The Last Surf Tourist

By Michael Kew

EXPECTING ME: Jim, Devlon, Wisam—all 30-somethings, beachfront and beatific, smoking cigarettes, idle on sand in the shade of a white tent.

“You are Michael?” Devlon asks as I approach.

“Yeah. This the surf shack?”

“Yeah. I was told to keep an eye out for you while you’re surfing.”

“Have you met any foreigners who came here to surf?”

“No. No tourists at all. Only people coming here for work, government contracts, the refugee camps.” He looks amused. “Why are you here? You’re our first surf tourist, eh?”

Likely the last.