I didn’t come south looking for bigger waves. I came to slow down.
Galicia had been wild. Ericeira was a circus. Peniche? A full-contact sport. The Algarve was different. The minute I crossed into Portugal’s sun-drenched south, I felt it. Everything stretched out. The roads, the heat, the pace of life. Even the waves.
Sagres was my first stop, the kind of place where time gets lost in the tide. No one’s in a rush here. The cafes take their time with your coffee, the surf lodges feel like extended family, and even the wind seems to move in slow motion.
I needed this.
First Waves, First Reset
I paddled out at Praia do Amado with exactly zero expectations. The waves were smooth, nothing to fight for, nothing to prove. I caught an easy left, carved a slow turn, and suddenly—I was surfing for fun again. Not for the rush, not for the ego, just for the feeling.
It had been a while.
Zavial the next day was another story. Steeper, sharper, faster. The locals here don’t say much, but you don’t need words to understand a nod in the lineup. I wiped out on my first set, felt my ribs slam into the sandbank, and laughed underwater.
It’s been too long since a wave threw me around and I actually enjoyed it.
Where the Land Falls into the Sea
The Algarve isn’t just about the surf—it’s about where the land drops straight into the ocean.
One afternoon, I stood at the cliffs above Cordoama, watching the waves roll in beneath golden walls of rock. The wind was high, the swell messy, but something about it felt ancient—like time hadn’t touched this place in centuries.
Then there was Arrifana—smooth, glassy, and made for longboarders who know how to dance on a wave. I’m not one of them, but I watched from the cliffs, mesmerized by the way they floated across the water like they weren’t even trying.
Nights That Weren’t Supposed to Happen
The best nights never start with a plan.
One evening, I ended up at a beach bonfire—half surfers, half travelers, everyone sunburned and salty. Someone passed around a bottle of cheap vinho verde, someone else played guitar, and a Portuguese guy named Marco swore he knew a secret surf spot no one had ever heard of.
“You have to hike for it,” he said, grinning. “But it’s worth it.”
I didn’t believe him, but the next morning, I followed his directions anyway.
And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t lying.
Leaving, but Not Really
A week later, I packed my van and pointed it toward Lisbon.
But I didn’t feel like I was leaving.
The Algarve had already sunk into me—the slow mornings, the sunburned evenings, the way the waves didn’t rush but still carried you exactly where you needed to go.
Not every place sticks with you. This one did.