Up early and stumbling down the winding narrow roads of Parede, Portugal, off to meet my South African surf instructor. I found the man lounging in his yellow cargo van across the street from the crashing ocean.

He seemed like a nice chap, though not very animated. Shaking my hand he said, “Hey.” A few seconds later, he said, “ya.”

Looking out at the sea, he told me that we missed the waves by about two hours and that we should drive up the coast to another beach. At the new beach the waves were only slightly better and still not surf worthy. Resting his chin on the steering wheel, he said “Ya” and then “Sure.” This translates into, “the waves will be much stronger and more frequent tomorrow. If you like, we can meet again but at a different beach. One o’clock works for me.”

The next day we met at Guincho beach, just outside of Cascais. Awkwardly, I stretched a wet suit over my body, grabbed a board and descended the sandy slope toward the water.

After a quick warmup and some minor instructions, we were in the water fighting the powerful waves. With the basics under control, the only thing to do is practise timing the stand-up and managing to stay standing up. After a few tries, I accomplished this. Like a drunken Irishman I stood, bent at the waist ready to kiss a dirt-caked rock.

I frequently managed to achieve a considerable speed wobble; quite extraordinary considering the white waves were pushing me only slightly faster than a old man runs from his arthroscopic surgeon.

Surprisingly, surfing is one of the most physically demanding sports I have enjoyed. The ocean is very strong and unrelenting. The West Edmonton Mall wave pool does a very poor job of preparing one for three-metre ocean waves.

The most difficult part of surfing is the fight against oncoming waves that have already broken; bubbling white masses slowly pushing with great force toward the sand.

Past the breaking point of most the waves, I believed myself to be in a calmer area of water. Floating up and down methodically on a large plank, I felt like a survivor of a ship wreck, lost at sea.

I scouted other surfers sitting upright on their boards peering quietly into the sea. Wanting to do the same, I relaxed, sat upright on my board, and was immediately crushed by a curling mass of water destined for beach.

Now being a part of the wave, I was also destined for the beach and soon arrived there on schedule.

Battling once again through the white water towards the apparently calmer green waters, I observed the other surfers casually leaning forward on their boards and cutting underneath the oncoming waves.

Nice! With their small, sleek boards, it was easy for them to slice the water without residence.

Unfortunately, my beginner board also doubled as the roof of a nearby church and struggled greatly with slicing anything gracefully.

My instructor advised me to avoid getting hit by breaking waves.

OK. To do this he told me I must go over the waves instead of under like everyone else. Spotting a potentially dangerous wave, he would chuckle, and then say, “paddle.”

The only way for me to avoid the crashing waves was to paddle as quickly as possible directly into the wave hoping that I met it before it broke.

After a playing castaway on my big board for a while, I finally caught a perfect green wave. Jumping upright just before it curled, I cruised down the wave, quickly landing myself on the beach. Nice.

I dragged myself up the beach towards the car, stumbling a few times in the sand. Water-logged and sticky from the salt, my body was ruined for a day or two.

Just enough recovery time before I plunged into the water once again two days later.