The Dash 2004
A little old, this article, but it was such a good read… and Mike from Estupendo has given us permission to publish it here for you to share too. We enjoy you enjoy reading this article as much as we did.
The Dash 2004 – A Personal Perspective
I’m sure many other people’s minds work in the same way as mine. Are the great moments you have enjoyed etched into your memory like a fantastic movie that you can replay at will, with every sight and sound captured in perfect digital format? This weekend I took part in The Dash, and there were so many great moments that I now have a whole feature film stored, and one that I will be replaying until I take my final breath. You’ll be able to read the facts in many publications, and watch the film made for Eurosport television, but I would like to share some of my movie with you:
Reel One
We’re aboard a Maxi racing yacht – 85 feet of taut thoroughbred racing machine. We’re captained by a Norwegian, crewed by two Brits, and we have French, German, Spanish, Moroccan and British passengers – a truly eclectic and international mix, but amazingly, there are another 29 boats on the sea ahead of us, all with an international mix of people, and all with Tarfaya on the Saharan coast programmed into their GPS systems. Aboard Il Moro de Venezia, we communicate with each other in several languages, the more talented acting as translators, without even being asked. Our bond has been instant – we know this is going to be special.
Amongst the fleet there are 7 windurfers, 6 kitesurfers, a Hobie Catamaran, and a two man kayak. The last left at 3 AM, and is being oared by famous restaurant owner Kumar Dadlani, who founded the Lani’s restaurant chain, together with one of his managers. It is these sailors who are the real heroes this weekend – and I’m proud to call most of them friends. Each is supported by one dedicated craft, in most cases Zodiac high speed semi inflatables. They are ahead of us because we’ve had some technical problems, and we’re an hour and a half behind the fleet. We’re on our own, but we’re flat out in light winds trying to catch them. Our link is our VHF radio, and we’re getting updates from the others. Amongst the crackling static, I talk to Nick and Sasha on their Hobie, to Benn on his board and Benn’s Dad aboard the family yacht. We’re trying to be professional and maintain good radio discipline, but the excitement is in the slight choke in our voices as we realise that some of the heroes may make it all the way to Tarfaya.
At the half way stage we catch a tandem windsurfer, with their support boat close by. We run together for a mile or so, and then the boys stop for a rest and a snack. The majestic Il Moro ploughs on past, with us waving and cheering. The guys on the board look tired, but we feel we may have given them a little strength.
“Our” helicopter passes overhead at regular intervals, filming us waving and shouting. We all hope to see ourselves on Eurosport sometime soon.
We’re still 20 miles out from Africa when we call ahead for berthing information and an update. We’ve had 7 hours at sea, and we’ve had to deal with some traumas of our own, but we’re all elated to find out that two kitesurfers have made it! High fives and hugs all around, The Dash has been done! The Hobie’s coming in too, but Benn’s struggling with light winds and a hammerhead shark. Ultimately, he’ll succumb to the former, unable to stay afloat – but he gets very close.
Reel Two
We’re anchored off the little harbour as we’re too big to go in. A fleet of little white boats have pulled up alongside, a small army of locals are aboard and we’re unloading the charity stuff. We form a chain, all different ages, many nationalities, wheelchairs, crutches, clothing and kid’s toys are pulled from our hold. The money to buy these things has been raised by both this event and Las Tres Islas, which took place last month. I proudly point at the wheelchair my friends and colleagues bought by sponsoring my entry into the swim leg from La Graciosa to Lanzarote. The little boats are filled one by one, and then it’s our turn. We jump aboard and are motored around the harbour wall. The stink of fish is unbelievable; the contrast between our fleet and the local boats is staggering. To our left we have millions of Euros worth of yachts, with radars and aerials and air conditioning. To our right 76 ( I counted them) small wooden boats, open to the elements and all painted green. We literally have to pull ourselves through these boats to get to some steps. As we mount them, we can see fish heads all around us, discarded from this week’s catch. What looks like snowflakes blowing in the wind turns out to be fish scales – millions of them, and they are settling on our clothes and luggage.
Their fishermen have stopped to watch us – we must look bizzare to them in our Quicksilver and Nike uniforms - all dazzling patterns contrasting with their practical and more modest garb. We are driven through the streets, Tarfaya is tatty and obviously so very poor. There is silence in our little bus as we try to take in that this place is only 100KM from our home – it shares our weather and our Ocean, but it couldn’t be more different. We were proud to be bringing our charity goods, but we begin to feel inadequate, that we could perhaps have done more. There are children everywhere, but so many of them seem to be physically disabled, with club feet or damaged hands. Everyone is kept in check by armed police and The Army. They stand in neat lines watching these strange incomers.
Reel Three
What a welcome! All 220 of us have been brought to a small hotel, which has been laid out for a feast. We’re all mixed up on round tables. A dreadlocked surf dude is chatting to an army officer. A Moslem lady, with only her eyes on display, is in deep conversation with a bare midriffed babe. I am talking to The Harbour Master, in a Gold encrusted uniform, and his friend from the National Guard. They are curious, and ask so many questions about our country, our lifestyle and our journey.
We form a queue for the buffet, a sumptuous feast of spicy chicken, Lamb stew, fruit and salad. There are speeches, in several languages, and the whole event is covered by local television, as well as by our crews. This has been a wonderful welcome, but we are aware that the people sharing our meal are the important people of Tarfaya, and that the real people are outside, waiting patiently to meet us.
After dinner, we walk around the town, the streets are sand, and the endless Sahara desert stretches into the distance. The houses are run down and look uncared for, the few vehicles we see are rough and ready utilities – many people are travelling by donkey and cart. There are no fripperies here, nothing cosmetic, life is functional – a truck is simply a means of transporting goods or people, a house is simply somewhere to keep the weather out.
Reel Four
We are shown our encampment, which is just back from the main sandy beach. Our masts to the left, and our helicopter parked nonchalantly to the right offer yet another contrast with our home for the night. Beautiful rugs have been laid out in the centre of a three sided square of massive Bedouin tents, filled with mattresses. We have Police all around us, and a lot of the local population are here, standing at a respectful distance, but watching us and the entertainment which has been laid on. A local combo plays Arabic music at high volume. A few of our crew try to tap their feet in rhythm, and the locals sway gently to the sound.
A group of local women are painting temporary tattoos on “our” ladies feet. It sounds like the women are communicating well and finding common ground – there is much laughter.
A deal is done. We can borrow the local band’s PA system. Suddenly the night air is filled with electric guitar being tuned. Galley is playing lead and about to sing, Gary is MC and has his harmonica, a cameraman pulls out an acoustic guitar, and someone is sharing the bongos with a local player. Good old rock and roll bursts forth at maximum decibels. The local crowd grows, still kept outside our camp, but they’re starting to boogy now, they’re clapping along with the old tunes. The women in their little circle get louder, and suddenly they’re up and dancing – then there’s an instant conga led by a Muslim lady with the brightest smile I have ever seen. We’re all up and dancing and laughing. Victor, the bank manager and kitesurfer goes to the huge crowd and waves them into our camp – the police try to stop them, but are overwhelmed as first a few break through, and then more and more. The cops give up and stand aside, and the people of Tarfaya join us – we have finally connected, music has provided the spark and we are one big group sharing it. We sing along, we clap and we dance. Galley sings an Irish folk song, a Tarfayan sings Jimmy Hendrix. This is the moment when two cultures collided, and we all became just people – happy, smiley people.
Reel Five
Early morning, and some of our guys are out off the beach on their kites – a spectacular sight which attracts many people. The surfers leap the waves performing tricks with the house in the sea (built by an Englishman in the 19th century) providing an amazing backdrop.
A couple of kids approach us, one has a badly withered foot, causing him to walk sideways. They ask us in French if we have any pens or paper. I’m distraught that we don’t, and promise myself that I will take some next year. Julie digs into her rucksack and finds a packet of cookies. The boys look incredulous and thank us profusely, hobbling away with their prize hidden under a shirt. Ten minutes later, and they walk past us with big smiles, crumbs around their faces, mouthing “Merci.”
It’s time to head home, another long voyage. Boards are strapped to yachts, hands are shaken all around – but we’re all thinking we haven’t had enough time. Our little adventure is over and Tarfaya begins to disappear into the haze behind us.
Ten miles out and the wind and sea really picks up. Il Moro heels to 35 degrees as her great sails fill. We’re making 11 knots, with water washing over the decks. We leave the other sailing boats behind, Il Moro coolly displaying the power that her racing design can generate. The helicopter says hello, and the zodiacs leap past us and we’re alone again. Everyone is quiet and movement almost impossible in the conditions. We’re all given several hours to reflect on our experiences, to have a first play of our private movies.
The two Maxis arrive in Marina Rubicon together. The sun is setting, there is a procession of carnival boats, and fireworks are exploding. I make my final radio call with the words “Il Moro calling all Dash vessels, we are back in port 36 hours after departure. Thank you from all of us aboard for making this an incredible weekend. Those of you still at sea, come home safe, we look forward to seeing you next year. This is Il Moro signing off from The Dash 2004.”
As I disembark I have a strong feeling I don’t want this to end. I sort of shout a general “Anyone coming for a beer in Lani’s?” and instantly hear it translated into several languages. We’re all tired and need to wash, so I don’t expect much. We arrive at the little bar and order the first one, and something amazing happens. Small groups of Dashers arrive and add tables to ours. Within 20 minutes everyone from the big boats is there, and then people from the other boats join us. Suddenly there are ten people there, then twenty, then thirty and we’re all talking excitedly about our trip. I chat with people I’ve never met before, and look around the table to see a huge range of ages and types of folk. We all know we have shared something amazing and we feel special and privileged. The night did eventually end, but like so much this weekend it will stay with us all.
Epilogue
The purpose of this trip, and indeed of Youths United SL, was and is to provide an extreme sports spectacle, to help the Saharan Charity L’ADAPH, and to begin to create cultural and economic links with our African neighbours. All of those aims were achieved – although I can’t help feeling we need to do more. In a time when our culture is clashing so badly with the Islam generally, I feel our little band has really made some inroads in that direction, albeit with a very small group of people. I know that everyone involved, from both sides, will never forget this weekend. I feel sure we have touched the Tarfayan’s life in a positive way, and I know they touched ours. The notion of a spectacular sports event, tied in with charity is an inspired one, and we all have Tila Braddock to thank for that, and of course the hundreds of people and sponsors who gave their time, money and energy to make the whole thing possible. In the cold light of day, what we achieved was small, an acorn from which a massive oak may, and should grow in the future. Imagine a world where this is commonplace, where those of us who are more fortunate can help those who aren’t – not by anonymously giving cash to a charity, but by meeting the people we are helping, being part of an amazing event, and actually taking the things they need to them. The phrase “Life changing experience” is used too often, but his has been so for me, and for most people involved.
