I’m camped out on the edge of town, sleeping in sand, dirt and dust, the grains of this isle. Vans of nomads are scattered along a bumpy trail, their faint fires a distant glow in the night. Someone says the man in the rusting Renault is on the run from the police, I’ve seen him, I believe them. I’m here to windsurf, others are here to escape, we’re all escaping. It’s the end of the eighties, the neon’s beginning to fade and everyone’s looking a way out, Fuerte’ is the ticket. Mornings are slow, the town sleeps, everyone sleeps, even the wind. The waking starts with the Germans, curtains parting on their well built vans by well built men. Blonde and tanned with women the same, they want the wind first. I wait for my lift to the beach, it won’t be long, the commute has started for the ‘No Work Team’. I meet more Germans on the beach, they’re naked but nobody seems to care, even though it spoils the pristine view. Sand whispers over the road as the breeze begins. Clear sea, clear sky, clean wind. Sail, sleep, repeat. Life here is quiet, tranquilo.