This installment of the Naughton-Peterson travel articles took place mainly in Morocco and Western Sahara, and ran in the July 1975 issue of SURFER. This version has been slightly edited.

"Oh . . . uh . . . our addresses? Yeah, sure! You have a pen?"

And so we exchanged addresses with promises to write. The final gesture of a farewell with two lovely young ladies with whom we'd shared good times. It was attraction at first sight, and we danced the nights away. We later passed moments at the beach, parties, dinner, walks through banana plantations, and now 

. Good times transform into good memories after goodbyes.

The engine of the 1953 pickup fruit truck kicked over, and the girls were enveloped in a shroud of black exhaust. Words were mixed with coughs.

Kevin gave the driver a nod, the exhaust pipe spewed out another cloud of black fumes, and we lurched back as the truck roared off down the highway.

A long, wicked drive ahead, the two of us packed into the back with the fruit, impossible to sleep, but plenty of time to reflect on the recent past. The walks to the surf through the banana plantations, sunny days with the girls, good feasts, surfing, and amazing sunsets. Those playful days on waves under two meters—a right that was protected from local winds by jagged and vertical walls of rock. The wave slid into a long point and broke easily until it hit that one boil section with the sea urchins. One guy we surfed it with got hung up in the section, went over the falls, and dropped from the top of the wave like he was being sucked down a chute. He bobbed up moments later with hundreds of sea urchin spines in his knee. Out of the water for three weeks, doctor said. It wasn’t the best wave, though at sunset it was always better.

The other reef was something else. Inside-out, upside-down lefts that churned over lava rock. We sat and watched for a long time. Rocks were strewn like mines in the impact zone, far too many to deem it surfable, but exhilarating to see those tubes spit, one after the other.

The food was inexpensive, and we cleaned the town of ice creams. Good people, Vicky and Fela, and their friends were amiable also.

“Man, it’s hard to leave some places."

Two days later, we were fed up with pickup trucks, dirt roads, loud engines, and fruit. We arrived near a border only to be informed that it was impossible to cross. The country we were in was engaged in a border skirmish with the country we wanted to enter. It was the age-old problem of who’s in whose backyard.

“Yes, it’s very dangerous; you must take the ferry!” said a crusty old soldier who was openly disgruntled at his assignment: redirecting travelers. We couldn’t pry any details from him on the altercation, so we boarded a dilapidated ferry that had evidently seen the worst of the fight.

“If it gets us out of the harbor, it should get us there,” quipped the skipper.

It did. On dry land again, we proceeded to hitchhike to a spot rumored to have waves. Vicious rumors, no doubt, but we wanted to find out for ourselves. In the afterglow of sunset, gear piled next to us on a bluff, we watched two-meter “rumors” wind smoothly into a right point.

Our beach camp was adjacent to the bluffs. This was a good move, as we found out later, because scorpions emerge from the bluff at night and seek a source of warmth (i.e., the human body). Scorpion bites in these parts can incapacitate a person anywhere from two days to two weeks, depending on the size and type of scorpion. Beaches are one of the few places that scorpions won’t traverse. The air was dry, and there was no problem with mosquitoes, so we slept out under the stars. On clear nights, with millions of stars providing a light show, talk comes easy on almost every subject under and above the sky: folks, friends, girls (past, present, and hopefuls), scams, shooting stars, state of surfing, music, places we’re going to, places we’ve been, sins, dreams, life history, philosophizing, surf, religion, people, ambitions, failures, and the more mysterious—U.F.O.’s, witchcraft, the Devil's Triangle, and other inexhaustible subjects, such as sleeping (pun intended).

After waking, we showered ourselves in the waves on the tail end of a two- to three-meter swell. We rode enough waves to get it wired, but not enough to get surfed out. The swell went down that afternoon. That’s when the hardships started. With no swell and not much to do but wait for another one, alone, the problem was staying healthy, safe, and occupied. Kevin pored over books with a speed-reader’s intensity, while Craig chained his camera case to anything that didn’t move. Our diet was incredibly bland: cheese, nuts, bread, canned sardines, and fruit—breakfast and dinner. Every nook and cranny within walking distance was inspected. We kept an unrelenting watch on our gear, as the area we were in was infamous for thievery. One unfortunate guy we met had been sleeping in his van with friends one night when local brigands with a container of sleeping gas slipped a hose through the ventilation opening and gassed the inside of the car. The guy woke up a day later with a splitting headache and a ransacked auto, almost everything was gone. Naturally, we were a bit disconcerted by this and other stories and likewise took precautions with our gear. We fortressed our tiny camp each evening as though we we were preparing for the siege of Khartoum. Still, it was uncomfortable sleeping with all our possessions under, around, and on top of us. Then to wake up in the morning in a sand pit formed by thrashing dreams of being buried alive in the middle of the Kalahari.

An insufferable heat made our clothes feel like burlap, and as there was no nearby abundant supply of fresh water, a bath was out of the question. Hot sun, little shade, and no waves—after five days our predicament seemed hopeless.

The dust-brown Land Rover rumbled to a halt near our piled-up gear. Out stepped a short guy with frizzled black hair and beard. His whole face smiled warmly as he surveyed the scenery, and finally us. He wore old Levi’s, a red plaid Pendleton, hiking boots, and had the cut of a misplaced lumberjack. Craig smiled back and Kevin grimaced through cracked lips.

“How you guys doing? Looks nice here. Waves been any good lately?” he asked in an accent we couldn’t place.

“It picked up a bit today," Kevin replied hoarsely. "Good a few days ago, maybe tomorrow."

He took a close look at our haggard features.

“Man, you guys look like you’re in poor shape.” He wiped his brow and looked up as if to find the heat that was bearing in from all sides. “It’s too hot out here. You want to step inside and munch some tangerines?”

Craig plodded to the car with the stamina of a man who has just chased a mirage. Kevin lagged close behind.

Once inside the car, our situation felt better. The owner pulled a bag of tangerines from a small refrigerator and offered us all we could eat. His accent had a Latin touch.

“Brazil! I’ve come over here from Brazil to travel all around Africa and ride some tubes! My name’s Tito.”

“Brazil! All right! You’re the first Brazilian surfer we’ve ever met! We’re from California.”

“That’s okay, I won’t hold it against you guys.”

“You guys are hitchhiking! That must be difficult here?”

“Yeah,” said Kevin, wistfully, as he eyed the roomy interior of the Rover. “But we haven’t had a choice.”

“Well, why don’t you guys join up with me for a while? I’ve been traveling alone, and the three of us could share the costs. This car will go anywhere!”

Our jackpot eyes said it all. Thus began three weeks of African surf exploration in a new Land Rover with an extraordinary Brazilian surfer-traveler.

We passed the remainder of that first day becoming better acquainted. Tito personified the finer qualities of the Latin people: warm, open, garrulous, enthusiastic, and friendly. The type of personality that lingers in your mind long after the image fades.

His car was a remarkably equipped surf vehicle: stove, fridge, sink, winch, tapedeck, bed, reduction box, spotlights, tent, roof racks, sand ladders, double locks, etc.

 you have in this car?” Craig asked, incredulously.

“She split back home a month ago,” replied Tito.

The following morning we surfed tricky two-meter waves at “Sharasy Reef” the name we dubbed our campsite break. It blew out early in the day. A study of our maps and a quick conference produced a unanimous decision to hit the road.

All right! Rolling down the highway with Tito behind the controls of what resembled a pilot’s cockpit. The latest rock music (we’d been out of tune for months), and comfort cruising; a far cry from what we’d been accustomed to. Necks craned in envious admiration when we passed anybody.

A few hours later we arrived at a point with fellow surfers camped nearby. There was a fresh-water spring in the area, and we staked out a site between the spring and the break. The surrounding terrain was not unlike Baja.

The nearby campers were all Australians, who are the most traveled people in the world. They were mostly lounging around next to their weathered vans, and filled us in on the area, conditions, hassles, and surf. “Waves tomorrow and drink tonight!” they said. We drank to that.

The lot of us were up for “a bit o’ surf” shortly after sunrise the next day. Some long and impressive-looking lines were breaking over a reef-point a mile up from our camp. The waves were consistent and a bit sectiony, like the start of a good but rough swell that might clean up later. It was certainly rideable. Primeval cliffs shadowed the break and forced us to paddle out from a short stretch of beach well off to the side.

Out of breath after the long paddle, Kevin finally squeaked over a large set while devilishly laughing at Craig who was ten meters behind, and would soon be thirty. The waves were head high but powerful, and if you picked the right one, there’d be a long, workable ride before the kick-out directly in front of caves at the base of the cliff. We caught it at three meters on one spectacular sunset evening, and rode some of the best overhead waves we’d ever experienced. We named the break Victoria’s and surfed it every day during the six days we camped there.

The area about us offered a number of good surf breaks, but none to match the so-far quiet point we were camped at, which, we were told, “should start working any day now.” So we surfed, relaxed, made friends, and waited for the point to work.

On the afternoon of the sixth day, a solid new swell hit the point under glassy conditions. Craig set up his camera gear while a small group pulled on their wetsuits.

What a rush it is to paddle out at this place! You stand on an algae-coated rock shelf and wait for a lull in the sets. When the last mass of whitewater sweeps over your feet, you gingerly tiptoe across the rock shelf, avoiding the crevices, and leap into an incoming froth of whitewater. Then stroke hard, harder, to scratch away from the gnarly rocks and into calmer water. A nightmare if you don’t clear the shelf before the next wave. One poor chap made an ill-timed leap off the shelf and found himself floundering on the exposed rocks, unable to move until the next surge of whitewater swept him back toward the shore.

Once safe, the point offered two types of rides on the same wave. Outside, it was larger and slower, with flat spots that required drawn-out cutbacks to stay in the pocket. Once it hit the inside rock shelf, perpendicular bowls would pop up, and it became a workable speed wave. We surfed it with Aussie champion Richard Harvey and friends. Harvey rode particularly well on a clean, simple board of his own design. He’s been traveling the globe with his earnings from Australian pro contests and, in spite of our stories, he plans to visit California soon.

That same evening, the small groups camped in our area all joined forces in a potluck dinner filled with food, wine, smoke, and good cheer. A handful of Australians, a few natives, one Brazilian, a French woman, an Irishman, and a couple of Californians comprised a small party under a celestial sky in the ruins of a crumpled cement house. Vegetables, fish, fruit, cheese, bread, pies, wine, and salads loaded a makeshift wood table that was later disassembled bit by bit and fed to the fire. A full day of surf, coupled with ravenous appetites, contributed to a friendly feast and exchange of views. We stuffed ourselves like Aussies, chattered with Brazilian flare, drank like the Irish, and mingled as Californians.

The surf played a background sound to the talk on the cliff, and everyone would stop in the middle of a story if a cracking set hailed our attention. We drifted into warm spirits, as tales were told and yarns unwound. Most of the talk revolved around travel and surf. Everyone had stories to share. Tito, master of four languages (or was it five?), knew that many more anecdotes and tales. Stories of border hassles were common, as we’d all paid our dues at various frontiers. One story in particular really epitomized what can happen if you cross paths with the wrong border officials:

“This native African fellow I met was caught between borders in a Catch-22 situation. He was heading to Europe on vacation and was crossing from one African country to another. The border guards turned him back because he didn’t have an exit visa from the country he was leaving. He had to wait for days for the return run of the train which had dropped him off. Then a twenty-hour ride back to the city he started from. Got his exit visa, waited four days for the train, made it back to the border. This time he was turned away because he didn’t have the prerequired entrance visa for the country he was entering. Same deal, four-day wait, 20-hours on a trail, and then back once more to the border. But now he needed 

 exit visa because the original had expired a week earlier. Except now the country he was in wouldn’t give him an exit visa until he could show an entrance visa from the other country. Which he couldn’t get until he left and entered again, and he couldn’t leave ’til he got an exit visa. When I met the poor guy, he was almost broke and on the verge of a nervous breakdown, had canceled all plans to visit Europe, and was technically not in the country since he didn’t have an entrance visa. When I last saw him, he was sleeping in the train station, waiting for money from home, working in an outdoor coffee stand for his meals.”

More tales. An abundance of laughter. A few 

, while the surf kept cracking in the background. Promises to meet here, oaths to visit there, plans of all sorts hatched and talked over. Meanwhile, all of us were hoping for good surf the next day. We named the point we surfed that day “Tabaskis,” an African tribal word for Christmas.

After a short surf session, we packed up camp, bid our “so longs” and drove down the coast for some hardcore off-the-beaten-track surf exploration. We knew there’d be waves farther along this coast, but we weren’t sure where, and Tito was ready to break in the Rover on rough terrain.

“There should be a road somewhere around here!” said Tito.

“I don’t know about that, Tito. This map has the dirt road terminating 45 kilometers back. But here are some black dots that indicate an ‘unrecognizable track’ thirty kilometers from here.”

“No sweat, just keep watch for good waves!” said Tito.

The coast was lined with dangerous and steep cliffs, which made it difficult at times to check for surf below. But Tito maneuvered his Rover like a tank.

We barreled over a small knoll and down a gully to where a fine white mist periodically appeared. We reached the spot, scrambled out of the car and stumbled upon a blowhole. Waves surged against a rock shelf and created tremendous pressure inside the caverns beneath the rock shelf. On the larger sets, thick belches of whitewater would blast up a hundred feet or more, then collapse with a heavy slap against the shelf. We clowned around while Craig experimented with new techniques in water photography. “Over a little more. Closer; that’s it. Now lean over and look down into the hole. This is going to be the ultimate head-dip shot!”

The ultimate indeed. Kevin almost decapitated himself while Craig gingerly snapped a motor drive sequence of what appears to be a person drowning on dry land.

We dried off and continued along the coast. Camped near a river that evening and watched large waves thunder against sandbars on a nearby stretch of beach.

The waves picked up overnight, and in the morning it was too big for the beachbreak to hold. With surf fever in our blood and tea and bread in our tummies, we ventured along the roadless coast shortly after sunrise. If we couldn’t find a road, we simply made our own, bumping and grinding over fields, rocks, dirt, mud, and sand, with everything in the car strapped securely. We drove half the day in what turned out to be a dry run: a few cliff points and coves that weren’t taking the swell properly. Either the tide was too low, the cliffs too high, or the rocks too dangerous. At any rate, it was unsurfable.

A huge ravine on the coast forced us to redirect inland, and our surf fever gave way to a minor cough when we drove into a dust storm. Tito prepared a Brazilian dish for lunch that packed enough garlic to ward off a troop of vampires.

After lunch, we found a raunchy trail that scribbled off towards the coast. At times we had to use a compass to get our bearings toward the ocean. Tito drove most of the way in four-wheel drive, and a few nasty sections required use of the reduction box, which made all eight gears available.

We pulled over as night fell and the desert came to life. We'd been alternating the cooking chores and each of us had his own special concoction that usually wreaked havoc on our digestive tracts. Fortunately, there was always an ample supply of table wine to soothe the stomach and help us try to forget what we just ate. Fine sounds and interesting conversations were a habitual way to end the day.

Early morning, soft steam from the boiled water, tea bags dunked, fresh shepherd’s bread and a gob of butter, pass the honey and watch it absorb the golden light that slips over a ridge through the open window. Then we’re on our way.

We came upon a clean cliff-front pointbreak while the day was still young. All right, surf today! A few other cars were around, although it looked like a few were camped there unintentionally after getting stuck. Kevin squirmed into his wetsuit in the early crisp air, while Craig checked his camera gear. Overhead waves swept in and crunched over rock shelves along the point below us. It was a long paddle out and, mused Kevin, an even longer swim in. The waves were erratic, with backdoor tubes over the shallower spots. Sunny, inviting faces, and a crisp offshore breeze. Kevin surfed alone, while Craig clicked and consoled Tito, who was busy towing cars out of the sand.

One intrepid traveler whose van had two rear wheels buried to the frame and two front wheels a foot in the air, chirped, “We’re just trying to get away for a while. There's nothing out here; it’s so clean. You gotta admit that not many people would try and get out this way!”

Perhaps. On the other hand, it’s doubtful whether Rommel’s desert corps would’ve attempted to make it out there. Nothing for miles but sand, dirt, shrub, and hills. And waves. Corduroy lines to the horizon. Surfed out and relaxed, we decided to stay for a few days. The tidepools housed an array of seafood, and we had enough bread, butter, rice, and spices to try and do better with our meals. Tito owned a crumpled cookbook by a gobblin’ gourmet, and we put it to good use. Meals were basic. Fried fish, sea urchins, and boiled mussels were the staples, gathered every day in the tide pools. With our lives directed by the natural forces around us, we began our days at dawn and ended them with the last rays of the day. Early go-outs in cracking waves, morning breakfast, tide pool explorations, relax, read, lunch, afternoon surf, maybe write, explore the land—but be careful with the deadly vipers that inhabit the area—late day lounging, and maybe one last surf. Sleeping in the open, after music, conversation, and a meal. Sharing Maghreb wine every evening and unanimously agreeing one warm night to name the break Maghreb. It was one of the most idyllic periods of our lives. We rode fair-to-good waves every day.

On the fifth day, a thousand-kilo shark cruised the inside break. Fishermen told us it appears from time to time, and on occasion nabs an unwary dog swimming in the surf. Craig, visualizing a spectacular surfer and shark picture, tried to coax Kevin into paddling out “for just one wave!”

“Only if you take water shots!” replied Kevin. The subject was instantly dropped. No one surfed that day. That afternoon, Craig spotted a car in distress with his 650mm lens. It was a speck in the distance to our eyes.

“Hey, Tito, another car bit the dust. I see a couple of people outside, and they’re looking towards us.”

“Let ’em wait for a while,” said Tito. “We’ll pull them out when it cools down a bit. They shouldn’t be here without a good desert car.” Craig continued squinting through his lens. “I think they see us. There’s two of them. Hey, they’re girls! And they’re waving. Two girls waving to us!”

“BENEATH THE AFRICAN SUN,” BY KEVIN NAUGHTON AND CRAIG PETERSON (1975)

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