Master of Ceremonies

Naugahyde, floral print, velvet, plaid, stripes, corduroy, genuine leather—the sofas that line Praia do Cabedelo’s jetty offer wide-ranging comfort options for surf spectators at Gliding Barnacles, an annual gathering in Figueira da Foz, Portugal. The couches are just one of the meticulously crafted details that make the festival’s guests feel at home during its five raucous days and nights of surfing, shaping, music, art, food, and seemingly bottomless cultural depth. 

Gliding Barnacles is the brainchild of Portuguese surfing pioneer Eurico Gonçalves, who founded the nonprofit event in 2014 to celebrate single-fin logging—a wave-riding medium overshadowed in his country by the high-performance competition scenes of Ericeira and Peniche, plus the big waves at Nazaré. A few years later, Gonçalves asked his son, Eurico Romaguera, known as “Kiko,” to help him run the show. Kiko enlisted his partner, Beatriz Fonseca, to plan as well. Since then, it’s become a movement. 

The trio does not sleep during the event’s run. They roam the grounds tirelessly, shaking hands, putting out fires, catching a few waves, and finding brief moments to cut loose. Expression sessions start at noon, and the concerts, dance parties, and live art rage until eight the following morning, when you’ll find bodies of attendees crashed out on the jetty sofas.

Praia do Cabedelo is separated from Figueira da Foz proper by the Mondego River. A large suspension bridge connects the city to the beach. During the 2024 event, the bridge was scheduled to be closed for renovations, causing a five-minute commute to become a 45-minute detour. The team successfully lobbied the local government to keep the bridge open—just one example of the hurdles Gliding Barnacles clears, and a testament to how it’s valued by the local community. 

The nightly concerts happen in an abandoned boat-repair hangar with a missing roof. One night during the most recent event, I stood with Kiko and watched French prog-rock band Werewolf Colours Orchestra rip through a set from the second-story balcony, a former admin office that’s now a makeshift green room. He introduced me to a long line of friends, family, and acquaintances: his uncle, who’s a member of the formative Portuguese punk band Tédio Boys; another uncle, who’s an art scholar; his personal doctor; an award-winning chef; a local politician, formally dressed in a navy-blue blazer and slacks, with a guard detail. I asked if he was the one who opened the bridge for the event.

“No,” Kiko said, “that’s a different politician. He’s right there.” He pointed to a middle-aged man in the crowd who was headbanging to the music.

I headed down to the floor to get closer to the band. Glancing up at the balcony, I saw Kiko smoking a cigarette alone, overlooking the max-capacity audience. The scene reminded me of The Great Gatsby, except this wasn’t a West Egg mansion—it was a rundown hangar in Fig da Foz. And Kiko was no James Gatz throwing a party with an ulterior motive. Instead, he’s a bona fide Tuga surfer hell-bent on moving the culture forward. 

After the dust settled, I caught up with him to debrief.

BW First of all, how many couches are in Gliding Barnacles’ possession?

KR [Laughs.] A lot! Last year, we reached our goal of 100 couches. My dad was passionate about having that many. The local community donates them. It’s a great way to involve the people of Fig da Foz. The couches add to that laid-back, homey feel of the festival. They once lived in someone’s living room; now they’re on the beach. People enjoy sitting on them.

BW How has your family’s history influenced your path?

KR My family has always been a source of inspiration for me. My uncle’s band, the Tédio Boys, originated in the 1980s in Coimbra, a university city with almost no cultural scene. They wanted to listen to good bands like the Ramones and the Clash, but they couldn’t bring those bands to Portugal. So they formed their own band, which started a movement. Eventually, clubs started playing good music and booking bands they liked. I see a connection with Gliding Barnacles in that sense: Nothing was happening here, so we filled the gap. My grandfather was part of the Portuguese revolution in 1974. He fought for freedom in ways that resonate deeply with me. He didn’t settle for the status quo and realized they had the power for change. My dad believed in following his passion for surfing, even when it wasn’t the mainstream or safe choice, like going to work in a bank or for a big company. At the time, to be a surfer in Portugal was a bold, underground move. I can relate to that mindset of pushing against societal norms to do what feels right.

BW Gliding Barnacles is more of a living, breathing, improvisational art project that grows throughout the five days, rather than a traditional pre-built surf fest. What inspired you to structure it this way?

KR For us, it’s all about collaboration and inspiration. The idea is to bring people together—visual artists, surfers, shapers, culinary artists, photographers, musicians—and let them inspire each other. We want to focus on those small interactions and connections that happen between people at the event. By not pre-building everything, we create an environment where everyone can contribute and help shape the event itself. We’ve seen photographers team up with surfers to make films, and musicians creating soundtracks for those films. We’ve also had attending artists design album covers for musicians who’ve performed at the festival. Those are the tangible collaborations, easily seen. However, some subtle connections might take time to shape into something material.

BW You’ve said that Figueira da Foz doesn’t have a surf culture. Yet it seems pretty rich during the festival. 

KR When surf culture first started to grow in Portugal, it was shaped mainly by the competitive side of surfing. The first surf magazines we got here were primarily focused on competition, which became the dominant mindset. That was my mindset growing up. Eventually, it burned me out. My father and I weren’t getting along, and I quit surfing for a few years. Gliding Barnacles, in a way, became our way of reconnecting. My father invited me to help him run it to show me another side of surfing that wasn’t about competition. It’s about finding balance and about the lifestyle that surfing offers. We hope our message takes root and broadens minds. We’re trying to create the surfing culture that we want. 

BW Why is there no competition in the surfing element of Gliding Barnacles?

KR Last year, we completely abandoned Gliding Barnacles’ competitive surfing element. Some surfers declined their invitation because of that. We’ve always been clear that Gliding Barnacles was never about competition, even when it had a slight competitive aspect in the past. We’ve had discussions with people in the contemporary surfing world—artists, musicians, thinkers—and explored creating a festival that’s more like an artist residency than a competition. We try to cover travel expenses for everyone we invite, and we want the focus to be on the experience, not on winning. It’s a different kind of investment that we believe has real value. It felt like we were relying on the safety net of having a winner to attract surfers and attendees, even if it was just for things like the best noseride or turn. But we realized that people still competed without a cash prize or trophy. Culture wins if there’s no competition.

BW With the long jetty, sandy beach, good waves, desolate yacht club, and roofless boat hangar, Fig da Foz’s Praia do Cabedelo seems like the perfect surf festival venue—like it was meant to happen there.

KR Yeah, we lucked out on location. Hosting the festival in Fig da Foz wasn’t planned. It’s not like we chose it because it was a surfing hot spot. The space itself is raw, kind of “trash” in the best way, and that gives the event a certain vibe that people love. We just happened to be from the city and knew we could find good use for a lot of the old buildings. 

BW Your dad, Beatriz, you, your mom, the whole team—everyone’s running around with no sleep, keeping everything together for five days. It’s a lot of work.

KR We’re all amateurs in terms of event organization. We learn something new every year, and we’re constantly improving. We do not have a big event-production team—it’s all hands on deck. Even though we try to stay organized, there’s always something unexpected. There’s always chaos, but that’s part of the fun. In 2018, we had a cook who was supposed to cater for 300 guests bail on us right before the event started. So, Beatriz, my parents, her parents—we all ended up in the kitchen together, cooking for everyone.

BW What’s your best Gliding Barnacles memory?

KR 2019 was a special year for me. That’s when we started to see the impact we were having. Our message was resonating. We had a lot of international surfers join us, and the community around Gliding Barnacles was beginning to grow. It felt like we were finally building something real.

BW I’ve seen film and photos of you riding big point surf on a single-fin longboard, no leash, no mercy. High lines and big turns. Tell me about your own surfing approach these days. 

KR For me, surfing is about feeling. When I fell in love with surfing again, it wasn’t about the tricks or competing. It was about the sensation of being on the wave, understanding the wave, and working with its power. I’ve always been fascinated by the way surfing was practiced in the ’60s and ’70s, especially in Hawaii. I think there’s still so much to explore in that era of surfing—how you position yourself on the wave and move with the board. It’s about revisiting that culture and style and paying respect to its roots. I’m working with Robin Kegel on tweaking Gato Heroi’s Killer model, which is inspired by those early Hawaiian boards. The goal is to combine those old-school elements with what we know now to keep pushing the boundaries. There’s a sense that surfboard design evolved, then stopped. It happened fast, and the potential of certain designs was overlooked. I think there’s much more to explore in terms of shapes, sizes, and styles. I want to be a part of that.

BW What’s it like working with Kegel?

KR Incredible. It started when I began longboarding. I was riding boards geared for noseriding smaller waves. They worked perfectly at Malibu and Noosa, but when I brought those boards back to Portugal, I realized they weren’t suited for our powerful waves. That’s when I connected with Robin, who had a similar vision. He’s from Southern California but comes from the Hawaiian school of thought—shaping longboards with more downrails and less rocker. We’re on the same wavelength. We’re making six prototypes based on the Killer—each has minimal rocker, downrails, and a pointy nose, because I don’t care about noseriding. The shortest board in the quiver is 9’9″. We’ll be testing them at Madeira in preparation for Hawaii. It’s been a real collaborative effort, and I think we’re onto something special.

BW How do they feel?

KR It’s the closest I’ve felt to what I imagine midcentury surfers in Hawaii must’ve experienced. When I’m out there on a big wave, riding a board that feels like it belongs in that era, I feel deeply connected to the history of the sport. It’s not about chasing adrenaline. It’s about that perfect flow, that perfect connection to the wave. I’m paying homage to everything that came before me, saying thank you to the early pioneers. I hope it inspires others to push their limits. Surfing isn’t just about the waves. It’s about the culture, the community, and respect. It’s easy to get lost in competition, but, ultimately, surfing is about freedom. Step out of your comfort zone, explore, and respect the roots. The whole experience, especially without a leash, is a way for me to feel more like those early surfers, who didn’t have the safety nets we have today. It’s about discomfort and challenge, which makes it fun—finding comfort in discomfort. It’s about style and feeling the wave in an authentic way.