddle out…but I don’t want to. I sincerely don’t want to fight for mush and quite possibly pass out from exhaustion. Holding my head up feels excessive right now. I regrouped back at my hotel—everything smelled awful and nothing tasted good. My tummy bubbled. Did I exceed the dairy budget? I didn’t hold back on croissants, pastel de natas and espresso, that’s for sure. After barely surviving my drive through Sintra, I collapsed in my hotel room to deduce that from my aches and hot/cold sweats I had a fever. I was due at Maria Fernanda’s big wave photography workshop the next day, but I feared I wasn’t going to make it. I scoured Dr. Google, which only made my anxieties worse. I called my travelers insurance who told me I could certainly go to hospitals that were several hours away, I even called United to see if I could hitch a ride back home for fear I had something more serious. Comfort was needed, but the time difference made passing ships of all my friends except Cassie, who feigned to the hotel front desk that she was my mother and that I would be staying an extra day, of which she paid for. My other friend Heather put me in contact with her travel agent for advice and Debbie checked on my kitties, much to my crazy cat mom paranoia. Maria messaged me every hour, worried and offering a driver to pick me up. Friends are terrific. I am so lucky.

Finding comfort food in a foreign country is challenging when you are sick, the least of all trying to find the Portuguese equivalent of chicken broth and saltine crackers and ginger ale felt impossible. But I committed to the bit—I’d quarantine myself for the evening for one day and would do everything I could to break the fever. Arrested Development was my only solace until I found crackers and sprite at a grocery store via Uber Eats—Uber Eats! What a decade we live in.  Everything else had dairy or sugar or required physical effort.

The fever broke the next day and I decided to stay in bed and rest, unfortunately missing the first day of Maria’s workshop. Sunny, her business partner descended upon my quarantined encampment like an angel bringing medicines and two different types of soup to save the day. She felt my forehead and said I was warm—back to the battlefield I go. If I wasn’t so worn out, I would have hugged her tighter. Maria still making every effort to get me to Nazaré.

The next day, I woke up with more color in my face and was determined to leave the stinkiest hotel room I’ve ever stayed in—the smell leaked through a drain in the bathroom and would make me gag every time I used it. Nazaré never sounded so good, despite my lack of energy, though I would miss the apnea training by the time I arrived. Maria’s hugs alone are a cure all—the second I pulled into OHAI Resort, excitement got the better of me. The last time I saw Maria, she was riding on a motor bike with her friend in Sumatra heading to— for another epic photography adventure.

This adventure had Maria and Sunny teaching a small group of students including myself exploring all things surf photography in the water, jet ski and on land at none other than Portugal’s premier big wave spot: Nazaré

No joke, this was the real deal. Skills endemic to surviving big surf while capturing stunning images, like breath work, paddling techniques, the importance of CPR and first aid, reading the waves, understanding ocean safety all paired with in-water photography sessions. Photographers are truly an unsung hero out in the lineup—literally carrying a weight out in the water to capture beautiful waves and surfers charging said beautiful waves.

The cake tho? That was the jet ski experience. If one thing wiped the sick slate clean as well as the last month of intense work days and travel, it was this.

I’ve never been sky diving or heli skiing, but I imagine jet skiing out to and in the Nazaré lineup during a swell, granted the beginnings of one—we will call it “small” for the Herculean humans in the big wave world, is a similar feeling. Antonio “To” Cardoso was my jet ski driver and didn’t hesitate to gun it out of the harbor with me whooping and laughing as we jaunted over the swell and out to the rocks. I had seen images like this in surf movies—photographers capturing the ride out to Mavericks or Nazaré, but now that was my reality, and in the distance, “small” mounds of water stood up and broke outside. I’d watch jet skis whip surfers into waves as they’d drop in like ants on the silver faces. “To” would take me right in front of a breaking wave or on the shoulder as it detonated 15 feet below our ski. We would watch the Go Bigger team drop in and carve the face smoother than Thanksgiving turkey. It was as though they were skiing down a double black diamond—carving inverted sections, only I don’t think a floater was warranted but one surfer busted an air as though perfectly posed for my little iPhone lens—it’s so cute, you guys.

My eyes were wide with excitement and everything I saw made my heart explode in sheer confetti-style stoke. There was what felt like organized chaos—jet ski drivers and tow surfers zipping in and out, paddle surfers, walkie talkies, conversations and pure stoked in Portuguese verbals. Huge peaks crumbling and barreling left and right. I had surf lineup ADD and taking it all in was, at one point, overwhelming the senses, dizzying almost. My instinct was to figure out the break and the peaks and the landmarks and there was constant action, no time to focus. Adrenaline rushed through me similar to when I’d cover a breaking news story involving SWAT or police. Heart thumping but man, I’m ready.

But To paid special attention to the horizon, always focused, always safe and always ALWAYS stoked, pointing out great shots for my wittle baby lens. The teams all work together to ensure the safest and most fun surf session for everyone. I don’t think I saw one angry person out there—smiles ear to ear. I could get used to this contagious vibe.

There was a healthy amount of fear when an outside set would come through but I had the luxury of escaping certain destruction with To’s insane ski skills. I felt safe, in fact, we rescued the same surfer who busted the fat air. He was caught inside, so we gave him a lift on the ski and had some blood trickling from his nose, but the sandy-haired fellow was all smiles and laughs as we drove him to his Go Bigger teammates. I caught sights of Mykayleah — on her hot pink —name of board—

High fives from Rodrigo Koxa, founder of Go Bigger team and world record holder, after he scored an insane left.

Rush after rush, wave after wave, I had more energy than I had been in the last three weeks with the biggest smile to boot. Adrenaline pumping, words are escaping me and thoughts can only be expressed through the photos, though I am kicking myself that I had no DSLR, but the iPhone worked out okay.

And my, how the lighting terrifically changed the mood of the place. Photographer Ryan Osmand and I were the first on the skis, which gave us grey skies and moody clouds. Analia —-and Natasha —-saw the sun come out the second they stepped onto the ski, which made their photos dazzling hues of blue and transformed the canktanerous grey barrels into deep blue caverns.

Each one of these  photographers shared a special talent that reverbs in my memory—their struggles, their feats, their successes and journeys reflect in each piece they capture and edit. An expressive bunch, it motivated me to be curious about water photography—always thinking it was for very talented people with expendable budgets and technical minds. But like anything, if there is a will, there’s a way.

And after our day out at Nazaré, we were bedazzled with overwhelming emotion that only expressed itself through our feverish edits and ravenous appetites (mine came back!) Just in time for a traditional Portuguese dinner at Rosa Dos Ventos, courtesy of our talented mentors Maria and Sunny.

As we were walking down the street to the restaurant, I could hear the surf pounding, tenderizing the beach through the dark, thick sea air. The restaurant hung images of fishermen pulling in their catch while the surf exploded over the rocks in the background and I just kept wondering about life before Google Maps and Uber Eats. Before Surfline and buoy readings, surf report hotlines and cars that yell at you when you speed. The connection with the sea felt deep in the brief time I experienced Portugal. Wouldn’t mind coming back…maybe with some Imodium in tow.

Some video footage, too.

As seen on Frothy Fools.

I‘ve also got tips to share on The Inertia.

Some video footage, too.