Cut!

On the third day, the wind in Tarifa picks up to a good 35 knots. As we have to pick up Max from the airport in Jerez de la Frontera in the evening anyway, we decide to head north-west out of the wind. In the beautiful bay of Canos de Meca, a few kiters are already out in the sideshore wind, which is still quite strong here, with a swell of one and a half metres.

Some older locals comment on the wind conditions with “Hasta manana!” and pack up by midday. They are right. The wind is not only strong and gusty, but also interspersed with plenty of zero holes. Like a large wing, the current behind the isthmus of Tarifa breaks off completely for a few minutes at a time.

At first we pumped Sinus like mad and drifted a good distance. Then we start pumping like crazy again. I’ve had the feeling for a few days that “trouble is coming”. After a few hard paraglider landings just before departure, my back whispers “Watch out!”. That’s how I kite too. Unfortunately, none of this helps. The rough gusts brutally sweep me over high waves a few times, followed by subtle crashes into the next wave crest. It doesn’t take a fall to feel a crack somewhere far down the back and know that fate has once again thrown a “cut!” into the scene.

I cycle for a good hour until no one is out. I reach the beach a good way downwind, just behind some sunbathers, then my kite falls out of the sky in another no-hole. I don’t think anything bad yet. We pick Max up from the airport and drive back to Tarifa. My back starts to yodel.

We go out for a meal and a quick pub crawl through Tarifa’s endlessly varied and beautiful old bars. Off to bed at a more than decent (by Spanish standards) hour shortly after midnight. The morning is grey.

I can barely get out of bed. I manage to carry the equipment to the car and then to the beach. I collapse into a deckchair and don’t get out for a few hours. Cut. The wind is blowing at 40 knots today. Max and Dominik head back to Canos de Meca. I hitchhike back to Tarifa.

The hospital only accepts Spaniards, but Dr Navarro in the centre, who specialises in surfer injuries, takes me in during his long siesta, which has actually already begun. Pictures of deformed surfers’ feet hang on the wall in the treatment room. X-ray, check-up. Certificate: Acute lumbago. No. 37? I stopped counting a long time ago. It’s getting more and more frequent, despite training.

The doctor shows me the scars from his disc operation. Surfer’s medals. So he works overtime for me. He understands: Fate is once again playing “love me – love me not” with my feathers. Without wings in kiter heaven – that’s at least as shitty as a blind man in a strip show, a tart in a brothel or a dry drunk on a factory tour at Hendricks.

The doctor plays classical music. I fall asleep to microwaves, tense and infrared. At least I can walk again after a massage. So I go to bed. In the evening, pharmacy and Painkiller, another desperate search for WiFi, but nothing works. Writing on the roof terrace. The neighbouring couple argue loudly for the third day in a row. It’s unbelievable how much despair some people are ranting about hope. The deckchair is sagging on the right like me. The next four days will be hell in heaven – but at least with reduced yodelling.