The Surf School – Part 1: Whitewater

"Paddle," said Noor. "Paddle, paddle, paddle. Now stand!"

Camille stood for exactly one second and then fell off the back of the board with a splash.

"That was good!"

"That was terrible," said Camille, surfacing, spitting water.

"It was a good terrible. You stood."

It was Tuesday, the third day, a bright cool morning at the Basque coast. The Atlantic rolled in long soft lines under a blue sky. Camille, twenty-nine, an accountant from Lyon on her first holiday in three years, clung to the board in her borrowed wetsuit and watched Noor wade over, laughing. Noor, thirty-four, was brown and wiry, with sun-bleached hair in a messy knot and a whistle around her neck. She had been smiling at Camille since the first lesson in a way that did not feel like customer service.

"Again," said Noor.

"I can't."

"You can. I'll be next to you." She held the board steady, hand resting lightly near Camille's. "I won't let go until you tell me."

Camille tried again. And again. By the end of the lesson she was grinning with sand in her teeth. Noor ruffled her hair with a salty hand. "Tomorrow, you will ride a wave all the way in."

"If I do?"

"I will buy you a coffee."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I will buy you a coffee anyway." Noor grinned. "I wanted to find an excuse."

Camille blushed so hard she could feel it through the cold. "I'd like the coffee," she said. "With or without waves."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Ride It In.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Ride It In.