It's full of unpaired slippers in between the rounded rocks. Some surfers must had been looking for them on their way out, and thought they were stolen.
'I've been in Australia, they stole my slippers. I've been in Dominican Republic, they stole my slippers. What is wrong with you guys?!' says the guy next to us. His face is tanned and painted in green waterproof suncream, matching his black and green wetsuit. I don't even know his name. There are people coming and going in this surf camp, and I learn and keep forgetting their names.
'See, you can also surf this one' says Alex pointing to the Mysteries. What a crazy name for some waves! We've got Tamary, the Slab, the Boliers, Panoramas, Crocs, Killer Point because you get your arms killed till you paddle out there.
'Why Mysteries?' I had asked Mansaf. 'Nobody knows. It's a mystery.' he had replied laughing, shaking his rasta head.
'I think I'm just going to write and be lazy' I say to Alex. I drop my bag on the sandy beach, and let myself drop next to it.
My arms hurt I can barely hold the pen. I feel the sun stroking me comfy on my cheeks, and turn my head towards it to get some more. More.
The sound of the waves crushing the shore gets closer and closer. The tide is rising. It smells of sea weed. I lay down, my senses stolen, and write till the water touches my toes.
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