As I swam back out, the guys cheered and my surf instructor gave me a high five. “What do you think of the waves here? ” he asked.
The surf instructor took me out and held onto the nose of my board as the water rocked us. “No scary,” he said.
As we were waiting for a wave, the surf instructor gave me a few pointers. “Move more forward on your board.
Over the next few days, we became fast friends with a group of men on vacation from Canada and every morning we ate breakfast while watching another group of guys from Southern California surf the in front of Miramar.
It was a cold dreary day in New England, and I had spent the entire afternoon scrolling through the websites of colorful surf camps all over the world, all promising awesome waves and warm weather.
It was the best wave I had ever caught, and after I jumped off I turned to the surf instructor who was screaming and clapping in the water.
As I paddled out, the surf instructor grabbed my board. “You have the scary,” he said with a thick accent. “Yes, I do.
When the next wave came, I paddled, easily lifted myself to my feet, dropped straight down, landed squarely on my board and made a hard turn to the left.
Miramar Surf Camp, located on a picturesque stretch of beach in Punta Miramar, Nicaragua, was different.
He wanted to assess our skills and the warm water and clean waves were ideal for our first time out.
If I went back into the beach at this point I wasn’t sure I’d make it back out again later. I desperately wanted to regain my confidence and I needed one good wave.
I’ve had a love affair with the continent of Africa since I first went to West Africa, and am always eager to find a reason to return. “Waves in Ghana aren’t great this time of year.
I loved the homemade Nicaraguan cooking, learned more about the guys from California and Canada and went for sunset swims with my surf crew.
Frustrated more with myself than anything else, I turned to him. “I’ve never surfed waves this big before. “Yes, you have,” he insisted. “The waves were bigger than this the day that you said they were perfect. You dropped so easily.
The waves had picked up, the number of surfers in the water increased, and after a few big wipeouts and close calls with other people near me losing control of their boards, something changed.
Miramar truly felt like an oasis, an escape from the rest of the world, and a place where nothing mattered but the ocean, the friendly staff, and surfers who populated the camp.
Every time I’d paddle back out, my surf instructor would narrow his eyes and give me a confused look. “Are you okay?
But after the men from Winnipeg, the SoCal surfers, my sunset swimming buddies, and the Canadian humanitarians left, it was time to refocus on the waves.
My friend and I became close with two Canadian women who had met in the Congo doing humanitarian work, and the four of us spent hours talking about work, love, surf, travel, and everything in between.
We instantly clicked over a quick conversation about travel and surf, and she asked me what I wanted. “I was thinking Ghana,” I replied.
For some reason, out of all of the surf camps I had searched through, the name “Miramar” flashed in my mind. “I saw something about Miramar there that looked nice.
Read more here: The Inertia