When the swell was small, everyone piled into their cars and headed up the coast to the most exposed spots. Tom, Lee and I, the three left behind, decided to catch the bus and meet them there. Sitting on the side of a dusty Moroccan road, watching the old cars and trucks pass by. One hour later, after 3 overcrowded buses had refused to let us on with boards, we aborted the plan.

With no waves in walkable distance, we decided that our only form of escape would be to hire a scooter. Away we went, boards at our side, cradled in homemade hooks. We were barely out of town and heading down the hill when Tom hit the breaks, a bolt had rattled itself loose and alerted him by hitting his foot before disappearing into the verge. The front rack wiggled free, dropped to the road with our boards hitting the tarmac, we put our flip flopped feet on the floor to slow our descent while trying to save the boards. We got away with cut toes, emaciated flip flops and minor dings to the boards.

After a day of trying to get out of town, battling setbacks, the swell started to show at the home spots. With everyone else up the coast, we reverted to what we can rely on, a 40 minute walk to score an empty, small, glassy session, surfing waves with stinging toes.

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