Those were the days, my friends!

Our Germanic caipirinha thirst ensured that there wasn’t a single lime left to buy in the whole of Galinhos on the day I left. Fortunately, the limeicide is not the only trace I leave behind here. The Cacimbim lagoon lies a few kilometres above Galinhos and is bordered by a steep sand dune. I write my name in the sand a few times as I pass by.

My time in Galinhos was magical. My right elbow won a Grand Slam, my left knee ran a marathon and my bum was responsible for more bombs than Al Qaeda. The calluses on my hands tell of the power of the wind. Quietly, quietly, great things have happened. I have found my words again. It’s time to move on.

I stand at the stern of the small boat and watch Galinhos get smaller. It’s strange how the wind can sometimes blow head-on into your face when you look back. I was at home here. Finding home is the overtone of travelling, but the beat only comes with the movement. The sea is playing metal today. I leave Galinhos with 1000 songs in a boat dancing on the waves.

My Portuguese passes its first acid test today. The journey to Canoa Quebrada, eight hours away, is anything but easy and requires boats, hitchhiking, cars and several buses. It all sounds stressful at first, but it’s still much more reliable and easier than the German railway. At the end of the day, all I can do is fall into bed. I feel like I’ve just lived five years in ten days.

Video Kitesurfing Galinhos, below without sound. Better: with sound via Videodoubler.