Surf’s up in Cabarete
I travelled to the Dominican Republic to convince my no-longer-youthful body that I could still learn to surf
Dawn breaks at Encuentro Beach near Cabarete, a friendly town on the north coast of the Dominican Republic. Palms silhouette the shore as the rising sun pokes the horizon. The air, still cool, has yet to peak into a Caribbean scorcher. Clutching surf boards, our group nervously gathers on the shore to stretch, before we hit the waves during our first 7 a.m. lesson with Swell Surf Camp.
My goal: to convince my body — fit yet no longer youthful after six decades on this planet — that I could still learn to surf.
“It’s less about age and more about mindset,” claims Swell’s website. When I found the surf camp, which caters to mature travellers and offers instruction, boutique accommodations and a fun, social environment with other like-minded professionals, I suggested to my husband that we book a vacation.
Swell was co-founded by Clare Barnaby and her husband, Jimmy, in 2009. By then, Cabarete was already well known for its trade winds and protected reef, attracting windsurfers and kite boarders. But “at the time, surf camps were primarily crude accommodations for dope-smoking 19-year-olds,” says Barnaby, who identified an unserved market: the mature surfer.
Barnaby herself learned to surf at 52, and says that Swell’s average guest age is 44. But the oldest person they’ve taught was 70, so there’s hope for me yet.
The van that takes us to the surf beach departs twice daily: at daybreak, and at 10:30 a.m. for a second session. Waking to exercise before breakfast isn’t body-clock-friendly, and setting a daily alarm while on holiday feels even less natural. But great surf conditions wait for no one, arriving with the morning high tide. Besides, the massive breakfast that follows our class makes up for it. Who knew surfing could muster the appetite to consume 1,000 calories in one sitting?
After witnessing my slow-motion attempt to mimic a pop-up, where surfers glide from horizontal to standing in a nanosecond, my instructor suggests a modified approach: a left leg to chest push-up. It’s slower to execute but allows me to gain the proper positioning. Being flexible and fast enough is challenging, but our group stretching at sunrise helps; soon, I even look forward to the ritual.
Balancing on a moving surfboard is daunting. On Day 1, I spend more time being tossed around like a rag doll in the washer than I do standing vertical. But by Day 3, both my husband and I taste success. By Day 5, I’m riding whitewater waves toward shore, relishing the liberating feeling. Over the following lessons, we learn to accelerate, break and turn. It helps when I channel familiar parallel moves from water-skiing, windsurfing and skateboarding.
Beyond scraped elbows and knees, which are a given for newbies, we nurse sore shoulders, arms and core muscles daily, even though I had prepared with pretrip workouts. But the triumph of acquiring new skills makes this all worthwhile. There’s also some Advil involved.
Day 7 dawns at Encuentro Beach. Our group of once-strangers, now fast friends, pour out of the van with the camaraderie and enthusiasm of kids on their last day at camp.
Our achy muscles, torched like burnt pieces of toast, are back for more.
After a warm tropical shower, the sun breaks through the clouds, and on the horizon a rainbow forms. I spot the perfect wave, paddle and pull up. Propelled by the forces of water and sheer determination, I ride the wave toward shore with pride. Barnaby was right. It’s not about age. It’s about attitude.