Sagres is located right on the south west corner of the approximately rectangular Portugal. We walked from our camp site, about 2 miles from the ocean across the scrubby arid land that was reminiscent of Cape Cod and yet exotically different. The water was not visible until about 50 feet from the precipitous cliff edge. There is a magical feeling you get just before you arrive at your first site of the ocean or a mountain top. It's almost as if premonition warps time for a moment and you somehow know there is a vast and soul soothing site just beyond the next rise even though you have never been there before. And so it was. The cliffs were high and straight with long massive combing waves rolling in from infinity and crashing in great plumes on the rocks far below.
We walked a few kilometers along the cliffs looking for the playa (beach). Sangres is all about beach culture. Surfing shops and fish restaurants. Old men with big bronzed bellies juxtaposition against topless teens splayed out in the sand for any who dare to look.
Beth and I, well aware of our age and relative uncool stature, found the way down the cliffs to an amazing sandy beach almost entirely occupied by fit young people. And the beach, due to the towering cliffs behind us and the endless sea before us, was not big. Fuck it, we hung out anyways staking a small parcel of sand where, because the tide was receeding, were we probably could sit without being washed away. It was a cool scene, really large and regular waves rolling in and all the kids beamingly excited, surf boards proped In the sand and guys in wet suits milling around.
But, nobody was in the water! Finally a young svelte guy went in but only up to his waist and tentatively. The conditions didnt seem so bad to me and I desperately wanted to swim but what was up? Some killer undertow? Octopi? Two young surfers went out but hardly breeched the breakers and neither made a clean ride to shore. I had had enough and, in order to fully commit myself to the swim I announced to Beth "I'm going in". She was not impressed and so I had no choice. And guess what? It was about the most lovely conditions imaginable. Not a rock or shell just soft sand and caressing light blue water, the waves totally predictable and manageable. I dove through the breakers and floated on my back over the swells. I went ashore and grabbed my snorkel and became porpoise like, riding them in and cavorting about. Suddenly the water was filled with young svelte people. Now I realize that this may have been due to some cryptic Portuguese surfer culture rhythm but I like to think that a fat old American acting like a child encourged them just a bit.
