The Kite School – Part 1: Levante

"Loose hands," said Ismael. "Loose. The kite is not your enemy."

"It's trying to drown me."

"It is teaching you."

Marc spat out a mouthful of sea and laughed. The wind was blowing hard across the strait, the famous levante, and the beach at Tarifa was a riot of coloured kites flipping and swooping over a frothing grey-green sea. Africa shimmered on the horizon like a mirage. Marc, thirty-two, a graphic designer from Barcelona, had signed up for a week of lessons on an impulse and was already regretting it.

Ismael, thirty-five, the instructor, stood waist-deep beside him in a black wetsuit, strong and unhurried. He had a short dark beard, a gold stud in one ear and a patient, amused voice. "Again," he said. "Water start."

Marc tried. The kite surged, dragged him up, flung him down. Ismael was there in a second, a steadying hand on his back. "Good. Again."

By Wednesday, Marc was staying up on the board for ten metres. By Thursday, for fifty. On Friday, to his astonishment, he rode a long, bright, glittering line across the bay, whooping into the wind, with the kite arcing high above him.

He fell off in the shallows, shrieking with joy. Ismael hauled him up, grinning, soaked, and for one dizzy moment they stood chest to chest in the surf, laughing.

"You did it," said Ismael.

"I did it!"

"I am proud of you."

Marc looked at him. The spray glittered on his lashes. "Ismael."

"Yes?"

"Would you like to get a drink? When the wind drops?"

"I would," said Ismael. "I would also like to kiss you. If you would like that."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Calm Evening.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Calm Evening.