I Went To Nazaré And Couldn’t See Shit

As I drove north on the A8 my phone lit up with successive texts from Stab’s former Editor in chief, current European liaison Brendan Buckley:

[08:37, 13/12/2025] Brendan Buckley: Having checked the cam
[08:37, 13/12/2025] Brendan Buckley: I pray to the Senhora da Nazaré on your behalf for parking

There’s always much fanfare around Nazaré swells, let alone WSL-sanctioned events. After passing the exit to Peniche, it felt like every single car on the highway was bound for Praia do Norte. I still think they were.

Parking, as Buckley’s prayers would have it, turned out not to be an issue, for me at least. I managed to park in a dedicated school lot and take a free shuttle to the top of the headland, where I had to squeeze through a crowd of people I’m only used to seeing outside Champions League matches.

After dodging a mob of growling stomachs lining up for overpriced coffee and pastries from food trucks that probably make in a day what cafés further inland make over an entire summer (remember the $100M wave?), I made my way into the VIP/media area, located inside the 16th-century fort overlooking Peak 1, mostly known as the right breaking into the rocks beneath the Nazaré headland.

A flotilla of small watercraft lounged just outside, occasionally throttling outwards and arcing back into position after dodging undesirable set waves. They did this several times until someone got towed, let go of the rope, and negotiated the bumpy surface to the sound of 20,000 hands clapping, or was it 40,000?

What struck me most was how excited everyone seemed to be simply for being there and seeing “the world’s best at the world’s best.” There’s no wave like it anywhere else, and I have to agree. Most of the waves ridden are gigantic and slopey, but the wildest thing at Nazaré might just be looking down the beach and seeing disproportionate unridden teepees barreling and spitting. It’s one of the best waves in the world to mind-surf, because there’s absolutely no way it’ll ever be surfed the way the brain pictures it.

Nazaré feels singular; it’s unlike a point or a reef. But aside from the sand, it doesn’t feel like you’re staring down a beachbreak either. It’s almost as if this place exists in a vacuum. It’s a total anomaly. There are as many reasons for it to exist as there are for its nonexistence.

The first wave of the day was a borderline Peak 1 bomb, an area the organizers deemed non-contestable due to its proximity to the rocks. But maybe they forgot to tell that to Lucas Chumbo. The Brazilian faded into the right after getting whipped by fellow Brazilian Pedro Scooby, veered left, and dropped down the face for what felt like a week, and accidentally wheelied over a bump to eat it and disappear for about 30 seconds. As he got dragged underwater, he came dangerously close to the rocks. Too close.

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He was rescued by Sebastian Steudtner in a moment that had everything to ruin the day. Chumbo’s hugs to his rescuers and teammate proved how fortunate he felt to be alive. Not long after, he must have forgotten that feeling and tried to pierce through a giant closeout on a ridiculous hollow left, coming back over the falls with heart in mouth.

These situations were impressive to the naked eye, but it wasn’t until I watched professional footage and images that they became immediate lore. Up on the fort’s rooftop, I bumped into amateur economist and WSL commentariat maestro Paul Evans. His observation that the best seat at a WSL contest is inside your own home with solid Wi-Fi and the live broadcast, further confirmed my struggle to follow what was happening in the water throughout the day.

Another acquaintance on the fort rooftop, who had dedicated the last few years to paddling at Nazaré, told me he recently went over the falls and hit the bottom — something I didn’t think possible. Still nursing his injury, his speech and body language hinted that he might be done with the place.

Technical issues made the competition run a little abruptly. Power outages meant communication from land to lineup was at stake, creating further and unnecessary hazards. With the contest following a leaderboard format — two 40-minute sessions per team, with scores accumulated accordingly — the event was called off after each team had completed only their first session.

A couple of hours had been lost to early morning fog and poor visibility, and as the sun began to lower, so did the swell.

Earlier, a well-dressed, cake-faced makeup woman in her 40s asked me, “Which one is Nic?” I said, “He’s the goofyfoot in the pink jersey.” “The what?” she said, only reinforcing my initial suspicion that about 90% of Nazaré visitors today couldn’t figure out what to do with a leash cuff if their lives depended on it.

As Nic rode a wave, I pointed him out. She clapped and giddily jumped. Her friend, wearing no makeup, rolled her eyes a little. A huge section of whitewater exploded over him, and it looked like he was done for, but then the pink jersey reappeared to her delirium.

Nic von Rupp and teammate Clemente Roseyro ended up winning the shortened event for the second time in a row. Lucas Chianca and Justine Dupont won Best Male and Female Performance, respectively.

“Why do you like Nic so much?” I asked the woman.

“He’s Portuguese, he’s hot, and he’s the best out here,” she said.

Hate to say it, but she might be right.

Until next year.