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Published: March 15th 2012
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None but natives ever master the art of surf-bathing thoroughly. (Mark Twain) Mornings in Morocco are still cold in February, easily below 10°C, and the thought of spending most of the day jumping in and out of the waves suddenly seems a little less appealing than before. We huddle around the breakfast table outside on the terrace for our first Moroccan breakfast. It turns out the staple is bread—the same flat, round breads we had with dinner—eggs and jam. One thing on the table is unique and exciting—a bowl of runny almond butter called Almou. I never thought peanut butter had any competition, but I'm beginning to question my affiliations. Predictably, this little bowl is what we fight for every morning—a good reason to get up early for breakfast –until it runs out on our second morning, and we spend the remaining two days sulking, especially when we notice that the German couple staying at the villa with us is still getting a bowl of almond goodness on their table every morning. Favouritism, if you ask me.
Finally, after three mugs of coffee with heaps of sugar, we head out to the beach with our surf instructor,
Surfing...
...or what I wish I could do! Fadel, eager to conquer the waves. There, we squeeze ourselves into the wetsuits and grab the boards. The suits are thick and tight and make the thought of plunging into the waves a little more bearable, although 18°Cis still not a comfortable temperature to be splashing about. "We will take it easy today, just learn to paddle and balance on the board," Fadel says. We'll definitely do better than that, we think. "I want to stand up today," says Kristina, and I'm thinking “it's just all about who does it first.” But my enthusiasm is quickly curbed by the first, simple task of jumping head on into the waves, "just to get used to it." I discover that this activity is not quite within my comfort zone, as yet another wave crashes down on my head, leaving me panting for breath.
Sports instructors always make their sports look so easy and graceful. But as I try to throw my body onto the board in the water I promptly topple off. Most of the first hour is spent trying to balance on the board and learn to let the wave carry you. But the tide is low, the waves are
choppy and slanted, and it's hard to catch the right one. Fadel promises that the afternoon and high tide will bring better conditions, so after a couple of hours we crawl out onto the beach, exhausted, and peel off our suits to dry ourselves in the sunshine, which is quite strong by this point in the day. But contrary to our expectations, it gets even more challenging in the afternoon. The waves are now crashing down stronger than before, and even though they have taken a more definitive shape, it’s exhausting to fight against them. Instead of trying to surf, I spend most of my energy on the way into the water, only to be swept back before I get to a good spot. It’s a good workout, but it quickly becomes clear that today we aren’t likely to stand proudly on top of our boards as the waves gracefully carry us along. Joe is doing pretty well, despite being the one who “can’t imagine himself surfing.” I, on the other hand, have spent more of the day face-planting in the water, so decide to call it a day and leave all mega-achievements until tomorrow.
The usual tagine dinner that evening—chicken, potatoes and carrots this time—seems especially tasty. The laid back surfer lifestyle starts to make good sense—you simply get too tired to go out and party in the evenings! We play a card game called Mafia with the other guys at the villa, but by 10 p.m. everyone is yawning away. We head off to bed and fall asleep almost instantly—the earliest I’ve been to bed in a long time.
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