Watching Kite Surfers
In March this year, I flew to Tenerife with Anne - the beautiful jet took its pale human cargo southwards - we flew from Bournemouth Airport - we left behind grey skies and drizzle, the sadness of half empty shopping centres - I looked at the strange cloudscapes - I could see the ocean, far below me, a world away - I could sense the brilliance and thinness of the upper air -
From the jet, the island looked dark and forbidding - there were high ridged mountains, deep valleys and barren slopes - we landed in the southern part of the island, where trees were scarce - the clusters of prickly pears reminded me of my boyhood in Malta - I have always been fascinated by these strange green forms -
We had rented a stone house, with a central courtyard, in the village of San Miguel de Abona - the high ceilinged rooms were dark and cool -
Most afternoons, we went to El Medano Beach, to swim in the mad waves - afterwards, we would watch the kite surfers - the wind never stopped - the waves would crash upon the coarse sand with glittering violence - the kite surfers had strong, spare, bodies - their taut kites were like bright dangerous animals -
We watched the kite surfers adjust their harnesses, positioning themselves for the gust of wind that would send them zig zagging through the surf - they had to contend with the wind surfers, who also frequented this stretch of beach -
We would drink cappuccinos in a beach cafe - you could hear the crash of the waves and the laughter of the kite surfers - we both wondered what it would like to be lifted by the wind, to fly over the foam - I thought it must be like riding a horse at the gallop - I could remember, vividly, the wind whipping into my face, the mud sprayed up my back, the mixture of joy and terror, when I had done so -
In March this year, I flew to Tenerife with Anne - the beautiful jet took its pale human cargo southwards - we flew from Bournemouth Airport - we left behind grey skies and drizzle, the sadness of half empty shopping centres - I looked at the strange cloudscapes - I could see the ocean, far below me, a world away - I could sense the brilliance and thinness of the upper air -
From the jet, the island looked dark and forbidding - there were high ridged mountains, deep valleys and barren slopes - we landed in the southern part of the island, where trees were scarce - the clusters of prickly pears reminded me of my boyhood in Malta - I have always been fascinated by these strange green forms -
We had rented a stone house, with a central courtyard, in the village of San Miguel de Abona - the high ceilinged rooms were dark and cool -
Most afternoons, we went to El Medano Beach, to swim in the mad waves - afterwards, we would watch the kite surfers - the wind never stopped - the waves would crash upon the coarse sand with glittering violence - the kite surfers had strong, spare, bodies - their taut kites were like bright dangerous animals -
We watched the kite surfers adjust their harnesses, positioning themselves for the gust of wind that would send them zig zagging through the surf - they had to contend with the wind surfers, who also frequented this stretch of beach -
We would drink cappuccinos in a beach cafe - you could hear the crash of the waves and the laughter of the kite surfers - we both wondered what it would like to be lifted by the wind, to fly over the foam - I thought it must be like riding a horse at the gallop - I could remember, vividly, the wind whipping into my face, the mud sprayed up my back, the mixture of joy and terror, when I had done so -
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