A Portuguese Man-o-war

It was a quiet day — sun beating down, heavy and unforgiving. Waves were sparse. And lethargic when they did arrive, late.
I was sitting on my board off the coast of Morocco.
Waiting.
Waiting for the waves to come in — to try once more to catch, ride and tame the breaking water.
Waiting for something to happen — anything.
For certainty, excitement, purpose.
The conventional paths had proven arduous, stressful and ultimately too much. I wanted out. I wanted up; but not like that.
So I changed the question. Changed the game. Changed the parameters. I would win at the game of “being a mad bastard”.
It wasn’t working — but it sounded good. I had headed off to surf down the West Coast of Africa.
The biggest risk in surfing in Taghazout, was getting sick from ingesting the filthy water. The second biggest risk was a surf injury from the reef and point breaks. Then it was sun-stroke and dehydration.
Then there were the jellyfish.
Portuguese Man-o-war; deadly. And worse than that, sore. There had been sightings a few weeks before — a large pod of them floating off Killer Point. Laying siege.
The sun was continuing to apply its blistering pressure to my neck, nose and blossoming bald spot — there was movement on the horizon. A set of clean, big waves peeking their head above the waterline.
I was set to pounce — well positioned. Ready.
I take a few strokes to line myself up — when my foot grazes something soft but heavy, solid but movable. Jelly-like. A look behind and there it is — transparent, languid, dangerous. Large.
I paddle for dear life — my arms doing circles, like Tom and Jerry in the cartoons. The waves come crashing down around me, pushing me back into the danger zone. I paddle on. And on. And on.
When I final have put enough distance behind me I pull up. Sit on the board, panting, arms burning, out of breath. I check my foot. No immediate burns — it’s a bit red. And tingling. But I seem to have gotten away with it.
I can relax. For now. And return to waiting — sun beating down, heavy and unforgiving. Waves once more sparse. And lethargic when they did arrive, late.
And out of the corner of my eye, I see it again. Panic stations. As it floats on front of me, propelled by the current. Passive and dangerous.
A white plastic bag.
