You wait – that’s what you do. And I’ll tell you what, flop follows fail follows flop follows fail follows flop. Ahab says, “I don’t care who you are, here’s to your dream.” Well fuck you Ahab. Like ice skating, rollerblading, skiing, skateboarding, cycling and walking before it, unsurprisingly, I find surfing pretty tough. Unusually, though, I don't want to immediately give up.
Despite the fact that most of the people in our group have hangovers, they’re all more experienced than I am. Hell, even Blaster and Zangief have tried it before. Sure, my board may be the equivalent ten-pin bowling with a ramp, and yeah, I may have fallen over while getting into the wetsuit, but to be honest, just being back in the water is a nice feeling.
The necessarily patronising baby-steps when learning to surf are actually quite fun too. Initially, all you have to do is get out to waist-depth, and make sure the board doesn’t smash you in the face when the waves come. Once you think you’ve seen one of sufficient strength, you turn, jump onto the board, paddle, paddle faster when you feel the wave touch your feet, then do a half press-up and let it carry you to shore. That’s the theory at least.
In reality, even with my special board, the bit where you gracefully hop on it quite tricky; go slightly too far or not far enough and you’re certain to end up in the drink. Some useless flailing later, I’ve just about got the hang of getting on and making sure the board is pointing towards shore. Picking the right wave is a different matter – like the Guinness ad said, it’s all to do with patience.
When I do finally catch one though, and successfully push up to maximise its carry, it’s all explained to me; I immediately understand why surfers travel the world to chase waves, why they’ve done so for centuries and even why they’re willing to risk it all for perfection. Like golf, it’s this tiny victory after 500 failures that means you’ll be back next time. No matter how much toil may lie between you and your next true success, you’ll definitely be back.
Galvanised, I turn and head straight back out. Again and again I toss myself into the surf, almost always failing, but once in a golden while, getting it just right. Before long everyone else has sloped off for respite, but I really can’t get enough. Eventually, I feel a bit guilty about the fact that one of the Moroccan guides has to wait alone on the shore in case I get into difficulty, so I head in. He congratulates me – and promises that after lunch I can learn to stand up. This seems like an enormous miracle; at this rate, I’ll be in Hawaii
I sit gnawing on a sandwich, watching the waves hit the shore, thinking about how to improve my technique. It’s hard work this, physically I mean. So much falling and getting back up again and wading and wrestling the board and paddling and falling again – I’m going to be in pain tomorrow, I know that much.
Talking to the tutors, it’s a bit of a surprise to learn that they’ve really not been surfing for very long. In one case, I’m pretty sure the guy only took it up to get a better job, but like footballers in Brazil, he had the sufficient desire and desperation to make the most of himself. The others have been doing it for a maximum of 16 years, starting on the local beaches, like the kids I saw yesterday, begging, borrowing and stealing equipment when they could.
Surfing first hit Morocco in the 1960s and has progressed at a remarkably slow pace since then (By comparison, in the 50 years after the sport arrived in Australia, it changed the entire outlook and perception of the nation, and produced the first world champion, all at a time when equipment, knowledge and accessibility were inferior). American soldiers were stationed in the north of the country and came to this area while they had some down-time. The experienced surfers among them immediately saw the potential of the consistent waves and soon began to enjoy them. As a result of this early pioneering, many of the region’s most famous spots and breaks – Anchor Point and Devil’s Rock, for example – have names in English. Some of the individual breaks are named because of their reputation: Dracula’s runs over the top of a series of jagged, tooth-like rocks that have shredded many young feet; The Spider, meanwhile, is so named because of the cocooning effect of its waves; to my disappointment Killer Point is named after the occasional orcas who patrol the area, rather than anything more sinister.
Anyway, enough of this blether – once more unto the breach, my friends, once more… Of course standing up is a different thing altogether, it’s like learning how to turn on a computer, then being asked to write a program an hour later. Still, my enthusiasm isn’t dulled and I continue until I’m too tired to do any more. So, no, I don’t actually manage to stand up for any more than the briefest of moments, but that hardly matters – after all, it’s actually been Quite Good Fun. By the time I get back to the hostel I’m exhausted and windswept but have just about enough energy to head out to take some photos of the sunset. The village goes from being bleached and bland in the midday sun to something very special indeed just before night fall. Everything looks quite cool, whether it’s a simple open door.
A dog snoozing
Or an otherwise scabby cat.
Yup, today was definitely a good day.