I quit my job, booked a one-way ticket, and landed in Kerala, telling myself I’d stay six months before going back to my “real life.” Not quite what happened..
Words by Raffael Kably | 10th October
They say once you drink the water in Varkala, you’ll always return. And I believe that.
Because Soul & Surf was never just a place — it was a way of being.
Seems like it was a lifetime ago.
There’s a word in Welsh — hiraeth. It doesn’t translate neatly into English. It’s not just
nostalgia, not just homesickness. It’s the longing for a time or place you can’t return
to, mixed with gratitude that you lived it at all. Joy and grief, longing and thankfulness,
all woven together. And hiraeth is the closest word I’ve found for what I feel when I
think about Soul & Surf.
I was in my early twenties, a DJ and music producer in Bombay. My nights blurred into
music, smoke, parties, and chaos. I loved it, but beneath the surface, I was restless.
Then I discovered surfing, and it was like being struck by lightning. Something in me
cracked open. I didn’t want the city anymore. I wanted the sea.
One day a friend sent me an ad: a surf camp in Kerala was looking for a manager. I
had no hotel management experience, just a little café work, but something inside me
leapt. I wrote back. Ed replied first, then Sofie. After a couple of shaky Skype calls
came the email that changed everything.
I quit my job, booked a one-way ticket, and landed in Kerala, telling myself I’d stay six
months before going back to my “real life.”
Unni picked me up from the airport in a white Ambassador. Everything felt alien — the
light, the heat, the rhythm — and yet it felt like home.
That first season sealed it. I went back to Bombay after, but within a month I couldn’t
take it anymore. I wrote to Ed and Sofie asking if I could return. And from that
moment, Soul & Surf became my life. Eleven years. A third of everything I’ve lived.
In that magical garden by the sea, I found family. The chechis who cooked and cleaned
became my mothers — I even called them amma. Unni became my partner in crime,
my companion over countless plates of biryani in Trivandrum as we wrestled with
government offices and endless bureaucracy. I found younger brothers in the boys —
Rakhul, Sujith, Jithu, Praveen — lads I felt I might help guide, even in small ways.
And I saw Kit from the day he was born, growing into the coolest little ripper there is
— though not so little anymore.
When I think back now, the memories come rushing in.
I met my wife there, and together we built a life that felt grounded in everything Soul
& Surf stood for. Today, we have a 3.5-year-old daughter whose very name means
Soul. She is the living embodiment of that place and all it taught me about love,
community, and gratitude.
We laughed, we cried, we partied, we surfed, we built something together. Ed and
Sofie weren’t just mentors — they became family. From them I learned everything
about running a business — not as a machine for money, but as something alive. They
showed me how to work with heart. How to live by four simple principles: Soul.
Balance. Risk. Now.
Over the years we set up surf comps, hosted strangers who became lifelong friends,
and poured ourselves into creating something that went deeper than surf or yoga.
Those were the magnets, yes — but the real magic was harder to name. It lived in the
music, the meals, the community, the rhythm of the ocean, and the countless moments
in between.
Soul & Surf became my life. Eleven years. A third of everything I’ve lived.
They say once you drink the water in Varkala, you’ll always return. And I believe that.
Because Soul & Surf was never just a place — it was a way of being.
When I think back now, the memories come rushing in. I feel sadness for the beautiful
times we’ll never get back. But more than anything, I feel gratitude for every wave,
every laugh, every face, every moment I was lucky enough to call myself part of that
family.
That ache — that mix of grief and joy, longing and thankfulness — that is hiraeth.
