Photo by Timo
A wise man once told me that if you go somewhere and have a great time, don’t ever go back.
But I was never really one for advice.
The best surf trip I ever went on was to Madeira, and the worst trip I ever went on was to Madeira, the following year. The first trip, a week in mid January so was so idyllic in surf and sundries that it’s nauseatingly boring as an anecdote. I’ll spare you.
Surf consistency: 4 – Wave variety: 3
Climate: 7 – Radness: 7 – Budget: 4
I went back the next year and the surf wasn’t there. Neither was the girl I met, the hash connection nor the sunshine.
The wind was.
A drizzly, surfless, chilly first few days were briefly punctuated when a newly-arrived French surfer, who happened to be taking a couple days at the coast having sailed there as second mate in a clipper, leaned out of his window and asked, “Excusez-me Ave you got any wollin paper?” “Have you got any weed?” I replied. Tuesday afternoon went OK.
One night I convinced this Hawaiian boogieboarder that there was an awesome nightclub in town, full of tail. “This place is fucken epic!” I emplored. We went, after much trouble getting in, it was fucken awful. A forest of moody cock.