Jan-Willem Anker

You watch water rush ashore in lines of white burst, from a film director’s seat. Darkness arrives on your veranda of The Torch hotel, as sun survives with orange, with gusts of screamy pink.



Yesterday afternoon, the owner tells you, at that place over there, a kite surfer was taken up by a ruckus of wind. His friends watched him flying into the light, after which he plunged for the rocks. His quivering torso, for his kite had swirled about his body and sliced.



The man had been a pilot, had known pranks the Atlantic wind is prone to. If required, he could have estimated the havoc of opposing clouds when they clash. Enjoying his Agua Ardente, the owner ends: One asshole less!