It is a routine October morning in the coastal city of Nazaré, Portugal, when the booms become louder. Deep, thunderous, like distant cannons fired at perfectly timed intervals, like a giant as its steps crush the earth.
Traffic along the beachside promenade is eerily serene, and wisps of low fog cling to the lampposts. The marine layer idles with the autumn sun rising later. In the summer millions of tourists fill the streets and cover the beaches. But with the shuttered shops and half-empty cafés, Nazaré has all the signs of a sleepy beach town recovering from the summer surge—except for the booms. The booms persist. The booms tell you that a new season approaches. It is the pulse of a town reborn.
The shops used to shut in October; now they restock for the surfing that gets better as the weather gets worse. Not long after the beachgoers and sunseekers leave, the surfers and swell chasers trickle in. It is an ebb and flow forged out of the last decade as word spread of legendary waves reaching 100 feet, waves so large surfers need to alert the maritime police, waves so large they require jet skis to tow surfers into the swell and rescue them afterward.
