Morocco: Surf School

DESPITE THE WEATHER AND YEARS AWAY FROM THE WAVES, REDISCOVERING THE RUSH OF SURFING ON MOROCCO’S ATLANTIC COAST IS THE EVENTUAL REWARD FOR A SURF SCHOOL NOVICE

- Chris Horton

Devil’s Rock, Draculas, Mysteries, Spiders, Unicorns. With their glam rock names, it’s somehow fitting that the local surf spots should fall victim to a rampaging Russian weather system sounding like a heavy metal band. Currently burying Europe in snow, the Beast from the East is also blowing out the waves here in Morocco.

“You’d have been better off staying at home,” Aelwyn chuckles, showing me photos on his phone of the pumping surf back in Swansea. It’s not what I want to hear at breakfast on my first day at surf school. Still, it’s good to see I’m not the only greying member of this fresh-faced, international group. Dave, a retired timber baron from Canada, is even older. “You’ve just missed a great week,” he tells me, taking a slice of the spinach omelette Moncef, Mint Surf ’s co-owner, is passing round. I’m impressed to hear he’s been surfing Anchor Point, the legendary local point break. “I could’ve chopped heads off,” he says, eyes glazing over. “I was so focused on getting up on my board and down the wave.”

It had been more than a decade since I’d felt that intoxicating rush; since the last of the crazy Friday-evening schleps down the M5 to Cornwall. An era that ended when my mates discovered donning wetsuits and downing pints wasn’t compatible with nappy changes and bedtime stories. My Tinder profile still said I was a surfer but, eventually, even I wasn’t buying that any more. I started to hear the waves calling me and I’d been unable to resist.

Outside in the sunshine, there’s an emotional reunion with my old surfing partner. Slender, with curves in all the right places and standing at a statuesque 7’ 9”, the board I’d requested is strapped to the minibus roof with the foam beginner boards the other ‘surf improvers’ are using.