Canarian Dreaming

Way back before Family Rhino, I’d been travelling for surf adventures since the 80’s. Surf trips with friends, sponsored photoshoots, surfing with the Welsh and British teams, I suppose I’d grown up travelling the world for surf, and didn’t think too much about it. This was just the norm for us at the time. We lived our days by the charts and planned everything around them, wherever that may be in the world.

When the chart looked good, we dropped everything and went. 

Even when that meant packing a tent and roughing it in the wild, eating nothing but the salami rolls that I’d made on top of my surfboard and bathing in the ocean for weeks on end.

As a grom, I’d had a poster on my wall of a small fishing village, against a backdrop of Fuerte’s indigo blue waves. I dreamt about it for years before finally having the opportunity to go when I was about seventeen. The night before my first ever Canarian surf trip, we all gathered, hyper excited, in Gary’s flat, under the premise of being organised and making sure we all got to the airport in time. We actually just wanted a pre-trip party. 

The following morning, I woke up a little dusty, frothing to get out there, my bag packed and the only board I had at the ready. At the time, my surfboard sponsor was Australian shaper, Tony Bear, who was flying out with us for the trip. As the crew were scanning his passport to check for a travel visa, the last thing I head him say was;

“She’ll be ‘right mate.” 

I haven’t seen Tony since that moment, it turned out he didn’t have a visa and wasn’t allowed on the plane. And after all the months of build up, anticipation and excitement, I ended up snapping my only board in half, on my very first surf. 

The Canaries are the Hawaii of the Atlantic, so it was a natural choice for surf trips from the UK. Largely untouched before the 90’s, they were budget friendly and a convenient four hour flight away. The islands’ lure was the empty lineups, the warmer waters, the cheap Los Molinos wine, and £5/night price tag. 

Whilst the UK winter can offer world class waves, its inconsistency means that the odds are stacked against you. Especially when you have a small window of time. And it is cold. On the Northern Track, barrelling waves across multiple spots are a daily occurrence. And before the arrival of the UK package holiday on the islands, these shores were blissfully uninhabited and unchartered. 

At least once every winter, I would go to the Canaries, usually with Gary Lewis, Tall Paul, Chris Chip, Giles Davies amongst other great surf friends. In fact, it was Giles, who, back in the 80’s, first mapped out and named the spots, which are still revered to this day. We went there with only one purpose – to surf. I mean, we had a few beers with a pizza but we weren’t there for the party. It was all about the surf. It was mega.

Today, the Northern Track is a thirty minute drive along a bumpy, dusty trail. In the 90’s there was no dusty trail. You would constantly be knocking the sump on the volcanic rocks as you navigated the two hour trek at 1mph, picking the rocks out of the way as you went.

But it was worth every burst tyre and ruined hire car to be able to have your pick of the perfect winter swell.

I have sweet memories of eating in the sun outside Willy’s Pizzeria and nights drinking Jägermeister in Oink Bar, and on some trips camping on Jay from Oink Bar’s sofa. I will always be grateful for his hospitality, often putting me up for weeks on end, both in his home and in his bar. I recently returned to the spot where Oink Bar was, and was surprised and amused to discover ‘Rhino’s Bar’ in its place. 

I have not so sweet memories of the rain that poured down on our tents during a six week trip that I took one year over Christmas. Camping has left me with a bitter taste ever since. We ended up blowing the budget and switching the tents for a £5/night shared room in the Sol y Mar, which even gave us our own toilet.

It was in 1997 when I went to the Canaries for my first Carve trip, with a fantastic bunch of people from the Badlands of the South West. The main goal of the trip was to document and showcase the surf, whilst also maintaining the anonymity of the spots. 

For the first few days, the surf was so good, we had a fridge full of camera rolls and the shots for the article were pretty much complete. Then, on the fourth day, all our things got stolen, including some of the camera equipment and even worse, the irreplaceable rolls of film. Photos of what we thought were the best waves we’d ever had, were all gone. We were back to square one.

But the islands delivered with one hand what was taken away with another. Thanks to the consistent, perfect surf, there was still time to get the shots we’d gone for, and it was just a matter of picking the right spot. Sitting in a coffee bar, we picked up the newspaper and saw a huge low pressure, situated near an uninhabited island off the mainland. It was sitting in the ideal position for this particular spot to light up. 

We dropped all our plans, knocked on a local fisherman’s door and arranged for him to take us out to the island on his boat. 

Suddenly, we were on a surf trip within a surf trip. 

That evening, we sailed over, the swell due to hit the next day. The plan was to stay for two days of waves, get the shots and return back to the mainland before heading home. We’d packed what we could carry on our backs – tents, boards, bags, and with there being no shop on the island, whatever baguettes, Honey Rum and beers we could squeeze in. 

We met a New Zealander, Michael, who’d been living on this island for months in his tent, having seen this mythical wave in photos beforehand and making the trip out, just waiting for this wave to wake up. The hollows in the volcanic rock provided a perfect spot for a makeshift camp, where, in the dark, we set up home for the night. 

The next morning, we woke to the sunrise, in eager anticipation of the arriving swell. We took a walk to the top of the berm and looked out over the top. I can still vividly remember the snapshot I took in my mind at that moment, the azure ocean with its barreling waves rifling down the point. 

The island gave us two days of world class surf, but I won’t bore you with the details. We’d easily managed to get the shots we needed and started to think about the trip back. This is when it got most interesting. With no phones, we waited at the makeshift pier for the fisherman and his boat, as arranged, but it started to become obvious that the swell was building and building. 

There was no boat coming to collect us that evening. 

It wasn’t the end of the world – we still had rum left, so we headed back to the camp. We’d befriended a young Italian couple who’d also chartered a boat to explore the island, and we merged the supplies we had left for the night. 

The next day, the swell was still huge, the supplies had run out, and there was still no boat coming to get us. 

We surfed but we were starving, so we went to look around the small island and happened to come across a monastery. Despite mostly speaking no English, the monks understood our plight and generously took us in before making us the biggest pan of paella I had ever seen. They also gave us a bowl of olives, which I’d never eaten before, and I remember chuckling fondly as one of them said,

“Don’t put the bones on the floor.” 

Morale was instantly lifted as we sat in the candlelight of the monastery and ate the paella. I felt humbled by the monks’ kindness and their presence gave us this reassuring feeling that everything was going to be ok. 

After camping out that night next to the roaring waves, we waited it out one more day, until the swell had dropped enough for the boat to reach us and we returned with the images on film that we’d gone out for in the first place, as well as an experience that we could never have planned for. It was a memorable time, one of my first travel blunders and I was learning to appreciate that these twists along the way actually make for the best experiences.

Recently, I returned to the Canaries after an eighteen year hiatus and was surprised to see how much the islands had changed. The sprawling developments stretching far into the barren red landscape are a contrast to the uninhabited lands I remembered. However, what hasn’t changed is the perfect deep blue waves. They consistently keep coming, just as they always have, only now, you’d be lucky to be the only one in the line up. 

These islands were such an important part of my youth and my surfing journey, and I never thought that I’d one day return with my wife, my children and my Dad. Being able to share the trip tales at the exact spots where they happened was priceless. 

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I’d always remembered the rawness of the islands and despite being amazed by the development of the small towns, I was still struck by their beauty. The natural volcanic contours of the land and the contrast of the arid red landscape against the lush blue waters is as spectacular today as it has always been. Inland, the roads meander through the volcanic valleys and looking up at the majestic beauty of the volcanic peaks as you take a trip across the islands is breathtaking. For their waves, for their beauty and for all the memories, these islands will always hold a special, magical allure for me.