Travel Writing Piece - Lisbon

I tugged on my wetsuit, still damp from the day before and still smelling of the ocean. Despite being early April there was a warmth in the air that only comes from being in the Mediterranean. There was a dull ache in my shoulders from the previous days surfing but it didn’t stop me from aching to be in the water again. The instructors handed out thick foam boards, keeping the smooth and agile ones for themselves.

The group set out towards the water, my toes sinking into the sand and my board wedged against my hip.

A light breeze made my hair dance on my shoulders as we followed the instructors down to the water’s edge. The wind carried snippets of conversation across the beach, some people discussing the conditions of the waves, others deciding where to venture into Lisbon for their dinner. I focused on the sea, anticipation building in my chest as the sun glinted off the waves, sending sparkles in every direction.

The instructors stood confidently in front of the group as they lead a warm up, their sun-bleached hair and tanned skin reflecting the copious hours that they spend in the ocean each day. After completing the warm up we practised ‘pop-ups’ on the sand, perfecting our technique. Finally, it was time to head into the water.

I waded into the ocean, water spraying me like shards of ice, the current tugging at my legs and creeping up my calves. Then I played the waiting game. I sat on my board, the other surfers bobbing up and down next to me, waiting for the swell to take us back to shore. The waves were small that day, a welcomed break after being thrown against the gritty floor multiple times the day before, grazes on my skin acted as a reminder of the power that the ocean holds. As the waves began to grow, an instructor grabbed the end of my board and told me to get into position. The swell peaked and with Tiago surging me on I hesitantly stood up, letting the board slice through the water like a hot knife in butter, feeling it ebbing and flowing beneath my feet. When the wave eventually petered out, I leaped off the board with a huge smile on my face.

After a two-hour surf everyone was exhausted but in high spirits. There was a feeling of contentment in the air that comes from a day at the beach. We all dragged our aching limbs back to the van and sat in a comfortable silence as we headed back to the hostel, day dreaming about a hot shower.

Next on everyone’s agenda was food, and with Lisbon only a twenty-minute train journey away it was the obvious choice.

After gorging ourselves on locally caught fish and our cheeks rosy from red wine, we decided to head back to the hostel barely managing to keep our eyes open. On the way to the station we dipped into a bakery and left grasping a paper bag of Portuguese custard tarts, still warm. Enraptured by Lisbon’s charm I sat on the train, comforted by the fact that I would get to do it all again tomorrow.

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