Daylight found only Jack and myself awake. The two of us headed to the ocean. The storm the night before seemed to have destroyed the drainage system and the streets were filthy with sewage.
The whole town maintained a faeces and garbage smell for our entire stay. When I think about Essouira, it is how it absolutely stinks.
Jack and I walked and talked and got to know each other a little better. The beach was ours. He swam, I walked. Hunger helped us find a French patisserie where at a small table, surrounded by a low ceiling, wall packed tightly with amateur artworks and sweet baking smells, we ate fresh croissants with orange juices and hot chocolates.
AND THE BOATS COME HOME
Three players: Dunacan, Jack, myself Heavy grey sky
Sinking sun, harbour
Crowds of men around piles of wide-eyed fish, silver, red, blue. Fresh pink gills. Eels, sharks. Ground wet with rain and guts, working its way between my toes. Fast sales. Heads off, insides out. Cats between legs helping to clear waste. A mass of seagulls overhead painting a strong depiction of man and earth, death and cycles.
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