Morocco: Surfing and Spinal Damage in the Land of Endless Rights
- Murray Armstrong
- May 24, 2024
- 10 min read
Updated: Jun 20, 2024
Blissful ignorance dissolved on the physio table. “I think you’ve bulged a disc in your lower back,” said Jacob, an expert on functional movement and injury rehabilitation. “It’s a long road to recovery, and you’re gonna have to take this seriously.” “What about my trip to Morocco?” I asked, my anxiety exacerbated by a recent flight purchase. “You’ll have to go and see what you can handle.“"Listen to your body,” he said, with enough gravitas to convey the dangers of reckless decision making.
On Jacob’s advice, I put my back to the test on a small day at home. The pain was inescapable, severely limiting my movement. An act as simple as floating on my board was enough to deliver sharp, intense pain in my lower back. Once on my feet, while the pain subsided, my movement was so restricted that I felt completely out of sorts – as if I were riding switch foot.
Three days later, when we pulled up above Morocco’s most revered right-hander, things had only slightly improved. The spasm had subsided, but my lower back still felt achy and unstable. To make things worse, it was absolutely firing. Ten-foot freight-trains, barreling along the cliff-face for hundreds of meters. I’d known about this wave for some years – dreaming about its thick brown tubes, and what it would be like to ride one. Finally confronted by the challenge, I was devastated to concede defeat – my body just couldn’t handle it. It was heart-breaking to come this close to scoring and have to pass up on the opportunity. Unable to leave without a taste, I jumped in for a quick session, sitting on the shoulder and avoiding any high-impact manoeuvres.
Despite my best efforts, a deep-seated throbbing developed in my lower back. Myprodol wasn't enough to keep the pain at bay. Referral pain sent tingles to my toes as we drove down the coast towards Taghazout, and I thought about what my trip might look like, trying to come to terms with my new state of being. I’ve never been one for a measured approach to surf trips. The fun of it is found in going full speed. See the waves, surf the waves. This was no longer possible. Impulsive decision making was to be replaced by a circumspect approach fitted with a comprehensive assessment of the risks and a lengthy stretching routine.
With great effort, I slowly acclimatised to this new way of life – prioritising tagine over tubes as I explored the rich local culture. I gently eased my way back into the surf, keeping my sessions short and making sure to avoid any sinister sections. As I grew more confident – convinced that my body could handle the heat – I began to surf more freely.
(learning to 'cook' on land)
I was surfing at about seventy-percent, feeling like I could take on most sections, when we discovered the wedge. We’d been driving up the coast, in search of something secluded when I got a peak of the wave. Sheltered by overhanging cliffs, you’re offered nothing more than a glimpse of the perfect A-frames before the road winds off in another direction. Enthused by the thought of wave discovery, and the chance of surfing alone, Troy and I whipped the car around, looking for a way to get closer. Finding a dirt track, we edged along the bumpy round, winding around a hill to find the bay, empty. Dreamy little wedges, meandered through the lineup, unridden. We were frothing, hard!
We threw on our wetsuits and skirted along the steep, narrow path – the only way to scale the cliffs that surrounded the bay. The session was incredible – just me and Troy, trading waves and feeding off the extra power synonymous with wedges. This is it, I thought, excited by the return of a familiar surf-trip feeling. I felt loose when I took my next wave, driving off the bottom into a wrapping arc. The section was perfect, and I lent heavily into the turn. I was at the apex – the point where your body bears the most force – when my back gave in. I felt a pang of pain – a bolt of electricity bursting through my lower back – and headed for the shore immediately. The pain was far more sudden and severe than anything I’d experienced, and I paddled in concerned I’d done more damage to my disc. Scanning the cliffs for our point of entry, I realised with shock, that it was now submerged – the higher tide sent waves crashing over the rocks we’d walked down hours before. We headed for the last remaining slice of beach at the far end of the bay.
The pain skyrocketed when I hit the sand – an excruciating ache with every step I took – but there was no time to delay. The tide was rising, and we were running out of time. With limited options, we chose a spine of rock jutting out of the cliff face and started climbing. The spine was no wider than us, rising all but vertically up to the ground above. To make things worse, the rising tide sent water surging up the rock-face, adding to the complexity of an already treacherous assent. Leaving his board behind, Troy edged his way up the rock, careful not to misstep. He was halfway up when he stopped, uncertain where to go next – too high to risk a fall. It was at this point that a local fisherman, looking on in amusement at two foreigners and their foolishness, ran over to lend a helping hand. He guided Troy’s steps and helped us pass the boards up, evidently accustomed to the ill-informed. Now it was my turn. I gathered my strength, aware that this was my only way out. The pain raged as my body distorted in its quest to find a footing on the terrifying cliff face. I crept up the ridge until I found Troy’s helpful hand.
(It was sketchy)
I could hardly sit on the car ride home. The force of my body, pressing down on my lower back, was excruciating. Hobbling into the living room, I looked around to find Mike staring back in surprise. “It’s bust,” I said, shoulders slumped as I shuffled towards the shower. I was sure my trip was over – I’d have to let two weeks of waves pass me by. Two weeks stuck in the apartment waiting for friends to return with tales from glorious sessions. Two weeks spent watching Netflix and wondering what could’ve been. I’d done everything right – long warmups, short sessions and consistent stretching. I’d been cautious, I’d been circumspect, and yet, here I was – staring down the barrel of a botched trip.
I allowed myself a few hours of self-pity before considering the best course of action. With little knowledge of disc bulges and their permutations, I sought out Jacob. “Hi Murray, sorry for the kak turn.” “Ice, heat five times a day, ten mins each, Transact at night, Myprodol in the morning.” Just like that, my fate was decided – it was reassuring to replace self-pity with a plan of action.
I spent the next three days on the couch, alternating between ice and heat while I guzzled down a potent mix of painkillers and anti-inflammatories. My recovery was miraculous. I went from being incapacitated to feeling as though I could get back in the water, all in the space of three days. What a rollercoaster! I’d been to the depths and back, and I returned with a fresh perspective. To surf, in any capacity is a blessing. To be active – out in the world with friends and family – is a gift from God, and one not to be taken for granted.
After three days out of the water, I joined Mike and Troy for a brief afternoon session. Let me assess the damage, I thought, certain that I’d be worse off than before. It wasn’t until my fifth wave on Mike’s 6’0 CI pro that I started to consider it. I’d spent the session waiting for a pang or pinch, a sign of the pain I’d come to expect, but there was nothing. Maybe I was healed? That evening, while we sat in silence, devouring our calamari tagines, I felt good. The painful after effect of my brief surf never arrived. No pain in the water, and no post-surf throb, things were looking great.
It was over dinner that Liam, a friend of ours staying nearby, mentioned his plan to head up the coast. He’d met a long-haired, twinfin fanatic, who lived out of his van and followed the swell. This core-lord had spilt all during an epic session at Drakula’s – one of the gnarlier waves in the area – pointing Liam in the direction of Cap Sim, a superb surf town in the north. Liam was heading there the next day and looking for takers. “Come bru, it’ll be cooking,” he exclaimed. Buoyed by my miraculous recovery and ever eager to surf new waves, I opted in.
After checking the point-break, and finding it small and soft, we’d moved down the beach to an A-frame reef break which had been described as the Moroccan Trestles. True to its name, the wave ran left and right with shape and consistency akin to its Californian cousin. Nervous not to be duped by a day devoid of pain, I made sure to warm up thoroughly before hitting the water. One wave, and a series of painless turns was enough to send me into a frothing frenzy. I put more into my turns with each wave I caught, testing the limits of my newfound health. Eventually, after an hour in the water, I was surfing freely. Sitting on the right hander, I picked off wave after wave under the pack, tagging numerous sections before the inside closeout. I was so pumped! Not only were the waves cooking but I was strong, and able to surf properly. My wave count, the crowd, the cold water, all were insignificant. To be there – out in the water able to surf without fear of injury – was all that mattered. How refreshing it was.
We arrived back in Taghazout late that afternoon, determined to do it again the next day. “You owes will love it,” I told Mike and Troy, desperate to convince them to join us. Thankfully, our enthusiasm was evidence enough of the waves we scored. They were in!
***
We knew it was gonna be bigger, but none of us expected this. It was easily triple the size of the previous day. Giant peaks broke out the back, producing incredible rights. A light offshore breeze groomed the faces and accentuated the tubes. Ours was the only car in the lot – set after set rolling in unridden. It was the biggest day yet, and a final test for my back. Surf this freely, and you can surf anything, I decided. We made the long paddle, heading around the peak to position ourselves for the longer rights. It took us some time to acclimatise – coming to terms with the shifting peaks. Twenty minutes and a few mediocre rides came and went before we started to dial in. The shift was sudden. We’d been lost in the lineup, unable to pick a good wave from a bad one until suddenly, we found ourselves in the spot. The bad waves disappeared, the confusion faded, and a trip defining session began.
I couldn’t make my way back to the top of the lineup before being temped into another bomb – such was the abundance of waves. Offering power and speed, the A-frame right provided the perfect canvas for big open faced carves before running into a giant closeout section. More than thirty minutes passed before we reconvened at the takeoff point. We laughed, realising unabating swell lines had prevented us from overlapping for most of the session. “This is insane,” I said, “the waves are cooking and there’s no one else out.” “Yoh it’s nuts,” “I need to get a bomb,” said Troy, who was yet to get ‘the one’. Determined to return home victorious, He cruised up to the top of the peak. The ocean went quiet while he waited – testing his nerve. "Do you have what it takes?", it seemed to ask. All of a sudden, giant peaks rose in the distance – the challenge was set. They were big, possibly the biggest of the day. “Paddle Treas,” I screamed, giddy at the thought of him stroking into a monster. He sped for the horizon, reaching the peak just as the first set wave arrived. Easily one of the biggest waves of the day, Troy swung around, put his head down, and paddled. I watched on as the wave passed him by, moving onto the inside portion of the reef and leaving him out the back. Mistake turned masterstroke when the second, even bigger set wave came careening towards him. He was perfectly positioned, needing no more than a gentle stroke as he slid onto the wave of the day. I sat in the channel, in perfect view of the takeoff. The wave grew, as the face steepened and hollowed out – one final hurdle. Troy, sensing imminent danger, got to his feet just as the wave began to pitch. Leaning forward, he forced himself down the face. As he drifted down the wave, he lent in, engaging the rail. His weight distribution was perfect, propelling him forward, out of the danger zone towards the unbroken wall. On and on it went, that giant, unending wave. I watched from behind as Troy beat section after section, linking turns on his way down the line. He paddled back up the lineup, radiant with joy. We surfed for three hours that morning, calling it quits when other surfers finally filtered into the lineup. It was twelve pm by that time. We’d had an entire morning of offshore winds and open faces to ourselves.
The mastery of our decision was magnified when we reached the familiar rocky setups of our temporary home, Taghazout. The waves were average at best – we’d missed nothing.
We scored non-stop surf for the next ten days – the swell never once relenting. From long, deep-water points to reef-break rights, and more empty sessions at the secluded wedge. Every session, and every day was sweetened by the knowledge that it might not have been this way. The knowledge that I got lucky. I should've been sprawled on the couch sullen, wishing things had been different. The knowledge of what should have been had completely transformed my perspective. Annoyance at minuscule inconveniences was replaced by gratitude. It's a scary thing, the way in which our mindset influences our mood. We’re constantly faced with a choice; do I dwell on the annoying aspect of this thing that I’m doing? Or do I choose to see the privilege in it? Why does it take a near trip-ending injury or a near-death experience to clear away the insignificant clutter and shine a light on the things that really count?
(Good things)
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