words and photos by Billy De Luca.

I’d probably never use the word ‘gnarly’ to describe Mirleft, a small fishing town on the western coast of Morocco, but to say that it is lacking in a surf culture would be a blatant oversight.

Sources say — well Wikivoyage, at least — that Mirleft has “been visited by hippies since the 1970s,” but didn’t the hippies get wiped out by the 80s? Anyway, Hendrix hung out here. Oh, and the Stones. The surf scene grew, and affluent investors began developing properties along the plains. The tourist demographic diversified, bringing the small and sleepy seaside town into a ‘destination’ like its big brother Agadir in the North. For the past two decades, it has been a place where sun and surf lovers can go to do their thing and surf some of the best waves on Morocco’s Atlantic coast. These towns are different from the Europeanised northern cities that have tall buildings and wanky hotels. We are around the corner from the Sahara, that arid land, and facing the ocean from the coccyx of the Atlas Mountains. 

There is a sign on the road with a picture of a donkey. To the left of the sign is a donkey. Neither moved, and we drove right by.

Driving around here, you’re either flying in an SUV or swerving in a tyre-wobbling car that is as trusty and shaky as a 90s Fiat Panda. Either way, it’s fun bumping over the swollen hips and hacked-out slumps’ deep, long-stagnant puddles, bumping and jolting between huts and chuckholes into the piercing blue and malachite, where the waves spank the coast all night long and the morning swell glistens as the sun sprays its splintered lashes. The place has a black-belt in ruggedness but wears it like a towel around its shoulders with a relaxed abandon. To check the surf, we sit high and dry, tumbling dice with humming engines and still-soaked wetsuits in buckets. Everyone’s eyes follow the peeling right below as it drifts away. 

I met Abder, who teaches surfing, and through him, Mustafa, who’s an asshole. The former lent me a board and wetsuit since I flew down with only a rucksack and speedo, the latter says I’m an asshole too. He’s right. We get along well. Mustafa is, admittedly, a really good surfer, and sits out the back on a log, slogging through sets with panache and an insouciant skill. The grin on his face said it all after he got the wave of the day, three days in a row.

It’s miserable having to wait hours till the tide goes out. A keening sun ripped past the scudding clouds as the wind helter-skeltered away, keeping the water smooth and soft at the port. A bunch of guys sit in a circle in the water. We are at Plage Boumerssal, shifting and talking shit under the light roar of the waves, bobbing to the current’s precipitous movement. The mountain ridge bumps like a spine of twisted knuckles. Tetrapods snuggle on the shore as if they had been left by a giant infant. It was three or four foot with a crumbling, restless energy. After the surf, we walked past a souk and the air was full of shouts and squeaking rubber. From one side of the shopfront to another stretched a shark, hung diagonally from nose to tail, fresh for supper. Dust-coloured dogs and cats lie around like discarded welcome mats, and birdsongs can be heard echoing through the empty buildings. The concrete exoskeletons are silent, and although there are probably fewer birds around than it sounds, with the echo, you could be in a forest. So they sing away. Singing away, singing away.  Keeping the air busy.

We got lost driving on an unmarked road and met Ahmed, a funny, serious, earnest man who lives alone in an isolated mudbrick home. We sat on his handmade stools fashioned from cardboard boxes (one of them was detergent brand ‘Fusion’) and wooden fruit boxes tied together with string and draped with a fur pelt for cushioning. The pelt hairs sprung out from the tight strings, looking a lot like Harry Potter’s Monster Book of Monsters. A distant mosque spins the daily prayer from its minaret. In the morning, it signals we have to go check the surf and put the coffee on. 

The surf was shit. Still, we never regret getting wet. 

There’s a skatepark in Mirleft. It is mostly empty while school is on. A kid or two run around the smooth tiles, slipping and sliding. The occasional powerslide from Oli screeches over the sound of the children’s footsteps. One of the kids walked over and asked for a go. He didn´t have a board. Oli passed him his deck. “There you are, mate”. The kid nodded in thanks, then took off, dropping in from the ramp and throwing his trucks into a backside 50/50 grind across a rail. He couldn't have been over 9 years old. He started kickflipping, each time messing up the landing. His breathing grew heavier, more impatient. Finally, he landed it, and the stress lifted, relaxing his shoulders.

The flight out of Agadir airport was delayed by three hours. Nanny nature kept the fog thick, and not even a bird could be seen breaking through the sheltering sky. My pants were stiff with salt and the Atlantic, and my hair was strewn from the surf. The terminal was filled with stirring bodies, pots, tartan sacks and suitcases fastened by belts and tape. Lots of sighs from everyone, but no surprises. Lots of embraces and love too though, and that’s always nice.