The Call of the Fjords - A Father & Daughter Surftrip

A Father & Daughter Surf Trip

I’m lucky enough to share a passion with my father — surfing — a passion he partly passed down to me.

As a photographer, the years he spent on beaches and in the water sharpened his ability to read the ocean. They turned him into a storyteller, someone capable of translating swell, light and atmosphere into immersive narratives. Those stories are what pushed me to paddle out for the first time.

Since then, surfing has shaped my life. It guides my decisions, marks each chapter of my existence, and sets the rhythm of my daily life, my free time, my studies, even my career path.I grew up following my parents along the coastal and mountain trails of the Basque Country, chasing light and landscapes worth capturing. My father, Éric Chauché, devoted much of his work to Euskadi — the land where I grew up. A territory of beech forests tucked beneath mountain peaks, breathing in the salt spray carried by the west wind. Those moods, those textures, inspired many of his books. My sister Lucie and I were raised in what I’d call the school of contemplation — trained to observe, to admire, to feel awe.

My father also witnessed the early days of surf photography in Europe. He traveled the world chasing undiscovered waves alongside legends of the sport. Love for glide runs in the family, even if neither of my parents actually surf. That’s the irony of a job that requires you to work on the best swell days.Back in his younger years, he used to ride “planky” and sometimes even an inflatable mattress, at a time when surf shops barely existed.

As for me, I learned to surf in Oualidia, at Surfland in Morocco, where my godfather Laurent Miramon opened the country’s first surf school in the 90s. But long before that, my imagination had already been shaped by anecdotes, books, magazines stacked in the family library, and posters plastered across the living room walls.Whenever the ocean called, my father would drop me at the beach before or after school. Sometimes even during lunch break if conditions justified it.

When I was little, he pushed us into whitewater and joined us from the inside on bodysurf. Later, once I could handle myself, he watched from the beach through the lens of his camera.As a child, I watched him spend hours studying weather forecasts and scanning maps of European coastlines, searching for hidden sandbanks and unsuspected point breaks. Maybe that’s why I fell in love with geography.

At eight years old, I knew every country in the world, their flags, their capitals — hoping one day I’d visit them.My mother played her part too, showing me on the world map where my father was whenever he traveled. And when I begged to join him, he would always promise: “You’ll come with me once you can surf.”

So I worked. Hard. Thousands of hours dancing with foam, playing in shifting peaks. I braved winter cold, Bay of Biscay storms, dawn patrols before school. Often, my father was there too, camera in hand.His search for the perfect light and angle intertwined with our shared pursuit of the perfect wave, creating suspended moments in time.

First along the Basque and Landes coasts, with their iconic spots and dramatic settings. Then twice in the Mediterranean — our first real surf trips together. I tagged along at fifteen, chasing a winter swell with Vincent Duvignac, Justin Becret and Justine Dupont.Eventually, I improved. I began traveling on my own across France and Europe. First with my surf club, then through competitions, later supported by early sponsors. I remember my first warm-water trip to Panama with Bruno Degert and Txomin Sorraits, who took me under their wing.

Moments etched forever. As I got older, I pieced together trips with limited means: an Erasmus in the Canary Islands, island-hopping by bus and hitchhiking; journeys through Latin America funded by writing my first articles and judging competitions; a New Year’s in Ireland during Covid; returning to Morocco to reconnect with the roots of my passion; a final internship in Reunion Island studying shark risk. Each experience shaped me.

Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. Always welcomed generously by locals who shared stories — thousands of them — many I still haven’t told.Meanwhile, my father’s promise lingered in my mind.Whenever conditions aligned and schedules allowed, we synced up to shoot sessions at home, always keeping an eye on European charts. It took nearly ten years for everything to align — timing, budget, swell windows — before we finally committed.

Last September, we headed to the Lofoten Islands after hearing about an incoming mid-season swell in the Nordic fjords. After all those years of waiting, imagine my joy stepping inside the Arctic Circle and discovering Norway’s landscapes. Massive spruce forests lining narrow roads carved beneath towering fjords. The scenery unfolding as daylight faded during the 7.5-hour drive to our base.Still, doubt lingered.Every trip is a gamble.

Will the forecast hold? Will the spots catch the swell? Will they be sheltered from wind? Will we be in the right place at the right time?

Preparation helps. Experience helps. But uncertainty remains.

That’s the magic of surf trips. You can chase luck — but grace falls from the sky.We were welcomed by three days of storm before finally scoring glassy conditions and brief sun breaks revealing the full potential of the spots.Mist, jagged relief, fjords wrapped in rainbows — straight out of Viking mythology. You half expect to meet trolls on winding bridges.Instead, we encountered wildlife.A family of moose crossing the road — massive, humbling creatures.

A dark seabird I first mistook for a penguin. A seal playing hide-and-seek in the lineup. Sea eagles soaring overhead. Cormorants diving beneath my board.

The Lofoten waters are rich with life. Orcas follow herring and cod into the fjords from January to April. Fishing structures line the roads, drying racks bearing witness to the region’s economy.

Mornings required peeling ourselves away from the warmth of our wooden cabin into grey, low skies hiding mountain peaks. We drove the E10 from cove to cove, searching for wind protection. Lutheran churches with steep roofs reminded us of Viking ships. Cemeteries faced the sea. Sheep watched from grassy fields as I surfed.The cold made conversation in the water difficult. Thick wetsuits, hoods, gloves and boots separated us from the world. Yet through bright eyes and wind-tightened smiles, warmth was evident.The first sessions were awkward. Heavy gear. Clumsy movements. But once waves appeared, discomfort faded. Between storm chop, I found clean walls.

The dramatic cliffs surrounding me stirred both awe and slight apprehension. Surfing alone in dark, cold water in an unfamiliar place sharpened every sensation.Drifting kelp tangled around my leash. Rain curtains swept across the horizon. I couldn’t feel the drops on my skin, protected by neoprene, but I thought of my father battling wind and water to shield his camera, wrapped in improvised waterproofing. Midway through the trip, the sun broke through. Offshore wind replaced gusts. Black sand sparkled against green pastures. Transparent water revealed opalescent stones. Red wooden houses reflected in still lakes. Mountain ridges glowed crimson at sunset.

Finally, the waves we’d hoped for arrived. Head-high sets rolling through the fjord. A long left peeling along rocks. A tighter right offering nose sections before folding onto a sandy tongue near shore.I surfed relentlessly. Two, sometimes three long sessions a day.

Cold, hunger and fatigue crept in, but excitement overpowered everything.A flight of cranes crossed the golden-pink sky like a final poetic touch. I stayed in the water until darkness forced me out.As night fell and temperatures dropped sharply, house lanterns lit up along the road back to our cabin like a guard of honor.

We returned with memory cards full and my notebook heavy with stories — fragments this article tries to capture.But more than anything, I came back with the feeling of fulfilling a childhood dream.For the first time, I wasn’t experiencing a trip through my father’s stories or photographs.

I was there. Beside him.Not only in my head — but in my body, exposed to Arctic cold. With gull cries in my ears. With my eyes lit by the raw beauty of the place.

And above all, with my heart — deeply aware of how rare and precious these shared moments truly are.