Gnarly and Me - Day Seven



A man with rough hands is yanks on my fingers, toying with dislocation as he hammers Argan oil into my skin. Somehow I find myself getting an impromptu massage on the beach near Devil’s Rock from this total stranger. Why he’s bothering, I do not know – after all, I’ve already agreed to buy a bottle of his weird tonic. Maybe he’s actually a Nice Guy. What a novel thing that would be.
It’s my last day in Morocco. In a few hours I’ll be fitfully trying to sleep on a couch before beginning a 17 hour journey back to Dubai. Before that, though, I’m determined to stand up on a god damn surf board.
The latest people to join the camp are two Essex lads who, despite being a bit Only Fools and Horses, they’re alright. In fact, they’re really interesting. One of them, who has wild curly hair and surprisingly cool tattoos, claims to be a bee-keeping barber from just outside Cambridge. Morocco is his 50th country and this is the first surfing trip he’s managed since being diagnosed with aggressive early arthritis. When, ten minutes later, I see him surf properly, it gives me the umpteeth wind I’ve mustered this week to try yet again.
Back in the water, I keep making mistakes, but I know I’m getting closer. Everyone else has retreated to the shore and, with nothing else to do, have become my gallery. I’m close now, after three days, but not quite close enough: I trip over my leash; I don’t get my leg up in time; I grip the edge of the board and put myself off balance. A couple of times I bash my bad knee off the bottom and I'm just about to give up completely when I hit the middle of the board. It feels solid, so I stand up and ride the way until it doesn't have the power to hold me.
When I lift my head back out of the water, the people on the beach are whoopin' and hollerin'. I can't help it but offer a fist-pump in return. It may have taken three days and it may have only lasted about five seconds, but I know, that's the most important thing. I know.
I get back later and only really have enough time to pick up my camera and walk to Anchor Point in time for the sunset. I don't really know what happened out here: neglect or disaster, but the place is a ruin in any case. 

Still, like everything else at sunset in this part of the world, it's great for taking pictures.


Walking back to the camp for the last time, I'm not sad to be leaving Morocco, but I am to be leaving this kind of life. Deciding things on half-chance and whim - that's the kind of travelling I want to do. Who knows; perhaps one day I will.