II. HEY YOU, I WANNA THANK YOU! PT ONE

A recap of those three weeks with Blueroad, footage and edit by me.

As a surfer, you always have a few places living rent-free in the back of your mind.

Locations that aren’t really places anymore, just ideas.

You don’t think about food, cities, or culture—just threading your way along a coastline and finally riding that wave you’ve talked about for years.

For me, that place was Morocco.

Your boy at Anchor Point, Taghazout by Larawaves

It’s close to Europe, flights are cheap as f***, and culturally it wasn’t that far from Egypt, where I’d spent a lot of time.

Basically Egypt… but with waves. And a lot more beautiful people.
I’ll leave that there. If you know, you know.

Literally what I needed at that moment.

So how did I lock on this trip?

Let’s rewind.

I’d been in Sinai, Egypt, for quite some time.

I was coming off the worst year of my life—broken dreams, broken hearts, empty bank accounts, and absolutely zero self-worth after some pretty heated personal stuff.

My friends were worried about me, and honestly, I get it now. I must’ve seemed strange.

Egypt used to be my happy place…until surfing took over my life.

I’d go there to visit my dad (back when he lived there) and see childhood friends.

Those trips were about celebrating, being together, feeling good.

But people change.

And I’d changed… a lot.

I was completely lost.

Uninterested in what was happening around me, stuck in my own head, unable to enjoy the things everyone else wanted me to be part of.

I already knew one thing for sure: I wasn’t going back to the job I had been relying on the past years.

So I narrowed everything down to a single question:

What do I actually want?

Surf. Obviously. Or at least something orbiting around it.

Going back to Europe to find a job and a place to live was expensive and uninspiring.

Maybe doable—but not ideal for a 24-year-old with a slightly delusional, life-transcending goal of getting good at surfing and getting paid for it.

But also I didn´t want to drift too far from this area, as I had the chance of having friends and family close.

You’ve heard of Surf Jobs, right?

If not, sorry—you live under a rock.

(Unless you’re a doctor. Then fair enough.)

Surf Jobs is a website where people in the surf industry post job offers.

Great in theory.

In practice?

Not much follow-through, barely any updates.

What most people don’t know is that the Surf Jobs Facebook groups—and there are a few—are absolutely pumping.

All kinds of offers, all over the world.

Think no one uses Facebook anymore?

Sure. I won’t argue. But the groups work.

One day, during my usual doom-scrolling session (not my term, sadly), an ad caught my eye:

“Trip Coordinator & Head Coach for Surf Retreat in Morocco.”

Or something along those lines.

I applied immediately.

By that point, I’d sent my CV to dozens of surf schools worldwide with zero results, so honestly, I didn’t think much of it.

A few days later…

Boom. Interviews done.

Boom. Plane tickets booked.

Everything paid for by the employer.

Just like that, I was heading to Morocco as Blueroad Experiences’ next Trip Coordinator.

Surf lesson at Anza with the team.

Finally. The universe handing me an opportunity on a silver platter.

Ironic, really.

I’m going to Morocco?

To work as a trip coordinator?

For a retreat?

What even is a surf retreat?

And what the hell does a surf coordinator do?

And head coach??? Me???

We were so on, bra.

Questions everywhere—but one thing mattered more than all of them:

I had purpose again.

Something to focus on.

Something to pull my head out of the noise.

The job was pretty straightforward:

Three retreats, back to back.
• First one: I’d act as head coach and coordinator.
• Next two: Nico—my badass Argentinian boss—would take over those roles, and I’d be second-in-command and content creator.

FML. What a deal.

Everything paid. Obviously. Ha.

The first trip was pure fun.

A funny little group:
– A couple of Spaniards, one claiming to be a famous actor (his words).
– A Brazilian guy from the coffee industry—somehow very relevant because he knew everything about coffee, despite my belief that it all tastes like dirt.
– And an Eastern European woman who was permanently stoked. Always smiling. Always keen.

We stayed at Dar Surf Camp, right in the heart of Taghazout—a beautiful place with an unreal team: drivers, caterers, yoga instructors, filmer, surf crew, and the boss man himself.

I was seriously impressed by the owner of Dar Surf. A real businessman.

You could see the journey—from renting two rooms to owning two full buildings dedicated to his vision.

Focused, kind, always listening to my ideas… which I’m sure he’d already thought of years before I opened my mouth.

He knew I had little management experience, but still treated me with nothing but respect!

The surf team was epic.

Youness was the seasoned instructor.

A total trooper. Scarred, rugged, big heart.

And an affinity for the brown gold I had never seen any human be able to withstand.

Don´t what that is?

Too bad.

His favourite sentence was:

“I’m number two lifeguard in all Morocco.”

We spoke mostly in French, sometimes in Arabic—me with broken Egyptian Arabic, him with classic Arabic.

Oh, and he could do backflips.

Everywhere.

Once, we were surfing a solid party wave right-hander in Anza.

He looked back at me mid-wave, checked my position, didn’t hesitate—backflip.

Lands back on his board.

And we rode it out.

Absolute maniac.

Youness and I in ANZA, praise be to the ANZA BOYZ.

The rest of the team? Classic lineup:
– The young gun (aka ladies’ man)
– The quiet one
– The “YEWW” guy
There’s always a YEW guy.

They called themselves the Anza Boys—born and bred there.

When every other surf school was stacked on a blown-out beach full of foam and chaos, I started stressing.

But do you know what was the name of that beach?

Anza.

The ladies man.

Youness leaned in and whispered, like divine revelation:

“Adri, no worries my bro. You are with Anza Boys. We boss of the beach.”

I looked at him.

Then at the beach.

Then back at him—big smile and blood shot eyes under his speed sunnies.

Next thing I know, we’re bulldozing through five different surf lessons, pushing people into rips like it’s a military operation.

Great success.

Ready to take over the spot. Sorry everyone.

Those weeks were epic.

Surfing, sandboarding, bonfires, beach drinks, endless laughs.

Funny side story: one scorching hot day—heavy Sahara offshores—I’m walking uphill with Yuliana (yes, remembered her name mid-sentence, she is the Eastern European I mentioned earlier) to check out the skate park.

I spot a couple ahead.

Turns out it’s my ex-partner’s sister and her partner?

Idk probably.

We say hi, say bye, move on.

And my brain immediately goes:

Shit. She’s gonna tell my ex I’m with another girl already.

I actually stressed about it.

Amazing what the brain chooses to care about.

The second retreat?

Double the size, double the fun.

Nico arrived with his partner Pilar, and straight away I liked him.

Charming, direct, and—most importantly—he actually understood what surfing is about.

Not some suit trying to run a surf business like a German beach hotel.

Nico believed in me. He vouched for me.

I didn’t feel pressure—I knew my job—but I wanted to show my values.

Be a good human.

That mattered more than performance.

That, I realised, was the real point of the trip.

Not the waves.

Not Morocco.

But proving to myself I could still be that person, anywhere.

With Nico here, I stepped back from coaching and focused on filming and content.

Loved using my camera and learning from Nico… but man, I wanted to surf.

To bring so much joy to the lives of strangers, I take it for granted, but for them these are memories they will never forget :`)

Third retreat was chaos—in the best way.

I was back to being a surf coach and Nico´s second to help out coordinating what was to come.

Both buildings booked (Dar Surf Camps was composed of two separate buildings on each side of Taghazout).

Around 50 people. All British. All from the same travel squad.

Now, no offence to my islanders—but wow. Loud. Sweaty. In your face.

Fun people, sure, but not surfers. Just here for the vibes.

One night we booked a bar—the one on the way to Anchor. You know it. Long and beautifully salted hair lined dudes and tiger-eye women everywhere.

Turns out we only got the downstairs.

The travel Squad coordinators weren’t happy.

They tried flexing influence.

Didn’t work.

Party still slapped.

Conversation with Nico:
N: “You think they’re having fun?”
Me: “Yeah, they just wanna get drunk and have a good time, no?”
N: “I’m not having much of a good time.”
Me: “Same. Let’s fix that.”
N: “Say no more.”

Nico, the man, the myth, the legend! On our way to the massive dunes between Taghazout and Imsouane.

He jumps into the dance circle and starts doing pop-ups on the floor.

Screaming out of his lungs words I had never heard of in Spanish.

Classic surfer move.

Always works. Take notes.

That night set the tone for the rest of the week.

And like that, between Nico and I we ended up managing the biggest group to date for the retreat.

I surfed, I laughed, I learned, and I experienced what it meant again to be that person I had lost so long ago.

Nico if you are reading this.

Thank you, you open your passion and your lives work to me.

I will forever be grateful for the opportunity you gave me.

And Thank you to Dar Surf School and the team for treating me with nothing but respect and open arms, making me feel like I mattered and trusting my decision making.

Thank you to all our baby paddlers, always stoked, always trying to make me part of the group. Merci!

THANK YOU! <3 Team Week 2 my favourite group!

Rock on!

But my time in Morocco was ending.

And now what? Back to Madrid, waiting around?

Back to Egypt? Although nice to see friends and Father, I had just spent there two months.

Not much for me to do.

Not a chance my friends.

Not a chance, I wanted to surf.

I called my A team:

Cris—my best friend since we were 15.

My brother from another mother Cyrus, biggest renegade you will ever meet.

And of course, the star of Vol. I ending: Paul Poser, my German surf aficionado.

The mission was simple.

The team was meeting in Morocco for a month.

No work.

No responsabilities.

All sun.

All fun.

And that…

That’s where the next part of this story begins.

Nico, the Boss and me. What a team!

PS: HEY YOU! I WANNA THANK YOU PT TWO is where shit hits the fan.