One month in Tarifa

There are 360 windy days a year written on Tarifa’s flag. After many years of visits, I know all the winds of Europe’s southernmost city. Or so I thought. Our April here begins with two weeks of almost non-stop Levante gales of 22 to 52 knots. Exhausted from the 2,800 kilometre journey, I don’t move on to known alternative spots with less wind.

I look for work. I analyse dozens of kite school websites. I give detailed advice on window vents that whistle in a storm. Then the wind is gone. After a few days in the doldrums, the forecast promises another non-stop Levante storm for our entire stay until the end of April. I forget the number one Bavarian rule for kiters: “When the wind blows, use it!”.

I work a lot. But the hoped-for web design job for the sole earner just won’t materialise. I’m really frustrated. I’ve been a passionate web designer for 25 years. I love my job. My customers praise my work to the skies. Nevertheless, after so many years of continuous slow growth, the new orders have stopped coming in for the first time. Exactly when you need them most as a sole earner.

I study IT job adverts for the first time in my life. 25 years of kitesurfing holidays would be over. Like so many other things. I check my visitor numbers. Never wanted a big slice of the cake. But I write for crumbs. Really? Different? Certainly! Indie? Full throttle! I write windy travel stories. My whole life.

Hardly anyone is interested. The world loves sponsored campervan blogs, which propagate individuality on the same boring, well-trodden paths with a maximum of content. Stories are history, aren’t they?

But that’s exactly what I love. A good journey is full of stories. Some end, others begin. They may be good. They may be bad. The only thing they should never be? Forgotten or badly told! Only an underdog like me can hate the big yapping blogger dogs with their huge mouths so deeply…

I spend the first few evenings in the beach bar in the block alone. The wife puts the baby to bed. It always takes a long time. I’m too tired to listen to stories or tell them. I usually go to bed early.

Then things improve. Good friends from Regensburg and Berlin visit us. Finally, the wind is perfect in Canos de Meca. The little one runs around with other children and dogs on the beach promenade for a sundowner. Good stories don’t need many drinks. They just need a single open ear – and a critical mass of extraordinary people.

The greying Howard Marks talks about his eventful life as a large-scale marijuana farmer. A campervan blogger bores us beyond measure with stereotypes. The ex-CEO of an automotive supplier, on the other hand, quietly makes good stories in his campervan on the way to Africa. My favourite chaotic person continues to report on how good his plans are – only to successfully throw them overboard almost every night. I’m not the only one worried about how long his story will last…

The fairytale grandma tells stories about big whales in the ultimate lullaby voice. A sperm whale makes her fairy tales come true shortly afterwards in the Strait of Gibraltar. It dives down right in front of our eyes, snorting.

The quiet corners of Tarifa whisper tales of small tapas, gigantic steaks and wide senderos. Late at night, Gibraltesian maricones drowning in the Bermuda Triangle are constantly shouting that they should finally be allowed to have their say. We grin and go home in silence.

Our month here flies by. As soon as we arrive, we pack up again. I’ve continued writing a song just once. Just spent five hours on the water with the kite. Dug in the sand with the little one. Pushed the pram for countless kilometres past the world’s best kiters in the storm. The plan “12 metres before the 50th” was missed by a long way.

Dark clouds are gathering over home.
I’m afraid of getting old too soon…