Stand-Up Paddle Race in Morro de São Paulo: My Journey & Lessons from the Ocean
The fourth kilometer.
Final push. Sprinting up the sand to the finish line after six kilometers of racing through the waters of Morro de São Paulo. Photo credit: João Pita
The leaders are just ahead of me in the Morro de São Paulo stand-up paddle race. I’ve spent the last stretch grinding, making up ground, chasing them down stroke by stroke. My breath is controlled. My abdominals are burning. My paddleboard slices through the Atlantic waters, waves pushing back with each stroke.
This is where the race is won.
Locked in. Navigating the waters of Morro de São Paulo, every stroke pushing forward in the race. Photo credit: João Pita
A buoy turn is coming. They execute cleanly—I don’t. I lose speed, just for a second, but a second is enough. They pull away. I push harder, trying to close the gap, but the ocean doesn’t care how much effort you put in—it only rewards precision.
Fatigue is setting in. My body is screaming. And then—I fall.
I’m in the water before I even process it. My body reacts before my mind does, pulling me back up onto the board. The leaders are getting further ahead, but this race isn’t over.
To understand how I got to this moment—you need to know what it took to get here.
Getting to Morro de São Paulo: The Start of My Stand-Up Paddle board Race
Morro de São Paulo, Bahia. Two and a half hours from Salvador by catamaran. That’s where the race was set to go down. But before I could even think about competing, I had to get myself—and my board—to the island.
Standing barefoot in front of my rustic cottage in Morro de São Paulo, Bahia, with my borrowed, waterlogged board—preparing for the stand-up paddle race. A moment of stillness before the intensity ahead.
Long before tourists arrived, these lands and waters belonged to the Tupinambá people—warriors, navigators, and defenders of this coastline. Morro de São Paulo was once a battleground, first for Indigenous resistance against Portuguese invaders, later as a fortified outpost of colonial rule.
I don’t have my own board yet, so I borrowed one. Not just any board, though—a waterlogged board, three times heavier than it should be. Carrying it, moving with it, paddling with it—it all took more out of me than it should have. But I wasn’t making excuses. This was just another obstacle to move through.
Getting there was a mission in itself. A catamaran ride, then another small boat to a secluded beach, then a hike through a vine-laced trail with my board on my head. By the time I reached my place—a small cottage nestled within the Atlantic forest— I felt the weight of the journey.
So I kicked back. Feet up, hammock swaying, waves crashing in the distance. I rolled one and put on some 1970-80’s dub. A moment to just breathe before everything kicked into motion again.
Unwinding in the hammock, book in hand, surrounded by the Atlantic forest in Morro de São Paulo. A moment of stillness before the race.
The Night Before: A Walk Under the Full Moon
Later that evening, I went into the small town of Gamboa, the race site. This wasn’t just a stand-up paddle event—it was the Brazilian Championships of various aquatic sports. Canoeing, sailing, long-distance swimming—the best in the country were here. And here I was, too.
I was here representing SUP DA, thanks to Coach Danilo Anderson, who had encouraged me to take this step into competition. He didn’t just teach me the fundamentals—he saw something in me and pushed me to test myself.
I grabbed a meal, soaked in the atmosphere, and let the energy of the place set in. The race was hours away, but I already felt like I was competing.
Taking it all in. The Atlantic stretching beyond the trees, the ocean calling. A quiet moment before the race.
Then came the journey back. The tide had gone out, so instead of a boat, I walked along the beach under the pink full moon. The sand was firm under my feet. The waves were a low whisper. The night stretched open around me.
And in that moment, I felt completely present.
Tomorrow, it would be me navigating the water. And I was ready.
Soaking in the energy of the Atlantic forest. Rest, reflection, and the rhythm of the ocean before race day.
Race Day: Locked In
The morning of the race, I was focused, locked in, dialed up.
Hydration? Handled.
Electrolytes? Locked in.
Mindset? Sharp.
And music. Not just any music—random tracks that were in orbit when I was a teenager in football clubs, when I competed purely for the love of it. Bands like Grinspoon, Incubus & Powderfinger. Before the business of sport, before contracts and expectations. This was about that feeling again.
Photo credit: João Pita
Back to the Fourth Kilometer
I’ve caught up. I’m side by side with the leaders. But they make a cleaner buoy turn, and that’s all they need. They start pulling away.
I push. Hard.
Then—I fall.
I get up.
Then—I fall again.
I know what this is. Fatigue, micro-mistakes, concentration slipping. The ocean doesn’t let you fake your way through it. You either adjust, or you sink.
I adjust.
The final stretch is brutal, but I finish strong. Paddle in hand, running up the beach to the finish line.
I don’t even know my placing yet. I just know I pushed. I improved. I left it all out there.
The Aftermath & What Comes Next
Later, I find out—fifth place.
My first thought? Decent.
My second thought? Not enough.
I know I can be better. I will be better. The fire is already burning for the next one. Five weeks from now, another race. Better preparation. Better execution. A sharper game.
But beyond competition, this sport is teaching me something deeper.
It’s about listening to the water. It’s about learning from movement. It’s about understanding that mastery is never achieved—it’s only chased.
And so I chase.
If you’ve followed the journey—I appreciate you.
If you’ve never tried stand-up paddleboarding—get out there. The water teaches in ways nothing else can.
And I’m still listening.
