Le Petit Surfer environment / main
The sun spills across my face, warm and low. A dry wind lifts my hair, carrying the faint scent of salt and dust. Even in the sunlight, I shiver. The stones crunch beneath my feet as I walk from the parking lot toward the water. Camera in hand, I’m hunting for frames, the kind that hold the world still for a moment.
A flock of seagulls suddenly lifts off, chased by a dog sprinting down the beach. To the left, cliffs rise into the hazy Moroccan air, to the right, sparse land and a few scattered houses. I step into the shallows. The water is clear, restless, alive. Out beyond, a pack of surfers fights for every shoulder-high wave rolling in from the Atlantic.
This is Tamri, a few kilometers north of Agadir, one of the few spots still breaking when the rest of Morocco’s coast goes flat. A long, raw stretch of sand, framed by desert hills and goat trails. When the swell’s down, it’s here or nothing. Today, everyone’s here.
Surf schools pull up in a cloud of dust, Softtops strapped to van roofs. A man waves cars into makeshift parking spots, charging twenty dirham, two euros for “security.” A bargain, and a smile included. Wetsuits are being pulled on and peeled off, wax rubbed onto boards, travelers swapping stories about hidden points and border crossings.
I drop the camera in the car and trade lens for leash. The stones are sharper this time, the water colder. I should’ve packed the 4/3. No choice now. Paddle harder, warm up. For two hours I chase sets, catching few. The locals and surf-camp coaches know where to sit, when to go. And I rather observe at new spots first. I’m somewhere in between, freezing, floating, occasionally catching some small peelers.
Back on shore, a man walks by with a kettle balanced on glowing coals, a bunch of mint and wormwood in his other hand. Moroccan mint tea, poured from a silver pot. It tastes like sugar, heat, and relief. Another vendor follows, offering peanuts glazed in honey and sesame. I buy a small bag, sweet, crunchy, perfect for a little sugar buzz.
On the drive back to Imi Ouddar, a slow truck tests my patience. I overtake, bad timing. A police officer steps out of nowhere, signaling me to pull over. “Not correct,” he says. He wants my papers, which I don’t have. I smile, talk, laugh nervously. I explain that I work for a surf house in town. A name drop and a few hundred dirham later, I’m free to go. Lesson learned.
A few kilometers down, a herd of camels blocks the road, crossing slowly in front of me like they own the place which, in a way, they do.
At the surf house, Hassan greets me with paint-splattered hands. He’s the artist behind the wooden figures and wave paintings scattered around the terrace pieces of driftwood turned into surf totems. The air smells like Tajine and salt. We eat together: vegetables, saffron, slow-cooked meat, and stories. After dinner, people read, play cards, fall asleep early. Tomorrow, we’ll do it all again.
By afternoon the next day, after another session in Tamri, we head to the market in Aourir. The road curves through dry hills, and then suddenly, color. Towers of fruit, heaps of mandarins, pyramids of spices. The air is heavy with sweetness and sun. Sellers call out in Arabic and French, laughing, arranging their produce like small sculptures. I buy mandarins, dates, and honey-coated peanuts. One vendor gives me a free bag “for the road.” I take photos. The people smile, pose, proud and playful.
A police officer asks if I feel safe here “as a woman, alone.”I do. Yet, his question lingers. Safety, fear, freedom, all tangled together. I’ve traveled alone for most of my early twenties, sometimes ending up in situations that felt uneasy, but far more often finding kindness. The kind that reveals something deeper about a place and its people. Bad things can happen anywhere. But fear itself is strange, it narrows the lens through which we see the world. It builds invisible borders, makes us small. The moment I learned to soften instead of shrink, to open rather than close, the world showed up.
Being a woman on the road means constantly navigating this balance. Reading the room, trusting your instincts, staying alert but not closed. I feel it’s a quiet form of resistance. Because when I did open my heart, I found something close to the sublime. A connection that bypasses language, culture, gender. Something universal. Travel didn’t just show me where I belong. It also taught me when to walk away and that both can be forms of strength. Against all warnings and clichés, Morocco has felt open, kind, chaotic in a good way.
Later, in Taghazout, the once-sleepy fishing village turned Euro-surf hub, I find myself surrounded by boards, ponchos, and smoothie bowls. The line between authenticity and surf capitalism blurs, as it does everywhere. But the waves don’t care. Neither do the cats wandering the alleys. Dinner at Dar Josephine, ten euros for a three-course mix of French and Moroccan flavors. No alcohol, but the pomegranate juice and mint tea do the job.
That night, I sleep like the tide pulling out. At dawn, a muezzin’s voice drifts through the window, the call to prayer, soft and haunting. I climb to the roof, stretch into the rising sun, and watch the desert hills glow orange. The air smells of dust and sea.
Breakfast is Msemen, Moroccan sort of pancakes, with Amlou, a dangerously addictive mix of almonds, sugar, and argan oil. Rashida, the cook, laughs as I reach for a second.
When I pack the car, Hassan stops me. “Wait,” he says, disappearing inside. I hear the buzz of a tool, the scrape of wood. Five minutes later, he returns, smiling. “Close your eyes.” Something small and smooth lands in my palm. “Le petit surfer,” he says, “Moroccan souvenir for you.“
A hand-carved wooden surfer riding a wave. A piece of the trip frozen in time. I look at it and know, I’ll be back.
