Nica. Photo: Brendan Simmons
Nearly every destination I’ve traveled to has been the result of research, recommendations, and in many times they were places I had lusted after for months or even years. Miramar Surf Camp, located on a picturesque stretch of beach in Punta Miramar, Nicaragua, was different. I hadn’t considered traveling to Nicaragua simply because I didn’t know much about the country and I had never been to Central America before.
It was a cold dreary day in New England, and I had spent the entire afternoon scrolling through the websites of colorful surf camps all over the world, all promising awesome waves and warm weather. When a travel agency specializing in surf vacations popped up on my screen I automatically handed over my information, thinking very little of it.
Two days later, I got a call from a vivacious British woman named Rachel. We instantly clicked over a quick conversation about travel and surf, and she asked me what I wanted. “I was thinking Ghana,” I replied. I’ve had a love affair with the continent of Africa since I first went to West Africa, and am always eager to find a reason to return.
“Waves in Ghana aren’t great this time of year.”
“What’s good then?”
“Nicaragua would be amazing,” she replied.
For some reason, out of all of the surf camps I had searched through, the name “Miramar” flashed in my mind. “I saw something about Miramar there that looked nice.”
Now, I don’t pretend to be an expert surfer. I’d fallen in love with it in Cape Town three years ago and moved to the coast not long after that trip. And while I’m easily still a novice, I’d argue that the degree to which I love the sport contends with any other surfer out there. The very idea of surfing perfect waves all day was enough to get me to commit. I was sold. After a quick check of availability, I was booked for a two-week trip.
Luckily, I was able to find a girlfriend to join in on my impulsive adventure. She had never surfed but wanted to learn, and before long we were sitting in the Boston airport. The next day we woke up in a small room in Nicaragua and went out in search of breakfast. Although it was still early, the morning air was already heavy and humid, and it only took us a few minutes to find the central gathering place of Miramar, which far surpassed our expectations.
The eating area consisted of a gleaming wooden bar across from a line of picnic tables, which all sat next to a sweeping view of the ocean. Next to the eating area was a tropical garden with vivid greenery, palm trees, fuchsia flowers, outdoor furniture with plush cushions, and a look-out which boasted a panoramic view of the sea. Soon, we were seated at a table, staring at the waves as they crashed into shore, eating delicious egg sandwiches, fresh papaya, and pineapple, sipping strong coffee, and smiling at one another. After that first morning, any hesitation about the lack of planning we had done completely dissolved. Maybe it was nothing more than blind luck, but we both agreed, Miramar was already far beyond what we had hoped.
That night, the surfing instructor took us to a gentle break at the very end of the beach. He wanted to assess our skills and the warm water and clean waves were ideal for our first time out. After the long winter, throughout which I had surfed sparingly, I was surprised at how easily I was able to get back up. I caught wave after wave as the blazing magenta sun began to sink towards the horizon line. As we paddled in and began our walk back to camp, the surfing instructor gave me a smile. “How do you like Nicaragua so far?”
Staring at the breathtaking sunset, lugging my board under my arm, it was impossible not to be totally content. “I love it.”
Over the next few days, we became fast friends with a group of men on vacation from Canada and every morning we ate breakfast while watching another group of guys from Southern California surf the in front of Miramar. My friend went out with the beginners and I went out with another group of men who had some surfing experience but wanted to learn more. At home, I surfed on a longer board—an 8’4” to be exact – which was more for learning than anything else. I loved riding it so much that even after I was good and steady I was reluctant to switch. So I was flying high when I easily dropped and caught waves way larger than I had ever surfed on a 7-6. After dropping on a particularly large wave, and making a fast turn to the left, I actually screamed at the top of my lungs. Nothing I had ever surfed felt so clean, so smooth, or so absolutely riveting. As I swam back out, the guys cheered and my surf instructor gave me a high five. “What do you think of the waves here?” he asked.
I sat up on my board and leaned back. “They’re perfect.”
I had never been more confident in my surfing ability, until the next day. The waves had picked up, the number of surfers in the water increased, and after a few big wipeouts and close calls with other people near me losing control of their boards, something changed. I’d paddle for a wave then bail in the middle, only to be thrown into the water and somersaulted by the current. Every time I’d paddle back out, my surf instructor would narrow his eyes and give me a confused look. “Are you okay?”
I’d nod, only to paddle further out the back. I knew I was wiping out because I was holding back at the very moment when I should have been taking off. But the tumbles left me shaky and exhausted, and the only thing I could do after paddling well beyond the break was jump off of my board and sink into the ocean. The water calmed me, but even the gentle lull of the deep ocean wasn’t enough to give me the courage to make cleaner drops.
A week later, my feet were cut up by the reef, my shins and knees were bruised from all of the wipeouts, and my right ear was so waterlogged and infected that I couldn’t hear out of it. As I got pummeled by waves while paddling out, I started to wonder why I was there. At 33, most of my friends were taking their babies to Disney World, touring Western Europe, or sipping cocktails at all-inclusive resorts for vacation. Was I too old? Was this too much?
After making it out to the lineup I went for a larger set wave, but once again I pulled back at the last minute and was thrown into the ocean once more. I flipped upside down and sideways, and when I surfaced, taking in a deep breath of air, I heard one of the guys screaming my name. I turned just in time to see another enormous wave about to break directly on top of me. With not a second to spare, I held my breath and went under. My leash wrapped around both of my legs and the board and the wave pulled me deeper. After the impact, I untangled myself and decided to paddle back out. It felt like this was supposed to be a turning point. If I went back into the beach at this point I wasn’t sure I’d make it back out again later. I desperately wanted to regain my confidence and I needed one good wave.
As I paddled out, the surf instructor grabbed my board. “You have the scary,” he said with a thick accent.
“Yes, I do. I am scared,” I said, almost angrily. “These waves are too big for me. I’m trying.”
“No. You’re not. You have the scary and you don’t try. You stop yourself.”
Frustrated more with myself than anything else, I turned to him. “I’ve never surfed waves this big before.”
“Yes, you have,” he insisted. “The waves were bigger than this the day that you said they were perfect. You dropped so easily. The waves here are smaller.”
Surprised, I stared at him. “What changed then?”
“You started looking at the waves,” he said matter-of-factly.
That made sense. I had kept glancing behind me before I took off, unable to stop myself from thinking about how big the swells actually were. It wasn’t that I was going full force and unable to surf, it was that I was too afraid to go for it all the way.
Utterly convinced, I paddled hard for the next wave, I felt myself lift up at just the same time I realized someone else had dropped right in front of me. With no other option, I turned my board sharply so that I wouldn’t hit him, and was catapulted into another burst of water and swallowed by the ocean. After being flipped a few more times, I grabbed my board and stumbled towards the beach, my ear throbbing, my sunburn stinging, and my confidence waning.
After that, I enjoyed the ocean, the camp, the food, and the company. I loved the homemade Nicaraguan cooking, learned more about the guys from California and Canada and went for sunset swims with my surf crew. On a flat day, we took a bus and swam in a lake next to a volcano, and another evening we went salsa dancing in the city of Leon. My friend and I became close with two Canadian women who had met in the Congo doing humanitarian work, and the four of us spent hours talking about work, love, surf, travel, and everything in between.
We even got to know the two Brazilian men and their wives who own and run Miramar Surf Camp. One morning, one of the owners told me the story of how they had come to acquire the camp. “We came to explore all of Nicaragua,” he explained. “But we found this beach and we fell in love with it. We camped for one week, then two weeks, then three weeks. We never wanted to leave.
I loved that story, and I also loved the way that travelers kept extending their stay. Miramar truly felt like an oasis, an escape from the rest of the world, and a place where nothing mattered but the ocean, the friendly staff, and surfers who populated the camp.
I made a few more attempts at surfing but none of my pursuits were particularly promising. I let myself enjoy the beauty of Miramar and the unique international comradery. But after the men from Winnipeg, the SoCal surfers, my sunset swimming buddies, and the Canadian humanitarians left, it was time to refocus on the waves.
The camp photographer, who had become a good friend over the course of our stay, suggested I take out a shortboard. At that point, I was willing to try anything, so I grabbed the board, determined to catch a wave. The surf instructor took me out and held onto the nose of my board as the water rocked us. “No scary,” he said.
As we were waiting for a wave, the surf instructor gave me a few pointers. “Move more forward on your board. Do not think about the scary. The waves are not too big. You’ve surfed bigger before.” Then he asked, “When you dropped in the big waves, what do you think about? Do you think about where to put your arms or your legs?”
I thought very seriously about the question. “When I do well, I don’t think about anything. I just go.”
I forgot that I was on a board two feet shorter than I was used to and that the waves there dwarfed those at home. When the next wave came, I paddled, easily lifted myself to my feet, dropped straight down, landed squarely on my board and made a hard turn to the left. I pumped and threw my arms over my head in the air. It was the best wave I had ever caught, and after I jumped off I turned to the surf instructor who was screaming and clapping in the water. It was easily the greatest ride I had ever had. After that moment, I went on to catch many more waves before finally going in. The trick all along was simply to stop thinking about what could go wrong. That lesson seemed to be the theme of my time in Miramar. Nicaragua not only gave me my first real ride on a short board, it reminded me that sometimes when it comes to our own plans, less really is more.
