Sidi Ifni.

I want to remember the full moon and the silver ocean blending with the sand and the sky. That feeling of the sublime. The mist when we arrived. The white washed flatness of the town.
I want to remember Hotel Suerte Loca on first arrival, the feeling of coming home. I want to remember Restaurant Nomad and their sly acts of rebellion; the banned red wine fetched from somewhere secret; the woman with the dreads and the artist with the ego; the waiter with his songs and his strong Saharan pride.
I want to remember how we woke up the next day in the open-air riad with the blue detailing on the walls. The walk along the beach. The dark grey tidepools to my left. The sea urchins, crabs, and fishermen. The mist that never lifted. The red, purple, deep magenta rocky cliffs to my right. How they twisted and turned in a protective loom from above. None of us speaking, quiet smiles instead. The man who shared his hashish in the quaint cave and the many warnings of the rising tides. The reminder of how quickly the ocean’s beauty can turn deadly.

And the mist.

The mist remaining. 



How it seemed to follow.