III. HEY YOU, I WANNA THANK YOU! PT TWO

Before we get into it, let’s lay it all out.

Four dudest dudes possible.
One month in Morocco.
And absolutely zero responsibility.

We hadn’t seen each other in over two years.

A recipe for absolute…

Epicness.

With a side of minor disaster.
Yeah. That’s about right.

The team

Cris – my best friend from Egypt.
Boardsports addict and one of the best content creators I know. (check his work)

We discovered film and photography around the same time, and since then he’s been the fuel to the machine. Always keen, never satisfied, always reminding the rest of us how lazy we are.

Imagine an Australian met an Italian.
They had a kid.
Meanwhile, a Jamaican and a Hawaiian had a kid too.

Those two kids met as adults.
They had a kid.

Boom.
Cristiano Adorno.

Do you see what I´m saying? Cris, Moliets, circa 2017.

Second up: Paul, straight out of Germany, arriving with his partner Ingeborg.

Sweetest lady ever.
Good on ya, Paulie boy.

How would I describe Paul?

Honestly?
I’ve got an idea.

And last but definitely not least:

Cyrus – half Egyptian, half Belgian.
The rogue warrior. The drifter. The guy you know nothing about until he literally appears at your front door and flips your life upside down.

In the best way possible.

…Usually.

Love you, Cyrus ❤️

The mad dog himself, Cyrus Samy. Egypt Circa 2020

We’d all drifted apart over the years, but the brotherhood never really left. It just went quiet for a bit.

The plan (kind of)

Simple enough.

Cris and I meet at Marrakech Airport, then make our way to Taghazout—boards and filming gear in hand.
Paul and Inge arrive a few days later.

Hopefully by the time they arrived, we´d already secured a car.

The Car, Boilers. Road to Imsouane by Cristiano Adorno.

Even though only one of us had a driving license, Cris, and actually had gotten it pretty recently…

Cyrus?

A mystery.
He may or may not appear.
Fully dependent on the alignment of the stars.

As usual.

So for now, it was just Cris and me, dicking around and finding waves until further notice.

Seeing Cris again—after so many years—in Morocco, on a surf-only trip?

Man. What else could I ask for?

The moment I walked out of airport security and saw him, it felt like no time had passed at all. Big smiles. Massive handshake.

You know that scene in Predator where Dutch and Dillon do that ridiculous arm-grab handshake?

Yeah.
That energy.

Pure FOOO AYYYY GOOOO 🔥

Thanks to my networking during those weeks with Blueroad, I’d secured a shuttle from Marrakech to Taghazout.

Only catch?

We had to wait hours for the guy to arrive. Classic.

But honestly, it was perfect. We caught up on life, fixed our boards DIY-style right there in the airport waiting area, and generally felt like we were in one of those sick surf edits where pros fix dings in exotic locations.

Shuttle finally arrives.

Marrakech?
See ya.

No sightseeing. No city strolls.
One goal only:

Get in the water ASAP.

Views, road to Taghazout. By Cristiano Adorno

Welcome to Taghazout (and the hill from hell)

Views of Panorama Beach, Taghazout by Cristiano Adorno

Once in Taghazout, we had one final mission: get to our accommodation.

Small detail.

It was at the very top of Taghazout.

The town is split into three sections:

• The beach

• The main road

• The Hill

The goddamn Hill.

A near 60-degree incline of uneven, asymmetrical stairs leading to a maze of tiny streets.

Where were we starting?

The bottom.
Of course.

FML.

Carrying board bags stuffed with boards, clothes, and gear up those stairs was a spiritual experience. Especially in sweaty flip-flops.

I was seeing stars.
No exaggeration.

Cris had just come off a gnarly kiting crash and had blown out his knee, so for him it was double pain. But like the absolute legend he is, he pushed through.

And honestly?
Deep down, this is the shit we live for. Getting humbled, being dirty, earning it.

That’s the point.

The place itself was great—everything we needed, plus epic views over the town. And for some reason, there was a vintage ornamental flintlock powder gun inside.

The room

Obviously, we spent a solid hour messing with it.

Night had already fallen by the time we arrived. Surfing in the dark didn’t feel like the smartest move, so we tried to sleep.

Tried.

I think I slept maybe one hour.
Sleeping is for the weak anyway.

First light, first paddle

As the sun came up, we both opened our eyes at the same time. Looked at each other. Big smiles.

Next thing we knew, we were paddling out at La Source, the inside wave of Killer Point, right below the cliff.

Now, Cris and I have always had this unspoken rivalry.

Healthy, but real.

We’d developed our surfing in parallel over the years, and we were both keen to see where the other stood.

Only issue?

He hadn’t surfed in two years and had a blown knee.

So what could’ve been a classic “who’s got the bigger d*ck” session turned into full support mode. I had his back, no question.

That first session though…

Sunrise at La Source, insides Killer Point, Taghazout.

Early sunrise. Clean sand point bars rolling through.

Cris: “Man, I don’t know if I’m gonna make it out.”
Me: “Bro, you got it. Time it right, few duck dives and we’re out.”

The moment you say “if we time it right”, you already know you’ve jinxed it.

And I absolutely did.

The paddle-out was heavy, and the current started dragging us south toward Mystery—the beach break before La Source.

Heavy closeouts.

Cris, dead serious:
“If I get taken there, I die. No jokes.”

I made it to the peak, but every time I looked back, Cris was further away.

Not ideal.

He eventually grabbed onto a buoy, fighting for his life, refusing to get dragged.

That image lives rent-free in my head.

We laughed about it later. A lot.

Adjusting the mission

A few more sessions in, it was clear—Cris was struggling. And fair enough.

5’10 shortboard. Broken knee. Two years out of the water. Tightest 5/4 wetsuit known to mankind.

The man was suffering.

So we pivoted.

New mission:
Get Cris standing up. Now.

We rented foamies and headed to Panorama Point on the main beach—friendly, mellow, no stress.

I see a set coming.

Me: “Get ready bro. This is the one.”
Cris: “Alright, I’m on it.”
Me: “You got it.”

He paddles. Board starts gliding. Almost there.

So I do what any good bro would do.

I leap off my board and shove him onto the wave like a classic surf instructor.

Boom.

He rides it all the way down the beach.

Great success.

That session changed everything. Suddenly he was catching waves, smiling again, fully back in it.

And finally—after all these years—Cris and I were surfing together.

Properly.

We hadn’t shared waves like that since 2017, back in Moliets, France.

That feeling?
Unmatched.

I realized in that moment.

Surfing isn’t just about the wave you dream of. It’s the energy, the people, the place.

That’s what makes it whole.

Momentum

Cris and me, vibing like we own the place. Hash Point, Taghazout.

From that moment on, everything felt possible.

Next thing we knew, we’d secured a car and Cris was changing gears like we were auditioning for Fast & Furious: Taghazout Drift.

So let’s recap:

• Get to Taghazout — check

• Get Cris riding waves again — check

• Get a car — check

Man… it genuinely felt like a dream.

But then—like a mosquito the second you try to sleep—a thought kept buzzing in the back of my head.

“My ex was right. Morocco really is incredible. I wonder what it would’ve been like to be here together.”

Those months after the breakup?
Everything reminded me of her.

And now being here, after hearing for so long how amazing Morocco was, how we’d definitely go one day… yeah. It stung a little.

Cris knew.
The dude always knows.

But I kept it tight and stayed present. Because next up—

The Reunion

Paul and Inge were arriving.

And I’ve got to give it to the man—Paul took care of us.

He’d rented this unreal house right in front of Anchor Point.

Absolute dream.

Only downside?

Anchor Point was flatter than my bank account after Egypt.

Still, having everyone together again made it worth it. Just like Moliets. The Rat Town days. The three of us dicking around, convinced we were the sickest thing to ever happen to surfing.

Poor Inge…

Paul, Inge, Cris and me. Taghazout.

The Surf World Is Small

Here’s something fascinating about the surf world:

You will always run into someone you know in the most random place possible. Either in the lineup… or in the middle of a bar.

For me, it was the bar.

A few days earlier, I’d noticed a woman sitting on the terrace of a beach bar, reading a book. Something about her felt familiar—big blue eyes, short dark hair sun-kissed at the tips, olive skin, effortless confidence.

I knew I’d seen her before.

But we were on a beer mission, so priorities were respected.

Fast forward a few days—we’re back at the bar Nico and I had booked for the Blueroad Week 3 retreat.

And there she was again.

Only this time, I couldn’t stop watching her. The way she moved between conversations, calm and confident, dressed completely different from the usual beach-party uniform.

We crossed paths.

Me:
“Hey, how’s it going? I’ve got this feeling we know each other.”

She gave me a look that screamed you’re very wrong, so I panicked… just slightly.

Me:
“Wait—do you know Seif Darwish or Sina Luxor? You must’ve been in Moliets at some point.”

Her face lit up.

“Oh god, yes! Of course I know them. And yeah, I was in Moliets a couple of years ago.”

Turns out we’d never properly met, but through mutual friends, we vaguely knew of each other.

Out of respect, I’ll call her N.

From there on, things flowed easily.

N joined us at the bar, everyone got along, laughs were had. Eventually Paul and Cris took off, and I stayed back with her.

It had been a long time since I felt that comfortable with someone. The back and forth felt natural. Her eyes were… intoxicating.

Or at least they were after half the bar’s alcohol.

At some point N said she was heading home, so I walked her back—despite knowing I’d have a solid hour walk back to Anchor Point afterward.

But boys will be boys, aye?

We laughed, got a little closer than strangers usually do, and I thought:

Sick. Surf trip AND I might get laid? Living.

She cordially invited me to go back home the moment we reached her door.

Classic.

But here’s the thing—I was actually relieved.

Looking back, I wasn’t ready for that kind of intimacy yet. So under the West Sahara night sky, I turned around and walked home.

Meanwhile… Absolute Chaos

Now let’s rewind.

Back to Cris and Paul.

These two absolute geniuses decided to drive home.
Completely smashed.
Beer bottles in the car.
Cigarette smell everywhere.
No seatbelt.

And the drive was literally five minutes.

Of course, they got stopped by the police.

Now, Moroccan cops don’t mess around.

• Local? You’re fucked.

• Foreigner? You’re… less fucked. Usually just extorted for a few hundred dirhams.

Problem was—Cris loves being a local wherever he goes. He’d learned some Amazigh (Berber), which most people speak, and between the language and his looks, the cops were not buying that he was foreign.

They were ready to throw him in the pit.

Then Cris realised this was going south and pulled out his passport.

Instant mood shift.

They got away with losing the cigarettes, maybe a beer or two, and a couple of 50-dirham notes.

Another
Great Success™ moment.

Not That Morocco Blog

This probably isn’t the Morocco blog you were expecting.
Fair. No shame in facts.

There are already hundreds of posts out there screaming “Top 10 off-the-beaten-path spots” like they just discovered Google Maps.
This isn’t that.

What This Was Never About

This blog was never about how beautiful life is.
Never about force-feeding you the epic moments on a silver platter.

Let’s be honest:

• 90% of the “epic” you see online

• Is maybe 30% of the actual trip

The rest?
Waiting.
Planning.
Waiting again.
Then changing the plan entirely because… life.

What The Path really is about is opening that dusty corner of the brain.
The one you’re very aware of—but never quite talk about.

Putting you inside someone else’s shoes.
Letting you decide:

• Would I have done the same?

• Would I have felt that way?

It’s a quiet thought experiment.
It may please you.
It may not.

And honestly?
I’m selfish with personal work. I do it for me.
Why else would anyone do it?

Logging, Imsouane.

A Shoutout, For Continuity’s Sake

Alright. Context matters.
So here’s the roll call so far:

• Anza

• Tamraght

• Taghazout

• Imsouane

• And a few random coastal villages

A pack of camel, Taghazout bay. By Cristiano Adorno.

The simplicity of places like this has always pulled me in.

People want to work.
Want to help.
Want to smile at you in the street—no matter how you look or where you’re from.

People are full of life. They have to be.
Every day is a new chance:

• To make something work

• To enjoy what’s in front of you

• To pass that stoke forward

People in so-called “third world” countries are, if anything, true opportunists.
They seize the moment because that’s the only option.
Wit and attitude do the heavy lifting.

Moroccans felt real everywhere I went.
There was always:

• A solution

• A middle ground

• A way for both sides to walk away intact

Surfing Ruins Everyone (Equally)

Dune, somewhere in Morocco.

I’ll admit it—like everywhere else on the planet, surfers are mostly a++holes.
Morocco included.
That’s universal. No passports needed.

One day I was surfing baby Anchor Point with Cris.
Barely anyone out.
Waves? Questionable.
Vibe? Pure fun.

People laughing.
Calling each other into waves.
Zero ego, just joy.

Then—out of nowhere—a skinny kid, maybe 14 or 16, paddles up to me and says with absolute confidence:

“Get out.”

Obviously, I didn’t get out.
Obviously.

I tried the most ancient human strategy: communication.

“I work here in Taghazout. I know the Anza boys. Youness vouches for me.”

He pauses.

“Youness? That’s my cousin.”

“Yes! Him!”

“F my cousin. Get out.”

End of discussion.

That´s just one of the encounters I had to deal with while in the water.

I´m not here to hate on Moroccan surfing community. Just wanted to point this particular moment out.

Because next up:

Full Circle (With Tea)

A few weeks later, I walk into a msemen place—
You know, those crepes everyone’s obsessed with.

Small spot.
Family-run.
Generations deep.

Behind the counter:

• The mum

• And her little helper

The little helper…
was that kid.

I look at him. Big smile.
He does not return the favour.

“Salam aleykum. Two msemen and a pot of tea, please.”

“Yes sir.”

“Oh—and sugar. Don’t forget the sugar, thanks friend.”

At that exact moment, he deploys the ultimate technique:

The Side Eye™

Pure hatred.
The kid was suffering.
I was thriving.

The food was excellent.
I thanked them.
I tipped both the mum and the little helper.

Then I left.

The best way to teach someone humility is with respect.
That doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy giving the lesson a little.

Back to the Mission

We spent the next few days at our Anchor Point location having a great time.

What a rush it is to surf with your best mates at one of the most renowned waves in the world.

Seeing Paul and Cris out there was the stuff of legends.

We surfed a handful of spots.
Ate obscene amounts of local food.

And then, just like that,
our time in Taghazout was coming to an end.

Next stop.

Imsouane.

The Drive

The drive to Imsouane was… memorable.

I was hungover as hell.

A full-on sandstorm.
Like the sky had beef with us.

Kilos of sand getting thrown across the road.

Cris was driving.

In the back, Inge was caring for Paul, who had caught some bug and was puking and shitting himself into another dimension.

Not ideal.

Cris stayed locked in.
Visibility was trash.

Massive trucks flying past at 120 km/h on sketchy curves that definitely weren’t designed for confidence.

At one point we almost tipped over.

No one noticed.
Except Cris.

He kept it cool and carried on.

Later he told us how close the car had come to falling off a cliff.

I must’ve been sleeping.

Or too busy realising something else…

I was about to meet my ex in Imsouane.

Imsouane Dreams, Imsouane Reality

Imsouane is a small fishing village hosting one of the longest waves in the world.

A dream come true for many.

Over the past few years it had been ravaged by surf retreats and a massive tourism boom.

What was once a surf wonder of the world now blown out by the white man.

Good opportunity for local business at least.

Right?

One day the army shows up.
Not just in Imsouane, but in other surf-heavy locations along the coast.

They bring down half the town.
Hammers.
Bulldozers.

Hundreds of flourishing local businesses stripped of their ancestral land.

The official excuse?

Unlicensed businesses and homes.
No papers.
No legal claim to the land.

You know what the locals said.

BS.

This was planned.

With surfing becoming global and the money rolling in, the big dogs stepped in.

The government, the investors, auctioning land to whichever rich a++hole wanted a golden ticket set for life.

I stood there, where there used to be laughter, food, stories, families growing up.

And wondered.

Is this because of tourism?

But why did everyone come to Imsouane in the first place?

Because of surfing.

Just some brain candy for you.

You can see the rubble in this image, the empty spaces used to have so much life in them, Imsouane by Cristiano Adorno.

THE DREam

Back to the thing about my ex.
I’ll call her E.

The thought of seeing her sent shivers straight down my spine.

Don´t get me wrong, I was still very much…

I don´t want to say in love.

The word is

Obsessed.

The unhealthiest reason on Earth to want to be with someone.

Trust me on that.

The night before departure I had a dream.

Actually, a nightmare.

In it, E had gone ahead and started dating Cris.

I was devastated.

I had hoped, somehow, to get her back.

But there was no way.

I woke up in the middle of the night, tears running down my face.

Didn’t go back to sleep.
Didn’t want to see that again.

One thing was clear though.

She was with someone else now.

I just knew it
And had been for a while.

“Keep it cool, Adrián.”
I kept telling myself.

“Keep it cool.”

I remember that morning, as soon as the sun came out.

I grabbed my board.

Headed into the water.

And just started paddling.

Paddling to where?

No clue.

I just had to put my head under water.

And scream my soul out.

Foamies, Chaos, and Being Wave Drunk

Once in Imsouane we split up.

Paul and Inge found a sweet apartment on the other side of town.

Paul was still dying, but at least they had space and could be a couple.

Cris and I found a little apartment a few blocks away.

We were vibing.

Despite doing a pretty solid job at being sober, we still had to go out and find some brown gold.

Achieved.

Expensive.
Not great quality.

But stoked anyway.

The surfing though.

Some of the funnest sessions of my life.

Thirty to fifty second rides.
Dodging foamie armies.
High-fiving drop-ins.
Party waves all the way to the end of the bay.

No shortboards.
No fancy equipment.

I spent most of the time on a 9ft foamie.

Honestly, what was the point of riding anything else?

There were hundreds of people out, but most lacked two things.

Positioning.
Paddle power.

The wave starts all the way at the pier.
That’s the peak.

Then the middle section, right under the cliff.
Beginner central.

Then the end section, which surprisingly gets steep and punchy.

The goal was simple.

Catch it at the peak and ride all three sections in one go.

With a 9ft boat under my chest, that goal was laughably easy.

I was tripping.

Screaming.
Shouting.
Waving my arms in ways that probably worried people.

One could say I was…

Wave drunk.

Riding a wave for almost a full minute.

In what world?

Surfing, Parties, and DREAMS THAT COME TRUE.

Even Paul got to surf with us at some point.

And Inge got in the water as well.

You know what they say:

Happy wife, happy life.

Paul, Inge and me staring out into the bay, Imsouane. By Cristiano Adorno

One of the nights we ended up at an epic party in one of those bars on the hill facing the bay.

Not many bars out there, absolutely no way of getting alcohol yourself.

So yeah.

Great crowd.

Epic music.

Terrifyingly expensive alcohol.

But money is for spending.

And the vibes… the vibes were on.

After one of the many sessions we had in the bay, Cris and I were walking back to the point.

I suddenly got that feeling.

That feeling that starts from your legs and makes its way to your stomach.

Breaths shallow, legs shake, eyes darting everywhere.

And there she was.

E coming down the stairs to the beach, board in hand, waving at us.

Just writing this, and I can feel it again…

She was beautiful as ever, shining, smiling, like nothing had ever happened.

E was, sorry, is one of a kind. The energy she radiated was addictive.

The kindest, most loving person I had met up to that day. She was my everything.

Beautiful long blonde hair. A smile and laugh that could turn off any fire.

A glimmer of light in her eyes which made you always feel safe.

A heart so full of love and hope that even a dude like me, all rock n roll and blablabla, could feel at ease with the world.

The voice of an angel.

The ability to understand people in ways I still try to achieve today.

And the energy to always be ready for a mission.

She pushed me so hard to be a better person, a better human being.

Being there with her gave me some shimmer of hope.

Or at least familiarity.

We surfed and had all the fun possible in those first encounters.

Even Cris got along with her, which was awkward for him, knowing the backstory.

I decided to take her out for dinner. Just to catch up, you know?

Keeping cool, being the person I used to be when I was with her.

Not the fuck-up I had become by the end of it all.

But the moment had to come.

“Hey, are you with someone now?”

We locked into each other’s eyes.

I instantly knew.

And like they say… dreams do come true.

I’ll spare the details of any other moments together with E.

What a mess. But still many were very enjoyable.

Neither of us really knew what to do or what was going on.

Well maybe she did, she was always braver than me in many ways.

I wish I had been stronger… maybe stronger isn’t the word.

Wiser.

To understand my feelings.

To understand hers.

To just enjoy the moment, whatever it was.

Till the last moment, she just wanted us to enjoy each other as friends.

She gave me nothing but that warm affection she had always given me.

But it was killing me from every angle, so I snapped.

After Imsouane, that was the last time I ever saw her.

Thank you for being that sun in my life for so long, even in our final moments of pain.

Thank you for guiding me to love the world and life as you do, even if it took me so long.

Thank you, E, for everything.

For being mature enough to make it all end.

For loving me in whatever way your heart allowed.

For everything I learned from you.

If you ever get to read this.

Dank je wel.

And so my final days in Imsouane were painful.

Thankfully I had Cris by my side. Always had a good fucked up comment to make about the situation.

He learned from the best ;)

No but really, I must have been such a downer for him those few days after all that.

But like most people in life.

He had also experienced the beautifully painful idea of love and obsession.

Cris could only be there for me and keep pushing me forward for what was to come.

Because next up.

The rogue warrior. Road to Desert Point.

Cyrus was on his way to Morocco.

And I had to get my shit together A.S.A.P

Stay tuned for HEY YOU, I WANNA THANK YOU! THE ROGUE WARRIOR.