How important is it to have a towel/correct towel on holidays/in life.
Packing is a good way to start any holiday! Automatically assuming that there would be a towel/serval towels at surf holiday accommodation. I always travel light with as much inappropriate, non-practical clothing as I can fit into my hand (job) luggage…aka NO towel EVER required, Jah will provide. High five myself for fitting everything into my hand luggage case and in my friend’s massive suitcase which can carry two whole huge bags of toiletries. I was told in the departures queue that there were a couple of towels knocking about (let’s face it there always are a couple) in the holiday house. Boom! Sorted.
We arrived at our location in Anchor Point, Morocco at about five pm that evening, after getting boards and a FREE medium ladies, cool Capri pant, 3/4 sleeved wetsuit for myself… Obvs everyone else had checked in massive luggage with warm wetsuits! The sun was out, the boards were on the roof and too excited about practicalities, I changed into my tiny FREE wetsuit (no booties or flip-flops). Hey, it was warm and there were only a token amount of rocks, boulders, dog shite and broken glass to overcome on the way to the beach. Be GRAND. Totally ignoring all instructions about lockboxes (something you can put keys in with a four-digit combination code); there were two apparently; one attached to the car for the car keys and one attached to the balcony table for the house keys with different number codes. So that is 2 two sets of codes, with 4 numbers each in random orders…
Given it took me SIX YEARS to memorise my own mobile phone number there was no chance of me trying to remember any of these, obvs.
Whooooooo weeeeeee there are camels on the beach (OK one camel) the sun is setting and the water is, well coolish actually…So I jump into the sea with my 9 foot Bic, (which is a make of board not a large lady razor/pen). As normal, everyone paddles out far further than myself as I am too excited looking at the camel, squealing at the jumping fish and getting dragged out by the current, with my now drafty backless Barbie sized wetsuit (bearing in mind I am six foot one with average size boobaloobas, which are amazing.)
After getting dragged around in the sea catching a few junior waves as the sun was setting over the Atlantic Ocean, I decided to get out, to make my way across the pebbly, bouldery beach to the cars where one of the lock boxes is dangling from the back undercarriage. I remembered where one of the boxes are! How great am I! Unable to recall from my imaginary imagination what the code was for the first lockbox, I just started yanking it. One of the locals came up to me thinking I was breaking into the car! Moroccan carpark neighbourhood watch?
He started to ask me what I was doing! By now it was getting dark, I was freezing cold and my fingers had started to go white. He then managed to convince me to look after his tiny puppy called Linda, who would be asleep ‘on the shelf’ (I know how that feels luv), whilst he goes into Taghazout town centre for the night! Okay I reply.
I cannot get into the car, however, I know where the second lockbox is, right? So I make the journey from the car down and across the rocks with my white fingers, backless wetsuit, carrying a nine-foot board. Barefoot. I find the second lock box locked under the table. I can barely make out the numbers (that I don’t know the code to) in the failing light. So my next super great idea was to go back to the car, minus the board and somehow the first lockbox would have magically opened!
Errrrr it hadn’t.
And what about Linda the puppy what time were my puppy sitting duties due to commence? Did she have a blanket? Food? What would I do if she started to cry, what would Linda do if I started to cry!
Oh it was all too much responsibility…
Eventually, the rest of the lads came back with stories of lockbox codes which involved their ages and a blow job (69) and ages of women they would like to be with! Totes sense! I cannot believe I didn’t think of that!
By now I am totally freezing and damp! And I didn’t even have a towel! In the kitchen, there was this stiff piece of blue and white fabric which had the texture of a wall hanging and the look of a tea towel. I instantly fell in like with it! This 4 by 4 centimetre square of cloth was going to save me!
Panic! No hot water! Just get changed before hyperthermia sets in!!!! Apparently, the blue tap is hot and the red is cold, and breathe… I finally warm up and dry my non ‘medium’ self off with the 4 by 4 square, (who I have now named ‘towel’) He is totally a fully functioning drying implement and does truly deserve a proper name. Note to self must buy a ‘proper towel’ and discard ‘towel’ I don’t say this to myself out loud as I don’t want to offend ‘towel’ who has pride of place drying of the back of my plastic bedroom furniture chair.
Two days later I am still using ‘towel’ and some of the stains are looking a bit dodgy; I do hope he has not been doubled up as an actual tea towel by my fellow surf buds and I will probs keep quiet if he has! But I truly love him! Maybe the life lesson is this; Just get any old towel and just maybe he will work for you? But until that day I will keep not looking for the super deluxe, fluffy, well rounded/squared/rectangled, fat, age-appropriate towel!