Photo: CG
It was the morning after Capitulo Perfeito. The annual Portuguese one-day invitational competition had once again delivered on its promise of barrels, as it somehow manages to do every year. Now, I was sitting in the hotel restaurant, eating breakfast with Anthony Walsh, Nathan Hedge, Balaram Stack and Balaram’s girlfriend, Eden. At the adjacent table, Lucas “Chumbo” Chianca gleefully told us that Nazare was looking promising for tomorrow.
Balaram turned to Eden. “Let’s do some step-offs at Nazare,” he said, with a glint in his eye that seems to be reserved for surfing and spear fishing.
“How big is it?” she asked.
“Not big, 15 feet,” replied Chumbo. Eden raised her eyebrows. It was the exact same reaction I would have had, if I was capable of even considering surfing Nazare. On the other hand, she’s a talented surfer in her own right, so for her the number just prompted consideration, rather than dismissal.
“Compared to 80 feet,” said Balaram. That did the trick. The seed for a trip to Praia do Norte was planted, but for now Nazare would have to wait. We were going to Supertubos.
We left around 10:30 a.m. – a late start for a surf excursion, but nearly everyone in our group was just coming off of 11 hours of competing in Carcavelos, so it was forgivable. The trip took us north, through rolling green hills dotted with windmills and white houses with tile roofs.
When we got to Supertubos, it felt as different from Carcavelos as two beachbreaks can get. Gone were the sunbathers, tourists and beach volleyball players of Cascais, replaced by packs of surfers getting ready in the sand and photographers perched on the grass-covered dunes above them. In the distance, construction crews worked on the scaffolding for an upcoming WSL event.
We scaled one of the dunes and watched a threatening-looking wedge in the distance. Then our attention turned to the main peak, where a 15-foot wave rose up and gave a glimpse of a barrel before hammering down, sending spray flying.
As we retrieved the boards from our van, we ran into a man who Walsh and Hedge immediately recognized as a fellow Ozzie named Lee. He was covered head to toe in tattoos, including most of his face. When he got closer, I noticed a silhouette of a coffin tattooed on his lower cheek. As I tried to read the lettering running down the bridge of his nose, he and Hedge cordially caught up on what had happened in each other’s lives since they last met in Tahiti. Later, I asked how they knew him, to which Walsh replied, “He’s everywhere.”
We returned to the beach, now with Lee in tow. The group once again contemplated the surf, but it still looked like a tough paddle out and a plan wasn’t forthcoming. “Send Bal out first,” joked Hedge. Shortly afterwards, we watched a black speck in the water take a 10-foot wave straight to the head.
There was what sometimes appeared to be a slightly more approachable-looking area off the main peak. However, a massive wave would periodically jack up without warning and destroy that illusion. Two teenage bodyboarders paddled out right into it.
“Those guys are blowing it, they’re going straight into the waves,” said Walsh. He pointed to either side of the kids, “It’s there or there.”
The sun came out and the waves started to really turn on. As if on cue, more surfers arrived. It was now or never.
Out in the water, the waves turned out to be as unforgiving as they looked from the dunes. Hedge caught a solid barrel, followed by Balaram, though that one ended in him getting swallowed up by crushing closeout. The last I saw of the trio, before they were pulled by the current and shuffled into the black-clad lineup, was Walsh emerging from a deep barrel and making a ferocious cutback. On the beach afterwards, he would show me GoPro video of another wave, where a sheet of water covered up the sky behind him, before clamping down and carrying him out of frame.
The video turned out to be prophetic for the rest of our day: A brief vision of greatness, followed by crushing reality. After a detour to Peniche for lunch, we returned to find the morning’s tubes replaced by massive, hammering walls.
“Straight napalm,” said Hedge, as we watched a long, perfectly straight closeout rise up on the main peak The lip thundered down, spraying foam high into the air. Nathan was right. It looked like a scene straight out of Apocalypse Now.
Lee popped up over the nearest dune and joined in on watching the carnage unfold. He really was everywhere.
One of the few seemingly ridable waves suddenly doubled up and became an absolute nightmare, eliciting shouts from the group. “Not even really mind surfing right now,” said Walsh. Nobody made a move towards the boards, but it felt wrong to just leave.
The sun started to get low in the sky and Lee disappeared once again. He’d no doubt return, but there was no telling in what part of the world it would be. The surfers traded war stories as the light faded and the wind picked up. Finally, we packed into the van and headed back to Cascais. Nazare in the morning.
