Everybody on the boat was holding their breath. A stressful situation, one that was nothing less than life and death. One literally nobody had expected on a sunny, summer Sunday.
Since leaving Albufeira, we had encountered wonder after wonder. First, a little voyage west, along sandstone cliffs. Then, making the turn out to sea to seek out some dolphins, we spotted a shape in the water, struggling in the waves. The boat slowed, and we got a better look. Moments later, a daring rescue plan was fully in motion.
Portugal’s Algarve is more popular now than it’s ever been. And there’s a good reason for that: Stretching almost 100 miles along the southernmost end of the country, it’s a playground of sand and surf. Both broad beaches and tucked-away coves. Legendary surf breaks. Charming villages and towns, and locals that somehow remain warm and welcoming, even as many thousands of visitors descend on this destination during the warm months.
But relatively few take the time to see this place from its best angle—out there on the water. Albufeira sits in the heart of the most popular tourist zone, a city where the lines of beach chairs fill up during the day and the cobblestone streets of Old Town light up at night. Diners downing calamari and pepper steaks and cataplana de peixe at al fresco tables. Singers belting out crowd-pleasers, right in the middle of the road. Nightclubs just warming up, ready to welcome all-night dancers.
But while many of the partiers remained at rest, their Saturday night reveling now complete, the boat slid out of the town’s calm harbor on this fresh, bright Sunday morning. Once into open water, the captain quickened the engines. With a roar, we were off, wind in our hair, the calm, cold Atlantic skimming right by.
Settlement in the Algarve dates back to Paleolithic times, and numerous great seafaring powers came through and left their mark, from the Phoenicians to the Carthaginians. Entering the age of empires, the region—like the rest of the Iberian peninsula—came under Roman rule around the second century B.C. The Visigoths and Byzantium followed, until the Moors conquered Lagos in the year 706. These North African Muslims gave the Algarve its name, which derives from al-Gharb, which means, “the west.”
During the 13th century, Reconquista, the Kingdom of Portugal, (re)conquered the region. As in other parts of Southern Europe, this layering of history has created a fascinating texture of culture, language, archaeology, and architecture. And as I’ve traveled around here on a number of visits, I have stumbled across its remnants—an imposing hilltop Moorish castle in Silves, a 2,000-year-old mosaic dedicated to the Roman god Oceanus, almost perfectly preserved at the Municipal Museum of Faro, even Phoenician walls in Tavira.
The sun-seeking tourists came much later. With improvements in air travel, many Northern Europeans started heading south in the 1950s. Things really started to boom here with the opening of Faro International Airport in 1965. Apartments, villas, hotels, and restaurants were built to accommodate an ever-increasing influx. Today, the Algarve draws millions of visitors, not just from Europe but around the world.
We had a very multinational mix on the Sunday motorboat tour. As we rolled along, the guide explained that the imposing cliffs we’re seeing on the starboard side are sandstone on top and limestone on the bottom. He pointed out the Fort of Our Lady of the Rock, perched up there on a narrow point. A medieval castle originally built to protect against pirate attacks, it was later converted into a church.
The porous, golden rock along the way has eroded over many years, leaving behind a series of fascinating formations and caves. One looks like a submarine. Another, a natural arch, has a beach hidden behind it, accessible only during low tide. We enter another cave that’s home to a number of avian creatures. “Sometimes you can see the peregrine falcon,” said the guide. “It is the fastest bird in the world.”
Benagil is the jewel in the crown and the last place we visited. Familiar from the glossy covers of many magazines and tourist brochures, I still drew a breath when we nosed the boat inside. The rock above is red, pierced by a round natural skylight. Below is a sandy beach. It’s busy today, with swimmers and kayakers. “Sometimes, we call this the cathedral,” the guide explained. Indeed, the light filtering through from above has an ethereal, heavenly feel.
Soon, we had turned away from the coast in search of dolphins. But instead, the boat happened upon a sea turtle. At first, we assumed it was an almost miraculous sight; a rare and exciting opportunity to see this majestic, almost prehistoric creature before he dove back down into the water.
But it soon became apparent that something was wrong. The turtle wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, he was swimming in circles. Pausing for closer inspection, we could see that his leg was entangled in a rope.
It was a time for action. One brave member of the crew volunteered. He stood, shirtless, muscles tensed and knotted, at the side of the boat. A serrated knife in one hand. Now or never.
He jumped in and swam out to the turtle. Head down, he went underneath. Seconds later, he popped back up. “He is free,” the young man proclaimed, to the uproarious cheers of those still on board.
