Oceanside Suite

Perfect ocean side suite: a walkout to the beach. Nice patch of manicured grass for my morning sun salutations, then an epic keto buffet breakfast. The view of the sea when I throw open the night blinds a pristine panorama of literal aquamarine. Distant container ships the only reminder of the world out there, but other than kite surfers overflying the beach and hot shot lifeguard on a jet ski, there is nothing jarring to derail my asana(e). Doves, sparrows, and surf the only complements to my playlist of yoga friendly acid jazz blue-toothed to my B&O speaker. It was worth every hour spent online lining this shit up.

I focus on the ocean throughout my routine, channeling its’ energy. But by the end of my second salutation I am distracted by thirst. Thoughts intrude of quaffing one of the resort's bespoke smoothies in my beach bed as a material reward for my efforts. How better to celebrate further proximity to enlightenment than with spirulina boosted kale puréed to perfection with quinoa milk and cocoa (a touch of fresh pineapple for sweetness, keto be damned). Then I could hit the buffet just before they wrap it up. Between asana 3 and 4 I pause my focus and call room service. I tell them send it beachside if I don't have to answer the door. Between asana 4 and 5 a trim Spanish waiter in a knock-off Berluti sport shirt (and what I am sure is a razor haircut) arrives with the goods. It's tall, beautiful, green and cool but I refuse to sample it, or hurry the final fifth of my routine. The discipline will increase the intensity of pleasure when it is time.

To balance a tree-pose, I focus on a boat seemingly bobbing on the horizon. Holding the pose, I note the vessel grows larger. It is coming directly toward the beach. Distracted, I note it is an older wooden fishing boat not unlike the type colourfully painted to decorate roundabouts in the more touristed Canaries. They are reminders of a seafaring and fishing history, before it became all about tourists and beach raves.

But as it approaches I note the paint on this boat is faded, and it is listing slightly starboard (I sail too). It doesn't look much seaworthy either. When it’s closer it's apparent the deck is overflowing with...cargo. The lifeguard on the Sea Doo has noticed the boat and is now jetting parallel to it gesticulating and yelling. But the listing craft makes straight for the beach, running aground about fifty meters from me.

When the boat stops the cargo starts to fall into the surf. Then I see it’s not cargo at all, but human beings jumping and falling into the water. The life guard is circling on his jet ski and yelling. He is trying to get them back on the boat, or at least away from the resort. It is a private beach after all. But now there are dozens of people in the water, all ignoring him, and wading ashore.

When I deduce what's going on while trying to breath mindfully in camel pose, I consider getting my phone to video the disembarkation. How cool would that be on Instagram -- I vacationed close enough to Africa that refugees washed up on my beach! But I chided myself for even having this thought. Life is about experience, not display. I wasn't some social media influencer. So it would just be a cool story for dinner parties. I'd bookmark the video on the Spanish news if anybody wanted visuals.

As I transitioned to mountain-pose and began the requisite 20 breaths, one figure emerging from the surf and walked directly toward me. Unconsciously I switched to warrior one although that wasn't part of my usual sequence. When the figure was no more than ten metres away I saw it was a woman, and she was holding a bundle on her hip. She continued approaching, and I admittedly grew anxious. I had come to Fuerteventura for a singular experience, not direct contact. I deepened and strengthened the warrior-pose.

She stopped not five metres from me and observed me with curiosity. I couldn't tell what it was she was holding, but she held it with great care, though it did not move. She was dressed in what might have once been a colourful dashiki but was now faded and stained. The breeze shifted slightly, and it wafted a hint of sweat, urine and diesel that overpowered even my vetiver beard oil. I did not change my highly resolved warrior-pose and she did not take her eyes off me. I will not soon forget those eyes; blood shot, yellowed, staring right through me like I was inconsequential, despite my fierce warrior one. Resolutely I held her gaze, though admittedly by now I was alarmed. Her full lips were badly cracked. I thought the most natural thing I could do was transition to another pose, but which one ? Not Child-pose, and certainly not Happy Baby !

Finally, she broke our gaze. I felt I had successfully stood my ground. She looked down at the bundle she held, then she looked up and beyond me. When she walked past me I was, admittedly, relieved. I moved to warrior-two and stopped holding my breath. I just turned my head slightly to make sure she was leaving.

As she walked past the table on my patio, she paused. Then in one motion she picked up my smoothie, and gulped the whole thing, eschewing the straw. She made a sourpuss face before continuing up the path toward the road. This miffed me. When she was at a safe distance, I shouted after her: "You're welcome !" Meaning like, for the smoothie.

She turned and considering me for maybe a second, nodded a little acknowledgement, before walking on.