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The Surf Log Morroco: Day One

Tamraght, Morocco. The waves are small and mushy, onshore wind blows them flat. It's difficult to make out where the waves break, and when they do, most of them close out on the beach. The longterm guests run around with grumpy expressions and curse the wind. But for me it's perfect. I am back on the go, and I am back in the water. A combinaton that is more than enough to make me smile.

A view from the roof terrasse. Pink houses make for happy living.

Tamraght is dusty and sleepy, on the brink of beeing discovered and then spoiled by mass tourism. The way from town to the beach leads through a field of rubble and shrubs, which was destined to become an 18-hole golf course, but then the money ran out. On the road to Agadir, other sceletal hotel constructionsites, so charactersitic for lots of other Oriental countries that try to develop their beach front potential rot in the sun.

It's not the most scenic of settings at first, but now, after a mere day, I hardly notice. The ocean is warm, the light is amber, the waves benign. Even when the bigger clobbers come onshore, they wash over me surprisingly gentle, almsot with a silky quality, as if welcoming me in, refreshing a body that has been stuffed in trousers, socks and shoes too long, clearing a brain that has endured stuffy classroom and conferences for five years and now wants nothing else than fresh air.

It's a great first day, the sun not too hot, and when it dies in the evening, the breeze from the mountains carries the scent of fresh peppermint. We lie on the roof terrasse and hear the Muezzins Ramaddan stories waft over from two or three different mosques, the stars come out, the tent canopy flaps lazily.

I close my eyes. This is peace.

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