Kayaking Portugal: Sea Caves and Rough Waves at the Edge of Europe

Ruth Bergman
5 days ago
9 min read

When the Sea Calls: A Last-Minute Leap into Portugal’s Sea-Carved Coast

It was October 2021. The world was cautiously reopening to travel after the long stillness of COVID-19, and our summer kayaking trip to Iceland already felt like a distant memory. Then, almost out of nowhere, Hadas Feldman—our guide from the Optimist Kayak Club in Israel—announced a sea kayaking trip to Portugal.

“Let’s do it,” Oren and I agreed, without hesitation or a second thought.

With Hadas at the helm, we knew we’d be in good hands. Our trip prep was light—some quick COVID testing, a flurry of forms, and not much else. I didn’t read up on the region. I didn’t map our route or research where we were going. Someone in our club had once described paddling through sea caves in Portugal, and I’d heard vague rumors of big Atlantic waves, but I hadn’t even Googled “Sagres.”

It turns out that Sagres, perched on the southwestern most tip of continental Europe, is a quiet fishing village, made popular by surfers. It is also a place of great natural beauty made by ocean winds and waves. Here, sheer cliffs plunge into the Atlantic, lighthouses cling to rocky outcrops, and the coastline is an intricate maze of arches, blowholes, and caves formed by relentless ocean swell. Historically, this was the edge of the known world—where Portuguese explorers stood before setting sail into the unknown. Today, it remains raw and elemental, a place where you can feel the power of the sea pressing against the land.

I went in blind—but I trusted Hadas. I didn’t know it yet, but that blind trust would carry us through more than one wild moment on the water.

A Town at the Edge: First Impressions and Introductions

We met most of our group at the airport in Israel. Technically, we should have already known everyone—after all, we’d been part of the Optimist Kayak Club for five years. But we’re not exactly the most social paddlers, so this trip was our first real chance to connect. Over the next six days, we’d have plenty of time to make up for it.

By afternoon, after a flight into Faro and a 90-minute drive, we arrived in Sagres—a town that feels like the edge of something. Sagres Sun Stay, our base for the week, was a no-frills surfer hostel: clean, cheerful, and full of people chasing waves. It wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t need to be. We weren’t there for the linens.

That evening, we wandered through town. You don’t have to look far to understand what defines this place. The sea is the town’s heartbeat. Fishing boats come and go from the harbor; fresh seafood is expected, not the exception. It's served simply—grilled, salted, perfect.

But it’s the cliffs that stop you. They rise from the shoreline, burnished by the setting sun into deep oranges and reds, turning everything—sand, sky, water—to gold. Waves crash against the shore with a force that feels both thrilling and slightly absurd. Watching a surfer catch one and glide smoothly to the beach is breathtaking - in motion, powerful, elegant, a little wild.

I stood there, watching the breakers pound the beach, and had to wonder—can you even kayak in this?

From Sea to Ocean: Rounding the Edge of Europe

The next morning, we discovered that yes—you can kayak here. You just have to be strategic. We launched from the protected harbor, skirting the crashing surf entirely. Each of us was paired with a sea kayak for the week, and there was a quiet, familiar rhythm to the setup: adjusting foot pegs, fine-tuning seat backs, testing spray skirts, tightening life vests. Everyone in the group was experienced, so the rituals didn’t take long.

Our goal was ambitious: to paddle around the southwestern tip of Portugal, from the relative shelter of the bay into the open Atlantic.

We set off across the bay toward the headlands of Cape Sagres, crowned by its historic fort and weathered lighthouse. The swell was rolling and energetic—but manageable, if you paid attention. Not everyone did. One paddler in our group suddenly capsized, caught off guard. But in one fluid motion, he righted himself with a flawless roll, barely missing a beat. I remember watching, equal parts impressed and envious. (I’ve since learned that trick—and yes, it’s every bit as satisfying as it looks.)

Crossing the bay took longer than expected, but the real adventure began once we reached the cliffs. We paddled along the rugged shoreline, threading between sea stacks and rock outcrops, fascinated by caves carved into the stone. The swell was too wild to explore them, but the coastline was dramatic enough without entry. A blowhole—bufadora—stole our attention for a while, sending geysers of seawater skyward with each crashing wave. Everyone edged in as close as they dared.

And then we turned the corner.

Suddenly, we were on the wild edge of the continent. The cliffs stretched endlessly ahead, and the Atlantic opened up in front of us—wide, restless, and unmistakably bigger. The swell grew with it. We hugged the cliffs, negotiating the surge, until Hadas signaled for us to follow her through a low stone arch. On the other side was magic: a small, sheltered bay, calm and sunlit, tucked entirely out of view from the ocean.

We had it all to ourselves.

We landed on the tiny beach, stretched our legs, explored the rocky edges, and let the sea rinse us off again. It was a perfect pause.

Our return route took us along the coastline again, weaving closer to the breaks and even passing near the surfers. By the time we pulled our kayaks back into the harbor, I was spent. It was the hardest paddling I’d done to date—and also the most exhilarating.

Over dinner that night—fish, of course, and wine—we were tired but content. Hadas was pleased. Everyone had handled the conditions, and the group had proved itself. We had rounded the edge of Europe and were ready for more.

When the Ocean Roars, the River Beckons

The ocean wasn’t having us today. The swell was up and the waves were pounding—formidable even by local standards. But as Hadas likes to say, you can always paddle somewhere. With her, it’s never a wasted day.

So we traded salt for brackish water and drove north to the Mira River. We launched across from the weathered walls of Forte de São Clemente, the tide gently pulling us toward the sea. Before heading inland, we took a detour—just far enough downriver to where it meets the Atlantic, to play in the surf.

The waves were pushy and wild. Hadas led us into them with her usual calm confidence, encouraging us to catch a few. I didn’t exactly catch waves—I more or less held on and hoped not to get tossed. Still, it was a thrill: fast, and full of laughter.

After that salty adrenaline hit, we turned upriver. The pace softened. We paddled past fishermen mending nets on the bank, birds darting above reeds, and houses tucked among trees. It wasn’t the most exciting route, but it gave our muscles a break.

Every trip has its rhythm, and today was the quiet beat before the drumroll. We’d had our fun, and we’d saved our strength. We would soon be back to the excitement of the ocean.

Launch, Laugh, Repeat: A Day of Perfect Swell

The next morning, with some trepidation, the guide from Sea Kayaking Sagres took us back to the ocean. The sea was up — really up. Waves crashed hard against the shore in a constant rhythm, loud and furious. Launching wasn’t something you did alone. The more experienced paddlers helped the rest of us — me included — push off through the breakers. This would become our daily ritual: assistance in, assistance out.

Once we were all afloat and punching through the surf, our rental host watched from shore, visibly relieved as we handled the waves with growing confidence. If he’d seen our beach landings, where we peeled out of our kayaks one by one in various forms of comic dismount, he might have been less reassured. For my part, I didn’t get dumped every time — only every other time.

We paddled a different stretch of Portugal’s southern coastline each day, and this was one of the most dynamic. The sandstone cliffs rose beside us like weatherworn castles, carved by centuries of waves. Sea caves teased us from the edges. The swell pounded the cliffs and rebounded in wild, unpredictable bursts. At times, it felt closer to whitewater paddling than sea kayaking. For me, it was skill-building in the most intense way.

We kept close to the cliffs in some sections, riding the chop and testing our control in the rough water. In other stretches, we ventured farther out, playing in the long rolling swell. A narrow passage between a sea stack and the cliff offered the perfect natural ride — a quick burst of surf under our hulls. Let’s do that again.

It was the kind of exhilaration you expect at an amusement park, except this was real and alive and slightly chaotic. That’s when I fully appreciated what it meant to paddle with the club — and Hadas. Another tour might have stayed ashore. Another guide might have played it safe. But not us. We launched, we laughed, we rode the chaos — and it was the most fun I’ve ever had in a kayak.

Into the Caves: A Natural Playground of Light and Stone

The stretch of coastline near Lagos is what most people picture when they think of kayaking in southern Portugal — a fantastical landscape of arches, cliffs, and caves sculpted by wind and wave. It’s not just scenic. It’s playful. Challenging. A dreamscape for those who love to maneuver their kayak as much as they love the view.

We spent the day threading our way through narrow rock passages and ducking under natural arches. In many places, timing was everything — waiting for the surge of the swell to lift us just high enough, or drop us low enough, to pass through. Each successful squeeze felt like unlocking a level in a video game, except the reward was real and right in front of us: golden light bouncing off wet rock, echoes that folded in on themselves, and the thrill of knowing we’d earned our way in.

One cave opened wide to reveal a hidden beach inside — and we took a break there, hauling our kayaks up on sand that rarely sees more than a few footprints at a time. It held the enticement of a place out of mythology, a secret the ocean had hidden for those who knew where to look and how to get there.

The showstopper, of course, was the Benagil Sea Cave made famous on postcards: a vast, circular cavern with an open ceiling that lets sunlight pour in like a spotlight. A wide sandy floor made it feel more like a natural amphitheater than a sea cave. It was crowded, as you’d expect — a steady stream of small boats and day-trip kayakers flowed in and out. But even with the bustle, I was spellbound as I circled the cave's enormous bulk.

There’s a price to pay for beauty this accessible. At times, it felt like rush hour in a fairy tale. Still, with Hadas leading us off the main routes, we found quieter corners where the caves echoed only with our laughter and the steady rhythm of paddle strokes. And in those magical moments, the Algarve belonged entirely to us.

A Lesson in Trust, Timing, and the Break Zone

At first glance, there was no way we were landing. The waves were pounding — relentless, furious, and loud enough to drown out any casual conversation. We were far from calm water, and the idea of stopping for a break felt absurd. But Hadas saw something the rest of us didn’t.

The cove was narrow and volatile, a churning mix of surf and rock. But she studied it, mapped the rhythm of the swell, and made a call. “We’re going in.”

One by one, she guided us to shore. We formed a line just outside the break zone, watching and waiting. When it was your turn, Hadas fixed her gaze on the water behind you. As each wave rose, she signaled: back-paddle into the force, hold steady, then paddle hard as the surge receded. Her timing was exact. Her concentration, unwavering. And somehow, she did it again and again, recalibrating for every paddler.

It was a masterclass — not just in reading the sea, but in instilling calm through clarity. By the time we were all standing on the sand, our adrenaline had barely faded, but the awe remained. We hadn’t just landed — we’d landed together, in one of the roughest patches of ocean we’d seen all week.

That landing was a microcosm of the trip. The conditions were often wild, and we relied on each other constantly — for launching, for spotting, for laughter, for reassurance. What started as a group of loosely connected paddlers quickly became something more. In the midst of cliffs, caves, and crashing surf, we learned to trust not just Hadas, but one another.

We came home with new found confidence, improved kayak skills, and with the scenery etched in memory: the sea stacks, the secret beaches, the sun pouring into sea caves. But we also came home with something harder to capture and far more enduring — the camaraderie forged in saltwater and surf, and friendships that now paddle forward with us, long after the trip is over.