Nazaré, Portugal

When you've hiked in a rainless rainforest and rode through the rain in the desert, "truths" that have anything to do with nature are filtered through salt in your mind. Declarations like, "It's always sunny there!" are purified of hidden fallacies: "What you really mean is, 'It's usually sunny there.'" "If you're going to be all technical about it...yeah." Yes, I am going to be technical. Down to the exact foot. I wanted to know how high the waves rose in Nazaré.

"30 meters!!"
"Umm..Imma Amurican."
"About a hundred feet!"
"Holy shit?! I can't wait!!"

"Wow..."
"Is this the right beach??"
"It is...I've never seen the ocean this calm here..."

ANGLE ON: American slapping her forehead.

So explains this picture of a picture of a 100-foot wave...

Clearly my cartridge needed to be replaced that day. What I should've asked was not how high, but how often these waves crash in (between October and November, you're welcome). With my tourist hat now aside, I came to see the town itself rather than see what the town is known for.

Faith doesn't exactly come to mind when you see half-naked people frolicking on silicone*. However, it's literally what Nazaré is built on, and what pervades the culture today. I mean, you kind of need to believe in something if you're going to surf (!!!) skyscrapers of water. And a little less of that something to pitch rows and rows of tents by the very winds which create the infamous giants (granted the beach for mortals is 10 minutes south of Praia do Norte, where the immortals toil, but my lazy ass wouldn't even bother).

I wondered about the faith of decades past as I wrapped my fleece jacket tighter. Of fishermen wives who sat on these beaches day and night, wearing seven skirts to keep them warm, and counting seven waves until a stormy sea calmed. Waiting, praying for their love to return safely home. Could some of their unanswered prayers be answered today as fearless athletes? But what served as their wellspring of faith? God seems to abstract of an answer for her stern look at reality. No, these women needed proof.

The fascinating thing about the Legend of Nazaré isn't that it goes back centuries, it goes back eons. The hunting nobleman didn't cry out to Mary because that's what noblemen do who find themselves near a cliff in a middle of a thick fog (Darwinian karma for charging his horse towards Bambi? I think so.) He cried for mercy because he suddenly realized a small wooden statue of Mary lay in the grotto below. Carved in Nazareth in the 4th century, and passed from one monk to another, to a town now known as Nazaré.

The nobleman's horse abruptly stopped at the precipice, he was saved. Also, most the fishermen, else I would've seen more windows than shrewd dames hawking rooms for rent. And the surfers? She was too. I guess they're not entirely delusional then. The sun revelers who decided to put up their tents on a very cloudy and windy day. Forget blind faith, that's sun blinding faith**.


* Okay, fine. Silicon dioxide, the primary element of sand. But then the implied wouldn't be as snarky -- let me have some joy in life! END: Internal conflict.
** First pun of the year. Gotta start things off right, nah'mean? (Sorry, residual effect from The Wire.)


Length of Stay

Day trip

Docking Index

     

Five anchors, ironically. As beautiful as Nazaré is on the inside, looks do matter. I'm too old to be that idealistic if the usually crowded beach is littered with trash. Or the town overrun with tourists, surfers, and pilgrims (Nazare his also home to one of Portugal's largest annual pilgrimage). Sure my monthly misanthrope will cease in time, but alas, I must live in the present for a long good while.