Today was the first day I have seen this sea with any waves. It is usually quite flat. There were people surfing (which seldom happens here, at any time of the year). I found it difficult to stand in the waves, as they had tremendous power on-shore (remember, the beach in Barceloneta is entirely man-made, and drops off very quickly).

Two drunk guys on the beach today, here in Barceloneta, between 7:30 and 8:00 pm. One was completely wasted and trying to get back into the water. His friend, who had just opened another bottle of beer was blocking him, to the best of his ability.

The drunk guy (without the bottle in his hand) made it past his friend and fell face first into a wave. He lay there, face down, not moving while the wave tossed him a half meter high and low. As it tumbled him, he tried to stand but couldn’t get back to his feet.

His friend, still holding the beer, walked out into the water and tried to guide him back to shore. The next wave knocked him over as well, his beer now a mixture of salty water and brew.

The first guy was being tossed about as if in a washing-machine, mostly with his face under water. It was clear he was not going to get out again and would likely drown.

Thousands of people on the beach, yet no one doing anything. I ran down to the shore and waited. I did not want to go out into the water, as he could pull me under. The next wave tossed him to my feet, the water a half meter deep. I grabbed his shirt, lifted him, wrapped my arms under his and dragged him up onto the beach. He attempted to stand, stumbled, and I dragged him further up, to dry land.

Again, no one else assisting, but everyone watching.

He struggled to his feet, coughing, and tried to walk back into the water. I placed my leg behind his, pushed hard on his chest, and took him down. I threw his arm over his head and pinned it to the sand, placing my knee on his upper arm, the full weight of my body on his chest.

I yelled at him, “Hombre! No mas! No pincha mas, ok?!”

He nodded, but was still catching his breath.

His friend came along side, bottle still in hand. I pointed to the bottle and told him to empty it. He did, on command, and then thanked me for helping his friend.

I held him in position until he stopped struggling, and asked his friend to look after him (for what that was worth). I stood, they both shook my hand. Ten minutes later, they were both wobbling around the beach again.

By the public showers, I watched, waiting to see what would happen. Someone offered them two Cokes. The drunk fell down and lay still.

Barcelona, Spain – July 20
I was in the ocean twice today, at 7:30 am and again this evening. The water is so incredibly warm. I have not experienced anything like this since Hawaii. Amazing. I swam nearly 1km today, with one break on the beach. I am not an efficient swimmer, having had no lessons since I was six years of age.

This evening I will watch a few Youtube videos to see if I can improve my strokes.

I typically move from breast stroke to side stroke to back stroke to the other side and breast again, essentially rolling as I go to give muscle groups a break. All my days in the turbulent surf at Muizenberg, even if on a surf board, has given me greater confidence in the ocean, and more stamina.

Today, I recognised that I had hit a swimming “high”, the sensation that I could go on forever. As with running, it took about 30-40 minutes for me to get past that first plateau, and then the breathing and rhythm came easily.

My goal is to swim 1 mile, without a break, before I leave Spain.

July 24
I accomplished my goal! I swam 1.65 km (1 mile) without stopping. Damn! It took over an hour. Might have been faster to crawl on all fours (backward), but I made it.

The stretch between the man-made break (upper right) and the coastline near the W Hotel (lower right) was a bit scary for me as I have never swam that distance before, unable to see the bottom or return to something safe.

However, what the satellite image does not show are a half dozen buoys, anchored by long chains to the ocean floor. If need be, I could have clung to one of them, each was about 100 meter apart.

When I completed the lap, I felt as thought I had been run over by a bus, went back to Matt’s flat and slept for an hour.

Such amazing adventures unfold when you live life with little planning.

Tired of sweating all day, and all night, I decided to sleep on the beach here in Barcelona, two nights ago. Had to wait ’till the police cleared everyone off, the sand grooming machines gone, everyone returned to settle in for the night.

I fell to sleep to the sound of waves at my feet, and a solo trumpet playing a few dozen meters behind me. At 3:00 am, I woke to a light rain on my face. I was not worried until the lightning strikes were visible in the foreground. With the majority of patrons in this open air hostel, I packed my blankets and walked back toward my borrowed flat, to the patter of rain drops on the sand.

Not far from my resting spot, I noted a woman’s purse, unattended. I looked to a couple sitting ten meters to my front. They shrugged. I took it with me. The next morning I opened it to find a novel in English, a Spanish ID card, a bank card, eye glasses, a number of pencils, pens, and a sketchbook filled with wonderful sketches and drawings.

I worked for two hours to locate “Carla Besora”. I found her address an hour north of Barcelona, a few tickets stubs to know she was in the area the same day I discovered her bag. A Google search confirmed photos with the ID card.

I called Carla’s number in Brussels, as given in the notebook, but it was switched off. I contacted the company which hosted the photos I found via Google. They denied knowing her. I confirmed what I saw in Google images, wrote again, and directly referred to the photos on their website.

“Ah! Yes! We interviewed her last year! Good investigation work! I will email her your contact information.” Two hours later, I received a phone call. It was Carla. She was so excited that I had found her bag. As is standard in Barcelona, it was nabbed while she was sitting on the beach, cash removed, and then dropped only a few meters distance.

Carla came to meet me yesterday evening. She is an illustrator, and that notebook contained all her ideas for the past several months. As a gift for my effort, she presented me with one of her books, a beautiful, rich journey through an iconographic story without words.

I encourage you to visit her work at cargocollective.com/carlabesora

What an adventure, unplanned!

Here in Madrid, Spain, I reunited with Dalia, a friend I have not seen since 2004 in the little mountain town of Vinales, Cuba.

Between the two of us, we recalled so many splendid moments in those distant days, when the call of the limestone climbing was all that mattered. I would sharpen a machete each morning and march through farmers’ fields, cutting pathways to caves and boulders. The Cubanos on their way to work, standing in the back of a Russian dump truck or crammed too tight in an old bus, would pass and yell to me, wondering why this American was carrying a machete and where he could be going.

Each weekend my Cuban friends would follow me to those hollow domes, to be the first to climb the new problems I had set. Do you remember “La vangenza de Ana Maria”? A mossy, slippery, nearly green wall at the back of the cave. Ana Maria, the smallest of us all, was the first to make it to the top without falling.

When the sun had set, we filled the plastic containers my host family daily provided for my lunch with rocks and sand, marching down the middle of the road by moonlight. We danced and sang to the rhythm of shakers and shoes against pavement.

Once we were camped at a home not registered as a casa particular and a neighbour called the police, a typical event in a totalitarian state. Anibal’s aunt would be fined, jailed, or worse–if caught with Americans in her home. Taralee and I jumped in the back of a dump truck and sped off to a designated intersection marked by a large tree, an hour down the road. We were reunited later that day and Anibal’s aunt was unscathed.

Posterboy Anibal, Russo, Renier, Dalia and Elaine, El Turbo and Anna Maria, the German Tom and Canadian Devin. What an eclectic crew, like none before and none to come again. Dalia confirmed this evening, as we walked to catch her bus, “You came at a special time Kai. Those days were very unique. Nearly everyone we knew left Cuba and Vinales was never the same.”

Those moments came to life for me again, like something out of a story book.

Thank you Dalia, for conversation and story time.