The Kite Beach – Part 1: Lines

Essaouira was famous for its wind, and Isabel had been blown sideways three times before she reached the kite school.

"You are the lesson at ten," said the instructor, on the beach. He was thirty-five, lean and sun-dark, with a quick grin and a cloud of black curls. "Karim. Welcome to the strongest wind in Morocco."

"I can tell."

"It is a good wind. It is honest."

She was thirty-two, a lawyer from Madrid, on a rare week off, and she hated not being in control. Karim spread a huge red kite on the sand and showed her the lines, the bar, the harness. She nodded briskly and forgot everything he said.

By noon, she had been dragged face-down through the shallows four times.

"I'm terrible," she said, spitting sand.

"You are a beginner. It is different."

"I'm used to being good."

"Ah." He crouched beside her. "Then this is very healthy."

He stood behind her, hands over hers on the bar, and showed her how to fly the kite in slow figure-eights above the surf. "Don't pull. Guide. The wind knows where to go. You only tell it how."

The kite rose, wide and red against the pale sky. She felt its pull in her arms, enormous and alive, and laughed aloud.

"Yes," said Karim, behind her ear. "Like that."

In the evening, they sat on the sea wall with mint tea, watching the sun sink into the Atlantic.

"Can I ask you something?" said Isabel.

"Yes."

"Do you ever get tired of beginners?"

"Never," said Karim. "They are the only ones who are honest about being afraid."

"Green?" she said, reaching for the word.

"Green," said Karim, and smiled slowly. "Very green. Tomorrow, you will stand up."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Standing Up.