My trip to Morocco in 2023 marked my third adventure in the country in the last four years, one of several trips with Surf With Amigas. I always have some butterflies when revisiting a place. Will the experience be as good as it was the first or second time? Will the sparkle of novelty have worn off, revealing disappointment in its wake?
My third arrival in Morocco left me feeling anything but sparkly. I barely made my two flight connections that day, the airports full of weather delays and grumpy travelers. On my final leg of travel to Marrakech from Geneva, I was stuck in a long, winding customs line with 5 minutes to spare before my last flight left me in the dust. After pleading my case to skip to the front and receiving blank, unsympathetic looks from the Swiss officials in return, I was ready to cut my losses and spend the night in an airport hotel.
I turned around, ready to leave, when my eyes met the man’s beside me. I could practically see the steam billowing from his ears like an angry animation. He asked if I was also on the last flight to Marrakech. I replied yes, and he sprung into action. He was not the sort of man who relented at no. After several minutes of angry French banter between him and the customs official, the barricade beside us suddenly lifted and we were flying through the airport, our speed-walk escorted by the same well-groomed man who had denied me minutes prior. I suppose sometimes anger over innocence can prove more effective. Once at the gate, we were directed to a side door that led to the tarmac, and from there took a private bus to our plane like fashionably late queens. Relieved, we boarded and sat next to each other on the last two open seats. Catching our breath and away from the customs cesspool, we finally exchanged names. My Pan of the airport line labyrinth introduces himself as Omar, originally from Algeria but living in Boston for the last 20 years. We sat and shared small talk for a good chunk of the flight, his eyes twinkling in excitement telling me about his flourishing riad business (traditional Moroccan homes/hotels), which he visits every year for 6 months.
At long last, we touched down in Morocco. I made it to baggage claim sweating like a pig. Eager to grab my bags and be on my way, I impatiently paced, searching for my bags on the conveyer belt. It wasn’t until the baggage claim area was nearly empty that I allowed myself to sink into dread once more. I had finally arrived in Marrakech, but my surfboard and suitcase were still trapped behind Swiss borders. I spied Omar out of the corner of my eye, who was also bagless and looking livid. He had switched from barking orders in French to Arabic.
Looking back on this day and meeting with Omar, I still can’t pick out what it was that made me trust him enough to agree to spend the night at his riad while we waited for our bags to be delivered the next morning. Perhaps it was a feeling of defeat and helplessness, a desire to see the validity in a small act of kindness after a tough day, or acknowledgement of a figure who clearly knew how to get shit done. Maybe a bit of all of the above. But I can’t say I didn’t question the sanity of my actions while we weaved in and out of Marrakech traffic, drifting further away from the safety of the airport. *Please note I don’t often recommend going home with strangers. I frantically sent texts and my location to my family group chat and a few friends, on the off chance that my luck didn’t pan out. At that point, I figured my hand had been played, and I was so exhausted I could barely think enough to stress (until that night when I shoved my suitcase in front of the unlockable door).
After tossing and turning I finally fell asleep and awoke 12 hours later. I met Omar downstairs the next morning, and he led me to his local breakfast spot. While we walked along the red brick streets, kids on their bikes waved and shouted his name, competing for his attention. Upon entering the cafe, he hugged the owner and his young daughter and I immediately felt relief. Surely this guy was just a kind, Moroccan fairy godfather that had rescued me from a hectic travel.
Things were looking up after a full pot of Moroccan tea, crepe with honey and cheese, and a text from our airline that the bags had been delivered. After paying for my breakfast, Omar arranged our taxi to the airport and expertly navigated through baggage claim to the Swiss Air office. He helped me carry my hefty board bag while we chatted more about his plans in Marrakech and my adventures to come in Imsouane. After helping me arrange my taxi in rapid Arabic, he gave me a hug goodbye and proclaimed me his new American daughter.
My experience with Omar, despite some initial anxiety, further solidified my trust in the hospitality and kindness of the Moroccan people (even in the police station you’re likely to be offered a tagine around lunchtime). I suppose it’s also important to note at this time that my arrival in Morocco came a few short weeks after a devastating earthquake rocked the country, the epicenter some 40 odd km away from Marrakech. Even after such incredible destruction, unquestionable kindness and an open arm welcome was all I felt from Morocco’s proud citizens.
We finally arrived in Imsouane and got to work. After a few weeks of working SWA retreats and wiggling around in the surf with amigas, all staff had three weeks off. We were all scheming about how to make the most of the time and snag some waves and adventures of our own. We saw a swell was coming in that weekend, and decided to rent a car and set off down south for a few days with our local friends.
A classic slippery slope kind of story ensued. Our plan was to take off just for a few days, score the swell and then come back to rest and explore up north. That was our intention, until we saw the next week of swell on the forecast, which forced our hand into staying longer. Lesson number one I’ve learned on the past few years of surf trips: Never leave good waves, or regret trying.
It felt like we went through several phases during those next few weeks down south, so I’ll describe it as such:
Phase one:
Upon arrival we felt like the VIPs of Anchor point. During our first surf, a nearby surf festival’s house music was reverberating through the lineup, making our session our own personal hype fest (albeit with an irritatingly repetitive beat). Despite the fiesta vibes, we had little (female) competition in the water. Our first surf at the infamous wave, and there were three of us, plus another Moroccan-French gal. Only four women in the water, surrounded by 40 men (mostly all foreigners). I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, but I’ve grown quite comfortable surfing with a girl gang that hoots and hollers for each other. You could say that first session was akin to an abrupt awakening after a peaceful sleep.
The lineup that day remains to be one of the most serious I’ve been in, with not a smile in sight, save our own. We joked that there was not a nut in the lineup willing to be cracked. One exception was Moroccan pro-surfer Ramzy, who shared smiles with us whilst absolutely regulating the peak, putting the foreign boys in their place as he took off on the best set waves again and again. Experiences like these are a constant reminder that everyone seems to have staggeringly different paths to finding fun through surf. That being said, I don’t think I’ll ever understand why egos multiply in pursuit of 30 second joyrides.
Phase two:
After a couple days in Taghazout, scoring beautiful, friendly waves at Anchor point, we continued south. The further south we drove, the more incredible the surroundings, and the more welcoming and warm the people became. The south feels a bit like Baja, or some other kind of final frontier. We drove for hours on seemingly endless roads with shrubs, argan trees and goats aplenty, until the coast emerged alongside us. Even in November, there’s a thick heat that hangs in the air, with red dust and sand swirling across the sky.
I had a few standout moments during our time off, but driving up to this empty, tucked away cove trumps all of them. Access to the beach was by a rocky path, which jolted our 4×4 side to side on the way down. We were surrounded by immense coastline on our left, white sand and desert shrubs, their stout arms reached towards to sky as if asking for more water. We parked in an alcove amongst the rocks, and trekked down through the hot sand dunes until we found shelter under a tree with a nice view of the peeling right hander.
Only four bodies dotted the lineup. A few other watchers were tucked away in wind-borne caves set in the cliffside. The roofs of the caves were blackened with the use of campfires and good stories, without a doubt. It was then I had a thought. Why would anyone choose to live differently than this? Why would someone choose to live within the four walls of an office for the majority of their waking hours? I’d rather chase the feeling of being sun soaked, crusty and without a shower.
Phase three:
By our last week off, our energy levels seemed to be the antithesis of the ocean’s. While we were busy slathering our bodies and menthol and arnica cream, hoping for a day off, the ocean mocked us, growing in size and energy throughout the week. We all seemed to be suffering from some surf injury, exhaustion, or a blend of the two. After having a couple sessions in big surf where the current swept me what felt like a mile or two down the beach, I was ready to call it. I was relieved to avoid destruction, and I happily tucked my tail between my legs for a few days. Moroccans have a knack for spreading love by breaking bread together, so instead I indulged in three dollar tagines, and leaned into my newfound love of cats.
There are plenty of furry friends in Morocco, but I’ve noticed the cats tend to be more revered than the pups, who are usually mangy and lead some unfortunate lives (but I love them all the same). Featured in the photo above are the two cats I had the pleasure of watching grow from kittens to sassy teenagers in a matter of weeks. We named them Cow and Ninja. The colors of their fur match the the yin and yang of their personalities. Where Cow offered complacent cuddles, trying to hold Ninja was like trying to catch a shadow in the dark.
I’m not the biggest fan of conclusions and goodbyes, so I’ll keep this ending brief. My time in Morocco filled my cup. I was fortunate enough to experience Africa a third time with good friends by my side. I met some great faces, saw some new places, and am grateful to continue on this wild path of life.
