November 7, 2004

Finding Her Brazilian Groove
By VICTORIA GOMELSKY

BRAZILIANS love their beaches as much as Russians love their banyas and the English love their pubs. That's why, in Brazil, the quest for the perfect stretch of sand is a national obsession.
Conventional wisdom says that Ipanema is the mother of all beach parties; the bossa nova classic proves it. The shores around Salvador in the northeast boast postcard-perfect views and a rich Afro-Brazilian heritage. The cognoscenti flock to the sands of Búzios, made famous by Brigitte Bardot.

But my vote goes to the coast of Santa Catarina state, some 400 miles down the coast from Rio de Janeiro, where the beaches offer world-class surfing breaks and a bohemian vibe -- think Hawaii, circa 1983 -- that make this Brazil's up-and-coming region. Argentine tourists, Carnaval revelers and wave-riders have been going there since the early 1990's to escape the manic scene typically associated with Rio de Janeiro and Salvador.

The region's best-known port of call is the state capital, Florianópolis. It is the gateway to Ilha de Santa Catarina, nicknamed Floripa, where descendants of Azorean fishermen are making way for Brazilian models and international playboys, solidifying the island's reputation as the hippest year-round beach scene in South America.

Santa Catarina, settled in the 19th century by German and Italian farmers, is one of the country's wealthiest states. Some purists dismiss it as a European outpost with no real claim on the Brazilian soul. With the help of three girlfriends in March, fresh from a bitter New York winter, I was determined to prove them wrong. The plan was to spend a few warm-up days in Rio, fly south to Florianópolis and rent a car to circumnavigate Floripa clockwise starting at Canasvieiras, a resort town on the north coast.

This was my third trip to Brazil, but I was relying on Anna, our resident Brazilophile, to negotiate the itinerary, including the six days we had allotted for Santa Catarina. Besides, every time I felt tongue-tied, my brain automatically trotted out Spanish pleasantries. Gracias, not obrigada. ¿Qué pasa? rather than the ubiquitous Brazilian greeting, tudo bom? (how are you?)

Within minutes of our arrival, we realized the congested town is Santa Catarina's answer to Cancún: so many T-shirt shops, so little time. The concentration of Internet cafes, beer gardens and strolling retirees wasn't quite what we'd expected.

We joined the masses at the beach in front of our hotel the next morning and watched an endless parade of vendors. A cart loaded with all the ingredients to make a caipirinha, the Brazilian national drink, rolled by, hippy-hoppy music (as its called here in the land of the endless vowel) blasting from its tinny speakers. Not far behind, a grandmotherly woman in a white headscarf pushed a portable grill. We were instantly drawn to the smell of her choripan, a tasty, salted Argentine sausage served in a bun.

The revelry extended into the shallow water offshore, where hilarious passengers filled a banana boat. Had we traveled to the island to party the days and nights away, such sights might have quickened our heartbeats. Barra da Lagoa, a fishing community on the shores of Lagoa da Conceição, a large inland lake, promised salvation. We piled into our rental car and headed to the island's east coast, a 45-minute, 30-mile drive along small country roads.

In the 16th century, Floripa was a strategic Spanish settlement for the transfer of gold and silver from Peru to Europe. By 1675, the Portuguese wrested control, setting the stage for immigrants from the Azores who arrived in the 18th century. Today, their descendants still ply the warm waters of the lake in brightly painted boats, searching for grouper and shrimp. This was more like it.

After settling into a rustic guesthouse, or pousada, on Praia Mole (praia is the Portuguese word for beach), about a 10-minute drive past Barra da Lagoa, we couldn't resist trying out Floripa's most bizarre sport: surfing on the island's Sahara-like dunes.

The 40-something surfer manning the rental shack introduced himself as Carlos. He generously offered to carry my melon-colored snowboard up the steep dune. A cloud of fine white sand made sticky by the tropical air swirled around as I schlepped behind him. When we reached the top, he said he had a guesthouse across the road and suggested joining him for a drink after this. I pretended not to understand his slang-filled Portuguese.

For a moment, I admired the contrast between the blinding white dune and the black clouds barreling down on neighboring Praia da Joaquina, home to Brazil's best-known surfing competition. They gave the afternoon a sultry, electrified feel. So did the tanned, nose-ringed Adonis next to me, preparing to sail down the precipice. He wouldn't have looked out of place in Oahu or Vail.

Rather than carving my way down the dune, I chickened out and used the snowboard as a toboggan. Carlos looked disappointed when I waved goodbye from the bottom.

That night, his all-too-obvious wedding ring prompted a conversation among our group of four about Brazilian marriage over litchi martinis and mango mojitos at the Fusion Bar and Restaurant, an airy lounge situated on a hilltop overlooking the Lagoa da Conceição.

At 1 a.m., we moved to yet another of Floripa's burgeoning hot spots, Confraria das Artes, a bar that doubles as an art and furniture emporium. Opened just four months earlier, it attracted foreign D.J.'s and well-heeled Brazilians from Rio and São Paulo. There had even been a Gisele sighting. (But, alas, no Leo.)

As we pulled into the parking lot, a steady beat of progressive house music wafted from the entryway. A long-legged hostess in a ruffled pink miniskirt led us inside a courtyard. Stylish Brazilians slouched in funky vintage chairs upholstered in gemstone colors: aquamarine, garnet, pink tourmaline. The antique furniture, including the stained wooden coffee tables and ornate floor lamps that filled the bar, was for sale.

After a round of caipiroskas, the milder, vodka-infused version of the national drink, we decided to tweak our itinerary. Instead of having our Brazilian friend Roberto Srivastava drive to Floripa to meet us for our final three days of vacation, we would drive down the coast to meet him. Since February, he had been surfing in Praia do Rosa, a seaside town on the Santa Catarina mainland an hour south of Floripa. Popular during summer and winter, when southern right whales breed offshore, the crescent-shaped beach was recently voted one of the country's top 10 by a Brazilian magazine.

The next morning we set off from Praia Mole down BR-101, a bit nervous after learning that the road had been christened Brazil's death highway. The number of trucks passing us on the two-lane blacktop explained why.

Hippies discovered Praia do Rosa in the 1970's. Slowly, word of mouth brought surfers and tourists from Argentina and southern Brazil. The town still lacks paved roads, but many upscale pousadas have opened, along with restaurants serving coastal fish and pan-Asian cuisine.

Fazenda Verde seemed the best-situated property, its cabanas looking out over the ocean, with easy access to the waves. We dropped off our luggage and hurried to the beach bar, where Roberto was waiting for us along with his friend Gabriela. ''Welcome to the beach of my life!'' Roberto screamed.

He was about 10 shades darker than the last time I had seen him.

David, the resort's surfing instructor, introduced himself.''If you're interested, I can teach you how to surf,'' he said.

Fazenda Verde offered horseback riding and yoga, but if we really wanted to get a feel for the place, David's offer was the ticket.

The next day's beginners lesson in the freshwater lagoon proved both exhausting and exhilarating. Nothing prepared me for the session in the surf: I have never eaten so much sand. When I dragged my long board out of the water, a lineup of tan and toned locals stared my way.

At home, I might have felt self-conscious about my less-than-graceful water gymnastics. Instead, I finally understood why Brazilians place so much importance on their relationship with the beach:

In a country known as much for its lusty approach to life as its poverty and crime-ridden favelas, the beach is the great equalizer. All that matters is how confidently you strut the sand in your swimsuit.

Soon it was time for our farewell dinner at Lua Marinha, an out-of-the-way bamboo restaurant famous for fresh seafood: bowls of giant spiced prawns straight from nearby Ibiraquera Lake.

Back at the table, the conversation had turned to bikinis. Gabriela and Roberto wanted to know if we felt comfortable in our newly purchased itsy-bitsy swatches of lycra, hand-sewn and decorated in pastel Pucci-like swirls.

''Tudo bom?'' Gabriela asked as I devoured my last giant prawn. Yes, everything was fine.

How else could I explain that after three visits to Brazil, I had finally found my groove in Santa Catarina? That walking the shores of Floripa and Praia do Rosa in my locals-only bikini, I had discovered Brazilian style as well as soul? That nothing cures a winter chill better than a romp in the sand?

Tudo bom.

Sun, surf and the samba spirit