How six friends seeking adventure ahead of the FIFA World Cup that originally brought us altogether in 2010 got here is unbeknownst to me. For the main organizer, culprit, and journey planner, Ryan Salm, it was something he had envisioned for some time since finding out about the beauty of the area nearly a decade before. Somehow he coaxed us into a mission with promises of adventure.

Yet there was some comedy in a group of Americans paddling the waters of the Persian Gulf. Here we were layered in thin layers, ball caps, and sarongs to cover the majority of our pale bodies from the radiant sun; musical instruments stuffed into large dry bags accompanied with camping goods and clothes that sit like a clump of dirty laundry at the front of our polymer molded ships. Our dromedary bags filled with fresh drinking water and high hopes to cross through the two major inlets of the Musandam Peninsula in five to six days. It was hard to tell if we were a sight for sore eyes or just a little off of our rockers. Uncertainty was a beckoning – it was an adventure after all. The allure and the freedom of the open waters compelled us.

Amidst the bustle of the strait, hidden bays emerge and inlets glimmer with illuminated turquoise waters. Shaded shelves of coral reefs are home to elusive fish, lounging sea turtles, and curious dolphins that occasionally hover above the surface but only for a split second. Above these shores, high mountains climb in a dramatic fashion - columns of white striations, playful swirls compounded into the stone, cracks and divisions in the rock that dance along the eroded peaks telling a story of the millions of years of tectonic movement and collisions that shaped this region. To many a traveler this area is known as the Fjords of Oman.  

As captivating as the scenery was, so was our journey. We camped on desolate beaches composed of white sands - a chorus of broken coral that chimed like bags of clanking rocks lulled us to sleep every night as the tides shifted. Each morning meant the routine of rigging up our boards for another day and another destination. Morning also meant calm waters and cooler temps. We would rise with the sun, the array of colorful hues would straddle the hazy horizon. There we would admire our friend, Pete as he cast his fly rod into the clear blue waters hoping for a bite as we lazily sat along the shores strumming banjo’s and guitar’s hiding in the shadows until the sun pierced our space and we were forced to hit the water for the day.

Whilst we explored the reefs, and marveled at the peaks that hung high in the dry sky, a majority of our days were spent seeking shelter from the powerful sun. We would find refuge in shade under perched stone ledges and in the confines of the desolate fishing villages that we discovered. Humans were virtually non-existent just empty homes, goats seemingly ran these areas. Goats like shade too and we would have to compete with them against the buildings and abandoned boats to acquire spots of shade.

Halil spoke very broken English, but we were able to pick up on his gist and maneuvered great feats and theatrics to try and express ourselves. He had caught some fresh fish and we watched as he stuck them in the pit of sand, fiery wooden coals shearing their scales as he rotated them with a crooked wooden branch. As we played small talk the other two fishermen laughed at the benign humor that we presented with our dramatic gestures.

This was really our first true encounter with Omanese people since entering the fjords. It was surreal in a way and the hospitality and kindness that came forth was genuine. He summoned one of his greenhorns to fish up some water and within a couple of minutes he returned with miniature bottles of water and he offered up the cooked fish to our delinquent peeps, we regaled in the cuisine as in that instant we had only been fueled by dehydrated meals

For our seaborne crew this was not the end of the generous acts, while people and abandoned villages were few and far between we managed to find a proper village on one of our final days of the trip. The town of Al Hablayn, where there were no shops but there was visible evidence of people (we counted around five), a well established mosque, and a few cars (some functional, some on blocks) but no roads leading in or out.

As we wandered aimlessly along the esplanade that led to the water, the shy town goer's acknowledged us, then continued on with their tasks. Per usual, we continued with our daily habit and took refuge in the shade of the sand colored mosque that held the skyline of the village. Most would refer to this act as loitering, for us the act had become our preferred method of lounging. Perhaps in this town they saw it as desperation?

Before we knew it, an elderly man dressed in traditional Muslim garb brought us tea, biscuits with GLUCOSE written on them in block letters, and boxes of those miniature water bottles that Halil introduced us to a few days prior. The act was a god send and we happily re hydrated from our prior water rationing mindset.

Our encounters through the desolate waterways of Musandam were filled with unexpected kindness and a furthered bond within our crew. It didn’t matter that we looked like kooky scrubs in our salt-stained attire, or that we unconventionally decided to navigate inflatable paddle boards in a faraway land, or that we spoke a language much different from those whom we met.

The experience was spirited in a greater connection to the land and the humans we encountered. For those brief five days we embraced the jaw dropping scenery of this pristine wilderness, we etched the echoes of our stories and music in the walls of these ancient hills, and we found adventure around every bend.