The last few days have been a slow meander through swimming and running for V, suppers in Tarifa and general wanderings. It turns out that there’s a limit to the number of ways you can make “and then we went for coffee” sound interesting…
V’s swimming is better. On Thursday, she appeared, wetsuit in bag again, announcing that Adele’s song of “Rolling in the Deep’ is a cover of an Aretha Franklin song.
“Yes” she says, playing the vocals her phone Wow – Adele’s cover is exactly the same as the original…
“It might be older you know” says M to V, “Older than Aretha”
“You think so?”
Out comes Google and the two of them hunt for information on-line.
“Wait a minute!” exclaims M…
He holds up his phone for the pair of us to examine.
Aretha Franklin has done the copy, an Exact copy of Adele’s song, beat for beat, tone for tone, the same song with just a different voice.
I guess that’s how you know you’ve made it, when Aretha Franklin does a cover version of your material…
After which, V took to the water again, in strong surf. She managed to body surf some of the 8’ rollers, but after the second wipeout she came back to shore. Using Google Maps M sees that Tarifa has a large port and a sheltered harbour.
Relocating finds us a bay, beside a port for the large ships and ferries that move in and out of Tarifa’s waters. We choose a safe route, well away from motorized boats. In the preferred zone, there are just a couple of snorkellers, pootling around in the seabeds, looking for long-lost treasures.
It’s half a mile from where M and I sit, to the furthest shore of the bay and back again. So, she’ll need to do this twice to bag her mile. The first lap is uneventful. As she starts the second, a speedboat zooms out of the harbor, into the bay where V and the two snorkel pipes are making their peaceful ways around the shore. There appear to be two young men in the craft. Distracted by something, both are heading for the same ‘safe corner’ we’ve identified for Vicks. As the boat’s speed increases, the two inhabitants are engaged with something on the boat’s floor, their backs to the wheel and the direction in which the boat is hurtling, unmanaged.
I stand helplessly on the harbor wall, watching V’s rhythm of: ‘3-strokes and breathe’, ‘3-stroke’s as the boat speeds onwards. As I stand about to start shouting and waving, the man nearest the wheel looks up, still oblivious of the swimmers and casually turns their potential death trap in a wide loop out to sea and then back even at an faster pace heading inside the port walls, just for kicks.
As the boat disappears, I can finally breathe. All three swimmers are safe. Now, I cannot afford only to keep my eyes pinned to V, I’m also anxiously glancing over at the harbor, scrutinizing for movements, just in case.
Vicks is making good time. Lap 1 was 18 minutes for the ½ mile, potentially knocking a whapping 12minutes of her previous speed if she can maintain this pace. She’s slightly off course, as she heads to the further shore, arcing her way seaward toward that destination rather than going in a straight line.
Which is precisely when the thoughtless buggers in the boat appear again. This time, I’m jumping up and down on the harbor wall, gesticulating madly as these buffoons behind the wheel speed with their super-sharp propellers toward my one and only daughter. I’ve no idea if they see me. One of the idiots does indeed look up and by this time I’m alternating between crazy waving and pointing to the sea where V and one of the snorkellers are very close. The boat deviates in its course, does a crazy sharp turn sending waves of wake bashing against the harbor wall below me, but it goes, thankfully, back into the port where it belongs.
I want to run and shout at them, punch them, but V’s now approaching the other side of the bay. It takes me the same time to run round to this beach as it does for Vicks to reach it. She heard rather than saw the speedboat and felt it’s watery-impact. I suggest an alternative course back to M, hugging the line of the wall, where the worst that can happen is that she comes close to the waving fronds of rust-coloured seaweed.
And, ten minutes later, we’re wrapping a towel round her shoulders, gathering her stuff and getting her out of the water, onto dry, safe land. V’s training is a nerve-wracking experience, it’s exhausting!.
Friday deviated from the routine of: ‘get up – do/watch some form of training – realize its now mid afternoon – find food’.
If you face the shoreline from where we’re camped at Tarifa and follow it West, there’s a curious, enormous lump of sand, perhaps 1/4 a mile wide. It’s as if a narrow band of wind has swept up from the North African shore, visible over a short sea break, and dumped its load onto the Spanish shore. It stands proud, by as much as fifty feet from the trees that surround it. Literally, a lump of sand, incongruously deadweight in the first that contains it. It’s held our attention for the last few days but we’ve never ventured out toward it. So, on our last full day here, with Google announcing directions, that’s where we point the car.
We find the Playa Bolonia, an archeological site, not as big as Herculaneum, but sizeable none-the-less. And slap beside the ruins, separated from us by a hedge of wild geraniums about to burst into glorious poppy-red blooms, is a café for lunch, specializing in fresh fish. Then we follow a road that we think might take us to the enormous sand dune, but which, instead carries us upward.
Upward and upward.
There’s rock. Lots of rock. But nowhere, despite my scrutiny is there a single bolt or scarp of evidence of climbing. Strange. If I love climbing, the Spaniards are addicted. Every face of granite that you can get a bolt or bit of gear in, generally has evidence of climbing activity. Here though: none.
As our car travels up the hillside, we leave scrub forest behind us, move toward roads that become rougher, pockmarked by rock falls. There’s a plateau, a space to park awhile, gaze out across endless vista. My eye is caught by a movement on the top of a ledge in the crag face. The movement changes shape, opens enormous wings and floats, effort free on a thermal, circling with the breeze into the sky. Followed by another, a third, a fourth, fifth and sixth eagle. Huge, majestic creatures, encompassing stillness even when airborne as if their flight is of a cloud or a flower petal, carried aloft. They turn and turn again.
We found this place, this moment, by accident, but it’s veracity captures us, holds us still. Shortly after, the road abruptly ends, barricaded where development has ceased, as if someone decided that humanity’s encroachment on nature had gone far enough. Which means that we have to descend. V and I have planned a run, 8 or so miles back toward Tarifa, contributing to her triathlon training.
So much has come out of these few days. Lessons about swimming and competing, so that V knows she can take part in this race of madness that she’s paid into. Learning about the size of eagles and why the many faces of the rock here, only hold evidence of nature, not of man’s insubstantial conquests.
Well done Tarifa. Thank you.