Should you have been in Marrakech airport last week, you may have seen a dishevelled looking woman ordering her husband about in shrill tones. ‘Don’t dare lift that! I’ll put it on the overhead cabin! PUT IT DOWN!’ It was of course me, with sand still in my hair (and just about every orifice.) The worst of it was, that it was all my fault…
‘Sand-surfing! That sounds fun- and a sunset picnic afterwards! Yippee!’ No, that wasn’t the musings of a small child high on Haribo, that was me, searching up activities on ‘Get Your Guide’ on holiday. We were hoping to take surf lessons in the seaside town of Essaouira on west coast of Morocco, but high winds rendered the waves too treacherous for novices like us. Sand-surfing in the dunes sounded like a less perilous option. LSB booked us in, with all the enthusiasm of someone admitting themselves for a colonoscopy. We were sitting in a bar overlooking over the port in Essaouira, with live music and a sunny, if windswept terrace. They served beer in big tankards and salty chips. Himself could have whiled away an evening rightly, given the option. Alas, such simple pleasures were denied him in my quest for a more adrenalin fuelled activity.
Sand-surfing, for the uninitiated, involves a surfboard, a sand dune, and a hefty dose of optimism. We were all under the misapprehension that sand, if one were to fall on it, would be soft and cushion-like, but hitting it at speed soon disabused us of that notion. The children managed their descents with aplomb, and progressed to standing up on their boards fairly quickly. High fives were exchanged with our instructors and up they scampered again to take their next turn. The same could not be said by myself. Scaling a sand dune is an exercise in humiliation; every night that I have spent watching Netflix and drinking wine instead of going to the gym taunted me. Towards the end of the session, I was reduced to ascending the dunes on hands and knees, my shame compounded by the guides skipping past me in great strides, a surfboard under each arm.
Still, the few times I stayed upright while whizzing down, induced a childlike glee and were almost worth the bruises from the less successful attempts. I got off lucky though: when LSB came hurtling off his board, he face-planted the sand with an almighty THWACK, he lay so still that I thought he’d lost consciousness, until he valiantly gave a little thumbs-up. Ironically, he’d executed his descent almost to perfection, so much so that I was clapping and whooping at the top. When he clambered to his feet, his face was so caked in orange sand that he bore an uncanny resemblance to Donald Trump, an image I’m still trying to expunge from my mind.
I thought we may have to abandon the next bit of our experience, which was to catch the sunset while sipping mint tea in a Berber tent, but good fellow that he is, he tholed the bumpy off-road trip further along the coast. Sadly the sky remained grey and brooding, giving off a vibe that was distinctly more Rossnowlagh than Rabat. Still, the smell of woodsmoke as our host grilled fresh sardines, mingling with the salty air and mint tea lent a cosy air to proceedings. Any chance of a proper drink now?’ asked himself, and so back in Essaouira we drank Moroccan wine with our dinner. I grimaced when he ordered a third, but got short shrift. ‘It’s pain relief,’ he said, through gritted teeth.
The girls and I did manage a (regular) surf lesson on the morning of our last day, prior to a 3 hour taxi to the airport. Unfortunately for LSB, he was unable to take part as by this stage he was walking with a limp and unable move his right arm in any direction. While I was looking forward to getting into my own bed at home, LSB had thoughts of checking in at the local A&E to see the damage done.
Happily, the four X-rays he had on the day after our return, showed no broken bones, but he’s been told to rest up for a couple of weeks and avoid any exercise AT ALL. ‘And stay off those boards!’ the good-natured nurse called as we went on our way.
‘Don’t worry, I will!’ he shouted.
‘I was talking to her,’ she replied, looking at me through narrowed eyes. I could tell she held me responsible.
So that’s himself sorted with a carte blanche to sit in the pub on all future holidays. Probably for the best, to be fair.
