Richard Attree [Attree - Too Close to the Wind

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The previous daythe day I should have drowned, started well enough when I opened my eyes it was blowing a hoolie! Of course, the sangra and cerveza had been flowing in the bar where I worked and Saturday night had already become Sunday morning before I staggered back to my apartment. I woke with a hangover, as usual but my friend, the wind, was rattling the shutters, urging me to get out of bed even before the sun hit my window.

Looking out, the mountains were caught in that unnaturally pink light. The sky is immense here and every dawn is a performance. The beach was still in shadow, deserted, but white horses were dancing towards the bay, driven on by Los Alisios, the northeast trade-winds. Now I was awake, the hangover forgotten, and the day had a purpose.

The wind, waves and my windsurfing board had been my only friends lately, the only reasons to get out of bed voluntarily. My life had fallen apart and Id been existing as a recluse, a ghost in El Mdano, the small Canarian surf town where Id been living for the past few monthsalthough to call it living would be to flatter my existence. I avoided people, so I had no other friends and Id made no enemies. I was neither liked nor hated, just ignored.

For a while, after that Sunday I was the talk of the townmuch better known as a missing person than as the sad loner who nobody would miss. There was even a mention in the local newspaper, La Opinin. When no body turned up most people assumed I was at the bottom of the Atlantic or in some lucky sharks stomach. The story died and I was soon just a ghost again.

So, the day was a disaster but it started promisingly Conditions looked exceptional and I had a new friend. Stepping onto a brand new board for the first time is always a special moment for a windsurferlike launching a ship. We might not smash open a bottle of champagne but shed been well toasted the previous night. Now I was gagging to ride herperhaps thats why it all went pear-shaped.

The wind was perfect for a 4.7 metre sailevery wave-sailors favourite size and the swell had been building all night. The waves on the reef looked perfectodecent size in the sets, peeling cleanly. Id have them to myself for at least the next hour if I got my act togetherthats how early it was. A few tourists were having breakfast in the cafe on the boardwalk but the surf shops werent open yet. There was still nobody on the beach and I was the only windsurfer rigging up.

I grabbed my new board and ran my hands over her flowing lines. It was a little ritual I hada pause before I entered the fray, a moment to be inspired by the craftsmanship I held in my hands. She was made by the local shaper: Rick, of WHY Custom Wave Boardsa classic, elegant shape with minimal but effective graphics. Id asked Rick to make me a pure white board with just his logo in bold black 3-D letters. I told him I wanted something unique, a one-off, so I requested that he add a question mark and I specified that my board should be the only one ever produced with this.

I gazed at the board and the customised graphics confronted me with a simple, stark question: WHY? I took a moment to consider my answer. From now on this would be part of the rituala moment to remind myself why I spent so much time and resources on this obsessive activity; remind myself how lucky I was to be able to escape gravity and surf the wind. To anyone else she was just a chunk of foam, fibreglass, carbon and epoxy but I was about to trust her with my life. Her logo was a reminder: never take this for granted.

My moment of reflection observed, I threw the equipment together, working on autopilot. My brain didnt need to be engagedI could rig in my sleep. The routine was the same every time and a decade of performing it whenever my friend, the wind, called had ingrained it in my subconscious. I unrolled the sail onto the boardwalk, sleeved the mast and pulled on the downhaul without taking my eyes from the horizon. I clamped the boom to the mast and attached the outhaul, my focus still on the waves.

A set rolled in and I watched as geometric lines of surf marched across the reef. I picked one and imagined myself riding it, my body making strange little movements like a bizarre dance to a private soundtrack. Taking my eyes from the water I met a tourists startled gaze, bemused by my antics, intrigued that my morning had such a clear purpose. I nodded distractedly, glanced down and was surprised to find I had everything ready to go.

A gust of wind swirled up the sand towards me, tugging at my sail impatiently. I Jammed the rig into my board and sprinted to the water.

That was my first mistake: not pausing for a second to check the equipment. A windsurfing rig is attached to the board by something called a universal joint (UJ). Theres a clue in that innocuous-sounding jargon. The term: universal is normally reserved for something important, crucial even. Take the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, for instance. Its more than a heap of words hastily flung togetherits a milestone document in the history of humanity, carefully constructed to safeguard lives and liberty.