Days on the Alboran
The days would start early, despite the mix of drinks consumed the previous evening. We’d walk to the bakery for breakfast, the condition of the Alboran Sea our true motive for leaving the comfort of beds and pointless scrolling on social media. White horses would dictate the direction the day would take, a prevalence of them would confine us to the pool, flat enough water would be the catalyst for stampeding back and preparing for a day on the boat.
The vessel was moored in Puerto Cabapino, a 10 minute drive from the bleached apartment complex we stayed in. It was a mix of buildings all surrounding a dull pool circled by grass which felt fake and may as well have been considering the amount of watering required. There was nothing natural about the setting. We were constantly needing to lock every gate and pull across all shutters, light-fingered types of all ages often invited themselves in to steal your belongings.
“It’s a mill pond today,” one of us uttered, I can’t remember who. Not much more needed to be said as we turned back toward the apartment block.
The sun was pinned to the tip of the sky by the time we reached Cabapino. Cool boxes full of San Miguel and Sangria were prepped quickly, the primary piece of luggage along with towels. We passed Albert’s on the way to the mooring. The restaurant was quiet now, offering its usual fusion of traditional Spanish pastries next to a full-English breakfast, a micro-juxtaposition in this part of the world.
We had dined there a few nights before, a cabaret singer taking a liking to our empty bottle-ridden table, amusing us before annoying us with a droning rendition of some old show tune. I enjoyed the early parts of these evenings, the cocktails to start, the fish, the wine. But by the time the hasbeen turned up my sister and I were bored and eyeing up a bar which appealed to our kind of demographic.
“We’ll be across there” she uttered to our parents, her and I rising from our seats and making our way to the door before having a chance.
“Thank fuck, that singer’s voice was grating,” I said, exhaling clean air in a sigh of relief before placing a Marlboro to my lips.
“It’s happy hour,” she replied, Albert’s already way behind her. “Let’s get a cocktail.”
We worked the jeep around the mooring, parking carefully next to an ancient-looking wall before shuffling out one side of the car. Everyone found their place in the loading line as always, a Naval-like routine. Cooler box, towels, bags — the factory line loaded the familiar items into their familiar homes. The boat was backed out into the middle of the harbour, the smell of oil spilling into the air before we made our way around the jagged jetty and out towards the horizon. The beach was already busy, pick-n-mix pedalos littered the dark blue shoreline as we took a left and headed straight toward Africa.
After 15 minutes of driving the engine fell to a mutter, and the royal blue-carpeted floor was pulled up.
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“Right, who’s first?”
It was an odd question considering no one else ever wanted to be first into the water. It was a question of whether one was willing to test the unknown coolness of the sea in order to earn the first thrill. My theory was thus; if you went in first, you’d have the dry lifejacket and by the time the second turn comes around, the temperature is unbearable enough to want to take steps to cool down.
I buckled up sun-heated black fasteners and fell into the cool, dark ocean with the tow rope. The skis were launched my way, skidding along the flat surface and I manoeuvred the rubber footholds into place, feeling a slight pinch at the front; enough to know they were secure on my foot but not enough that it hurt.
“The water is flat enough to be able to pick up some good speed today. Swing across the wake a few times to start and then I’ll start whipping round corners so you get some highspeed corners as well.”
I nodded without saying anything more, focussing on keeping the ski tips pierced through the water like two stubborn trees in a felled forest. The boat slowly moved away, the tow rope becoming less and less slack until it too pulled like a tightened guitar string.
There was never a warning, your first knowledge that everything is ready to go is hearing the pitch and loudness of the engine suddenly rise and the tow rope flick up out of the water ahead of you like some approaching shark’s fin knifing through the water. Mere milliseconds between acceleration and arms and shoulders stiffening to ensure your submerged torso follows your limbs out of the water. Less than a second to tighten your core, push your heels down against the endless force of the water and accurately measure just how far you will let the boat yank you out of the calm water and not back into the angry froths created by the motor.
Skimming along the plane of water was easy that day, and once you were over the stark white wake, it was like skating on ice. I cut across back and forth before the boat swung round a corner sending me catapulting across silky water into wake and back again. Whilst Jen and the rest were happy with being pulled along calmly I was keen to see how far I could push it. I didn’t do it to show off, I did it because I wanted to see what the limit was. Not many believed that line.
When one pushes, however, it can lead to a break. I’d cut across the wake several times and the thought of winding things down strolled across my mind. As it did, a ski caught an errant wave left by another passing boat. Much like you stumble when you catch your foot on a poorly-placed piece of paving, I was instantly off-balance, and missing the sturdiness of dry land and the slow pace needed to process thoughts and correct such a scenario, I shattered the water.
Things move slower when you anticipate being hit. It’s the same with being punched in the face or dumped. Time slows. So as I tumbled towards the sea my hands instinctively released the rope and went to shield my face. I also turned my body so my shoulder would be the first thing to slap the water. And then time sped up at the same time as all concepts of gravity removed themselves from the situation momentarily. All I could see was a whirling, twisting kaleidoscope of waves, light reflection and — in the distance — coastal timeshares. In the blink of an eye it was over, and then several blinks of an eye later allowed me to see that the boat had already turned and was heading back my way.
“Big tumble,” I heard as some displayed a wince. “Face looks good as well.” I felt the sting and realised my reactions had not been as good as I first thought. It felt red.
I clambered into the boat, lit a cigarette and had a beer. That felt good.
By mid-afternoon we were heading back towards the Cabopino. We stopped for a swim before heading fully in, diving deep under the boat and seeing if we could reach the plain and shallow floor.
Once the boat was docked and bedded for the night we grabbed a beer at Alberts. We knew we’d be back at the same table in a matter of hours. It was all about cycles on the south coast of Spain.
