Let me begin with a confession.
This past spring school holiday, I orchestrated what appeared to be a wholesome, surf camp for my 8-year-old son and his merry band of sunburnt adventurers. But beneath the sunscreen and snack packs lay a labyrinth of ulterior motives. You see, my official reason was “quality time.” My secret reason was “get my son to the beach.” The secret behind the secret was “get myself into the water.” And the deepest, most clandestine, whisper-it-to-the-universe reason is to somehow manifest a future where I live on a Mentawai island, sipping coconut water and surfing waves so perfect they whisper your name before they break.
But first: Redhouse.
Day 1 was onshore, so we kicked things off at Riverfront Backpackers, my humble hideaway in Redhouse, where the birdlife is so abundant it feels like the trees are gossiping in surround sound. My son’s friends from the Towpath joined us for a day of fishing and riverside chaos — they didn’t catch a thing, but they did manage to feed the fish a gourmet spread of mud prawns and unshakable optimism.
Then came the beach. Oh, Humewood. Waist-high waves on the low tide every morning, like the ocean had read my diary and decided to be kind. The kids bodyboarded, skimboarded, snorkeled, and skimmed rocks with the intensity of caffeinated archaeologists. They built sandcastles with the architectural ambition of Gaudí and dug holes like they were searching for Atlantis.
One morning, a stingray glided past them in the surf — a moment so magical I half expected David Attenborough to emerge from behind a rock and narrate it.
Between sessions, we ate ice cream, befriended strangers, and I eavesdropped on the kids’ surf commentary, which ranged from “That wave was the size of a house!” to “I definitely saw a shark. Or a dolphin. But probably a shark.” As a lifelong surfer, I can confirm: exaggeration is not a bug, it’s a feature.
I watched them with envy — not just because they have cartilage and boundless energy, but because they live in that pure, unfiltered state of wonder. They don’t surf for fitness or Instagram or stand up barrels. They surf because it’s fun. Remember fun?
As a surf instructor and accidental tour guide, I went into the week with one goal: to deliver one extraordinary moment. Just one. The kind of moment that glows in the memory like phosphorescence in a night wave. Maybe it was the stingray. Maybe it was the ice cream. Maybe it was the moment they made new friends — kids from different schools, backgrounds, and languages — all united by sand, salt, and the shared mission of digging the biggest hole known to humankind. Only on a South African beach can you witness such spontaneous, multicultural mayhem. Gotta love South Africa.
I’ve seen the boys since. Not a word of feedback. Not a thank you. Not even a “Hey, thanks for saving me when I was held down by that wave for like… a whole minute, I swear!” — which, in surf kid math, translates to roughly three seconds and a heroic tale involving near-drowning and a close encounter with the stingray. But their parents are glowing, and I’m glowing, and that’s enough.
If you’re reading this and thinking, “I want that,” then come find me. At Crowdless.co.za, I specialize in small-group, wildlife-friendly surf lessons that are high on nature and low on crowds. Whether you’re 8 or 80, I’ll help you find your wave — and maybe your inner child too. And if you spot a grown man grinning suspiciously in the lineup, that’s probably me — fulfilling my not-so-secret mission to sneak into the water under the noble guise of “surf instruction.”
And if you need a place to stay that’s equal parts quirky and quiet, Riverfront Backpackers in Redhouse is waiting. We’ve got hammocks, herons, and the occasional philosophical fisherman.
Just don’t ask me to guarantee fish.
whatsapp +27 72 344 1941
riverfrontbackpackers@gmail.com
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