Everyone who surfs Ericeira has a theory about when it's empty, and all of them are wrong, because it's never empty. Except it was, on Saturday, at eight, with a clean chest-high swell and a light offshore and a sky that couldn't decide. Eight of us. I counted twice.
Rui says it's a miracle or a lie. It's neither. It's a Saturday in September when the summer people have gone and the winter people haven't come and the locals are hungover from the festival. That's a window. I have never in my life closed a window.
Two hours. Long rights, nobody dropping in, an old man on a longboard who caught more waves than the rest of us combined and nodded at each of us once, like a priest. I got out when my arms said so, not before.
The room in Ericeira costs a third of my salary and I use it maybe six days a month. On Saturday it was the best money I've ever spent. On Monday it'll be a room. Both true. That's the deal, and I'd sign it again.
