Coming to Chicama was a pending task for me, but it was one of those that I knew life would put in my path sooner or later.

After all, the longest wave in the world is in blessed Peru, and the country I consider a second home will sooner or later somehow bring me to these lands.

My eyes lit up when they announced at the closing ceremony of last year's South American Championships that this event would be held here. My first reaction was simply to hope that I would be able to come.

And, thank God, without much back and forth, about five months later, here I am, having enjoyed seven days of incredible surfing in Chicama. Sessions that were perhaps shorter than I'd like due to work, but with waves so long I can't remember them from start to finish.

It's something that pains me because I feel like something amazing is happening to me, but the waves are so long that it's impossible to remember everything you do in them. The standard is too high when it comes to long waves; so intense at times that you forget.

What remains is the excitement of the wave being surfed; if the excitement is high, you know the wave was incredible, and that's where the levels come from... I've been so frustrated by this that I've decided to take mental photos so I don't forget the incredible waves. It hasn't been easy, but there we go.

To top it all off, I came in with a string of south swells that made Punta de Lobos and Pico Alto work, which is when you should come.

What amazes me most about Chicama is that although it's difficult to catch it with all the sections connecting, the court is so, so, so big that when you finish surfing a wave, the current is really strong and you're positioned to surf the next section, and then the next, and then the next until you reach the famous Puerto Malabrigo pier.

Each one with a distinct personality and a distinct challenge. All amazing, all dreamy, all beautiful left-handers that make you want to take another one, and another one, and another one.

The town is a different matter. I'm staying at the Hotel Ibiza, on the main street of Puerto Malabrigo. I can't speak with any authority, but I think it's as small as ever because it's a five or six-block walk in each direction, and then it's all over the place.

Sandro, the hotel owner, very kindly heats me water for mate or coffee. We exchange fair and necessary conversations, discussing the Champions League semi-finals and Peñarol's victory, and the fact that his guests, due to his location, are more into fishing than surfing. Everything is done with attention and cordiality. With time, just as it used to be.

But what I like most, even though it might be annoying to other people, is listening to the life of the town: the mototaxi honking to offer a ride, the lady who at 6:00 AM offers tamales with such a tender voice that I want to buy them all, or the friend who in the afternoon, with a slightly louder shout, sells pineapple cake with something else that I still haven't figured out.

And then the bus stop, right down below: "To Paiján, to Paiján!" it repeats, offering rides, also announcing that they're leaving soon and later, "To Trujillo, to Trujillo!"; the only two places that connect with public transportation from Chicama. Or at least, the two that offer rides on my street.

Every day the town sounds the same; it turns on at six and off at six. There isn't much hustle and bustle, and there isn't a need for it.

And that's okay.

And just a few blocks away, that endless, legendary left wing is breaking down, which I understand breaks down like this every day.

There are lovely places in this world and this is definitely one.