Some Thoughts on Solo Travel: How a Surf Trip to Swell in the Dominican Republic Changed My Life

By Kate Van Dell for Sebastian Luxe Travel

Sometimes a getaway is just what you need. Not the perfectly curated honeymoon with scented candles and champagne flutes, or the family trip where everyone spends more time negotiating museum stops than enjoying them. I’m talking about the kind of trip where you book a ticket, throw a few dresses and a bathing suit into a bag, and show up somewhere alone, hoping the universe has something in store.

That’s exactly how I found myself in Cabarete, Dominican Republic in the summer of 2014 at Swell Surf Camp. And it all started with two unplanned weeks off and a random conversation in a New York bar.

At the time, I was working as an ER nurse in Manhattan. I’d blocked out vacation to travel with a friend who was a teacher, but at the last minute, she had to back out. Suddenly, I was staring down two free weeks with no plan.

My first night off, I was out with friends at Penny Farthing on the Upper East Side (is it still there?) and ended up talking to a guy named Aaron. He asked me a few questions:

“Do you surf?”
“No.”
“Are you a good swimmer? Do you like the beach?”
“Yes, and yes.”

He told me, almost offhandedly, “You should go to Swell. It’s so much fun. You’ll have the best time. Just check the TripAdvisor reviews and book it.”

I laughed, but later that night, curiosity got the best of me. I googled Swell Surf Camp Cabarete. Ten minutes later, I was booked.

Swell is not your typical surf camp. For one thing, the rooms are more boutique hotel than surfer crash pad. Crisp white bedding, funky art, clean lines that whisper you are cooler than you actually are. The pool gleams, there are ping-pong and foosball tables when your arms need a break, and a massive communal table anchors everything from morning coffee to late-night storytelling.

And the food? Legendary. Omelets, pancakes, fruit bowls, and juice so bright it tastes like someone bottled the sunshine. The kind of breakfast that makes you question every sad yogurt you’ve ever eaten at your desk.

Then there are the lessons. Structured but laid-back, with instructors who paddle next to you while the head coach calls tips from the shallows. You will wipe out. You will look ridiculous. But you will also stand up, however briefly, and feel like you’ve conquered the world.

And at the center of it all is Haudi, the manager. She’s the kind of person who greets you like family, and somehow makes the whole place feel like it was designed just for you.

Most importantly, there’s the mix of people. Swell attracts the most eclectic crowd: siblings on vacation, couples looking for an adventure, a variety of solo travelers (plenty of women, which felt reassuring). By the second night, the communal table feels like summer camp for adults, only with better furniture and fewer mosquito bites.

That first week was exactly what I didn’t know I needed. Yoga in the afternoons (shoutout to Molly - I hope she’s still there), surf lessons, new friendships, and that giddy feeling of being somewhere completely different without anyone’s expectations tagging along. It was also affordable, which mattered on a nurse’s salary in New York.

I came home sunburned, sore, and hooked.

When I had more time off in August, I knew exactly where I was going. I convinced one of the friends I’d made in July to meet me back at Swell. On the very first day, I noticed Jasper. He was Dutch, also there to surf, and the kind of person who looked irritatingly at home in the water.

That evening we started talking. I told him, point-blank, that I was not interested in a long-distance relationship. I wasn’t bluffing. I meant it. I had a job, an apartment, a whole life in New York. The last thing I needed was a summer fling with a man who lived an ocean away.

And yet, here we are.

Eleven years later, I’m married to him, still laughing about how a stranger in a New York bar set me on the path to a surf camp where I learned to surf and met the man I had very clearly explained I was not going to date (it’s amazing how well men listen).

Of course, not every solo trip ends in a love story. And frankly, it shouldn’t. But every solo trip ends with a story which is the real magic of traveling alone. You leave room for chance, for strangers at communal tables, for people who ask you questions you didn’t expect.

Swell will always be part of my story. The place where I learned to surf, ate breakfasts that tasted like happiness, made new friends, and eventually met my husband.

If you’re ever tempted to go somewhere alone, do it. Book the ticket. Throw the bathing suit in the bag. Because sometimes a getaway is just what you need.

And if you’re really lucky, it comes with pancakes, a sparkling pool, and a Dutch surfer.

If you liked this…
Take the solo-travel energy into wellness with Swiss Spa Culture.
If you don’t have the chance to sneak away alone, you might enjoy Jet Lag with Kids: A Love Story (Just Kidding, It’s a Cautionary Tale).

If you’re curious about Swell, you can check them out here  and if you go, tell them Kate says hi.