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If there was anything to that six-degrees-of-separation folderol, she must have been equally related to the entire population of the continent. Well, the group had spent a long, hard-drinking night in Nairobi at a sprawling house with mangy dead animals on the walls that the guy with the ponytail was caretaking. It was nice of the guy to divert to Kilifi to drop her off, but then Liana was attractive, and knew it. Mature adulthood—and the experience of being imposed upon herself—might have encouraged her to consider what showing up as an uninvited, impecunious house guest would require of her hosts. Though Liana imagined herself undemanding, even the easy to please required fresh sheets, which would have to be laundered after her departure, then dried and folded. She would require a towel for swimming, a second for her shower. She would expect dinner, replete with discreet refreshments of her wineglass, strong filtered coffee every morning, and—what cost older people more than a sponger in her early twenties realized—steady conversational energy channelled in her direction for the duration of her stay. For her part, Liana always repaid such hospitality with brightness and enthusiasm. Her effervescence came naturally. She would never have characterized it as an effort, until—and unless—she grew older herself. Her crusty husband, Beano the handle may have worked when he was a boy, but now that he was over sixty it sounded absurd , could probably use a little eye candy twitching onto their screened-in porch for sundowners: some narrow hips wrapped tightly in a fresh kikoi, long wet hair slicked back from a tanned, exertion-flushed face after a shower. Had Liana needed further rationalization of her amiable freeloading, she might also have reasoned that in Kenya every white household was overrun with underemployed servants. Not Regent and Beano but their African help would knot the mosquito netting over the guest bed. But Liana thought none of these things. She thought only that this was another opportunity for adventure on the cheap, and at that time economy trumped all other considerations. Not because she was rude, or prone to take advantage by nature. She was merely young. A perfectly pleasant girl on her first big excursion abroad, she would doubtless grow into a better-socialized woman who would make exorbitant hotel reservations rather than dream of dumping herself on total strangers. Yet midway through this casual mooching off the teeny-tiny-bit-pretentious photographer and her retired safari-guide husband who likewise seemed rather self-impressed, considering that Liana had already run into a dozen masters of the savanna just like him , Liana entered one eerily elongated window during which her eventual capacity to make sterner judgments of her youthful impositions from the perspective of a more worldly adulthood became imperilled. A window after which there might be no woman. There might only, ever, have been a girl—remembered, guiltily, uneasily, resentfully, by her aging, unwilling hosts more often than they would have preferred. Day Four. Mornings were consumed with texting friends back in Milwaukee about her exotic situation, with regular refills of passion-fruit juice. Even her muscle T clung uncomfortably, and Liana considered it a concession not to strip down to her running bra. She never proffered a few hundred shillings to contribute to the grocery bill, not because she was cheap—though she was; at her age, that went without saying—but because the gesture never occurred to her. As she sidled around the house in her bikini—gulping more passion-fruit juice at the counter, grabbing a fresh towel—her exhibitionism was unconscious; call it instinctive, suggesting an inborn feel for barter. Raised arms made her stomach look flatter. Returning for shoes would ruin her exit, so she picked her way carefully down the overgrown dirt track to the beach in bare feet. But everything in Africa was bigger. Emptying into the Indian Ocean, Kilifi Creek was a river—an impressively wide river at that—which opened into a giant lake sort of thing when she swam to the left and under the bridge. This time, in the interest of variety, she would strike out to the right. The water was cold. Yipping at every advance, Liana struggled out to the depth of her upper thighs, gingerly avoiding sharp rocks. Chiding herself not to be a wimp, she plunged forward. This was a familiar ritual of her childhood trips to Lake Winnebago: the shriek of inhalation, the hyperventilation, the panicked splashing to get the blood running, the soft surprise of how quickly the water feels warm. Liana considered herself a strong swimmer, of a kind. The sidestroke was contemplative. Its rhythm was ideally calibrated for a breath on every other kick, and resting only one cheek in the water allowed her to look around. It was less rigorous than the butterfly but not as geriatric as the breaststroke, and after long enough you still got tired—marvellously so. The late-afternoon light had just begun to mellow. The shores were forested, with richly shaded inlets and copses. They were green: good enough. It looked like wilderness: good enough. Not only was the affluent safari set too lazy to get in the water; by this late in the afternoon they were already drunk. This was the best part of the day. Blazing with yellow flora, red earth, and, at least outside Nairobi, unsullied azure sky, Africa was wasted on the woman. All she photographed was dust and poor people. Though she did hope that, before she hopped a ride back to Nairobi with Ponytail Guy, the couple would opt for a repeat of that antelope steak from the first night. The meat had been lean; rare in both senses of the word, it gave good text the next morning. She knew from the lake swims of childhood vacations that distance over water was hard to judge. If anything, the shore was farther away than it looked. So she pulled heavily to the right, and was struck by how long it took to make the trees appear appreciably larger. The pain was sharp. Nevertheless, she dropped her feet and discovered that this section of the creek was barely a foot and a half deep. Sloshing to a sun-warmed outcrop, she examined the top of her foot, which began to gush blood as soon as she lifted it out of the water. There was a flap. Something of a mess. The only way to return and put some kind of dressing on this stupid thing was to swim. As she stumbled through the shallows, her foot smarted. Yet, bathed in the cool water, it quickly grew numb. Once she had slogged in deep enough to resume her sidestroke, Liana reasoned, Big deal, I cut my foot. The water would keep the laceration clean; the chill would stanch the bleeding. So Liana continued to the right, making damned sure to swim out far enough so that she was in no danger of hitting another rock. Still, the cut had left her rattled. Her idyll had been violated. No longer gentle and welcoming, the shoreline shadows undulated with a hint of menace. The creek had bitten her. Having grown fitful, the sidestroke had transformed from luxury to chore. It was the flap. Kind of creepy. Liana resigned herself: this expedition was no longer fun. Churning a short length farther to satisfy pride, she turned around. And got nowhere. Stroking at full power, Liana could swear she was going backward. This was a creek , right? But an African creek. As for her having failed to detect the violent surge running at a forty-five-degree angle to the shoreline, an aphorism must have applied—something about never being aware of forces that are on your side until you defy them. Liana made another assessment of her position. Her best guess was that the shore had drifted farther away again. Very much farther. Which was now the least of her problems. Because the shore was not only distant. It stopped. Beyond the end of the land was nothing but water. Indian Ocean water. If she did not get out of the grip of the current, it would sweep her past that last little nub of the continent and out to sea. Suddenly the dearth of boats, Jet Skis, fellow-swimmers, and visible residents or tourists, drunken or not, seemed far less glorious. The sensation that descended was calm, determined, and quiet, though it was underwritten by a suppressed hysteria that it was not in her interest to indulge. Had she concentration to spare, she might have worked out that this whole emotional package was one of her first true tastes of adulthood: what happens when you realize that a great deal, or even everything, is at stake and that no one is going to help you. At least solitude discouraged theatrics. She had no audience to panic for. No one to exclaim to, no one to whom she might bemoan her quandary. It was all do, no say. Swimming directly against the current had proved fruitless. Instead, Liana angled sharply toward the shore, so that she was cutting across the current. Had she known her exact speed, and the exact rate at which the current was carrying her in the direction of the Indian Ocean, she would have been able to answer the question of whether she was about to die by solving a simple geometry problem: a point travels at a set speed at a set angle toward a line of a set length while moving at a set speed to the left. Either it will intersect the line or it will miss the line and keep travelling into wide open space. Liquid space, in this case. So she swam as hard and as steadily as she knew how. She trained her eyes on a distinctive rock formation as a navigational guide. Thinking about never having been all that proficient at geometry was hardly an assist, either, so she proceeded in a state of dumb animal optimism. The last of the sun glinted through the trees and winked out. Technically, the residual threads of pink and gray in the early-evening sky were very pretty. Maybe someone picked her up in a boat. Carried her round the southern bend to one of the resorts. I can see it: having to comb through her kit, search out her passport. Thrashing the bush, prodding the shallows. With the parents flying out and grilling all the servants and having meetings with the police. Expecting to stay here, of course, tearing hair and getting emotional while we urge them to please do eat some lunch. Going on tirades about how the local law enforcement is ineffectual and corrupt, and bringing in the F. CNN and that. You know the Americans—they love innocent-abroad stories. It beats me why their families keep letting kids holiday in Africa as if the whole world is a happy-clappy theme park. Do you think—would it help if we got a torch and went down to the dock? We could flash it about, shout her name out. She might just be lost. With luck, streaks of mud and a strong tan disguised what her weak, light-headed sensation suggested was a shocking pallor. She steadied herself by holding onto the sofa and got mud on the upholstery. Her face flickered between anger and relief, an expression that reminded Liana of her mother. The moon, in fact, had been obscured by cloud for the bulk of her wet grope back. Most of which had been conducted on her hands and knees in shallow water along the shore—land she was not about to let out of her clutches for one minute. The muck had been treacherous with more biting rocks. That cut looks deep, Liana. Liana weaved to the other side of the house, leaving red footprints down the hall. She huddled under the dribble until finally the water grew tepid, and then, with a shudder, wrapped herself in one of their big white bath sheets, trying to keep from getting blood on the towel. Meanwhile, Liana threw the couple a bone: she told them how she had injured her foot, embellishing just enough to make it a serviceable story. The foot story was a decoy. It obviated telling the other one. Vastly superior to carvings of hippos, stories were the souvenirs that this bold stint in Africa had been designed to provide. But she was abruptly aware that these people were virtual strangers. It was funny how when some little nothing went down you played it for all it was worth, but when a truly momentous occurrence shifted the tectonic plates in your mind you kept your mouth shut. Because instinct dictated that this one was private. Now she knew: there was such a thing as private. Having aged far more than a few hours this evening, Liana was disheartened to discover that maturity could involve getting smaller. She had been reduced. The couple made a to-do over the importance of getting hot food inside her, but before the dinner had warmed Liana curled around the leopard-print pillow on the sofa and dropped into a comatose slumber. Intuiting something—Beano himself had survived any number of close calls, the worst of which he had kept from Regent, lest she lay down the law that he had to stop hunting in Botswana even sooner than she did—he discouraged his wife from rousing the girl even to go to bed, draping her gently in a mohair blanket and carefully tucking the fringe around her pretty wet head. Predictably, Liana grew into a civilized woman with a regard for the impositions of laundry. She pursued a practical career in marketing in New York, and, after three years, ended an impetuous marriage to an Afghan. Meantime, starting with Kilifi Creek, she assembled an offbeat collection. It was a class of moments that most adults stockpile: the times they almost died. Rarely was there a good reason, or any warning. No majestic life lessons presented themselves in compensation for having been given a fright. Most of these incidents were in no way heroic, like the rescue of a child from a fire. They were more a matter of stepping distractedly off a curb, only to feel the draught of the M4 bus flattening your hair. Not living close to a public pool, Liana took up running in her late twenties. One evening, along her usual route, a minivan shot out of a parking garage without checking for pedestrians and missed her by a whisker. Had she not stopped to double-knot her left running shoe before leaving her apartment, she would be dead. Later: She was taking a scuba-diving course on Cape Cod when a surge about a hundred feet deep dislodged her mask and knocked her regulator from her mouth. The Atlantic was unnervingly murky, and her panic was absolute. Sure, they taught you to make regular decompression stops, and to exhale evenly as you ascended, but it was early in her training. Still later: Had she not unaccountably thought better of shooting forward on her Citi Bike on Seventh Avenue when the light turned green, the garbage truck would still have taken a sharp left onto Sixteenth Street without signalling, and she would be dead. There was nothing else to learn, though that was something to learn, something inchoate and large. The scar on her right foot, wormy and white the flap should have been stitched , became a totem of this not-really-a-lesson. She could also sensibly have decided that swimming alone anywhere was tempting fate. She might have concocted a loftier version, wherein she had been rescued by an almighty presence who had grand plans for her—grander than marketing. Any of those interpretations would have been plastered on top, like the poorly adhering bandage on that gash. The message was bigger and dumber and blunter than that, and she was a bright woman, with no desire to disguise it. After Liana was promoted to director of marketing at BraceYourself—a rapidly expanding firm that made the neoprene joint supports popular with aging boomers still pounding the pavement—she moved from Brooklyn to Manhattan, where she could now afford a stylish one-bedroom on the twenty-sixth floor, facing Broadway. Lounging against the railing sipping Chenin Blanc, Liana would bask in the lights and echoing taxi horns of the city, sometimes sneaking a cigarette. This time of year, the regal overlook made her feel rich beyond measure. The air was fat and soft in her hair—which was shorter now, with a becoming cut. They had sifted away from the tables of wheat-berry salad and smoked-tofu patties to talk. His concern was touching; perhaps he liked her, too. But she was perfectly stable—lodged against the perpendicular railing on a northern corner, feet braced on a bolted-down bench, weight firmly forward—and her consort had nothing to fear. Liana may have grown warier of water, but heights had never induced the vertigo from which others suffered. Besides, David was awfully tall, and the small boost in altitude was equalizing. A standard fallback for a first date, they had been exchanging travel stories, and impetuously—there was something about this guy that she trusted—she told him about Kilifi Creek. Having never shared the tale, she was startled by how little time it took to tell. They were very nearly not stories at all. Only later, and then there was no longer anything to be afraid of. A little flash, like, Wow. That was weird. This one went on forever, or seemed to. It was a long time to be in this. Attempting to seem captivated by the waning sunset, Liana no more than shifted her hips, by way of expressing her discomfort that her story had landed flat. Nothing foolhardy. For the oddest moment, she thought that David had pushed her, and was therefore not a nice man at all but a lunatic. Because what happened next was both enormously subtle and plain enormous—the way the difference between knocking over a glass and not knocking over a glass could be a matter of upsetting its angle by a single greater or lesser degree. Greater, this time. Throw any body of mass that one extra increment off its axis, and rather than barely brush against it you might as well have hurled it at a wall. With the same quiet clarity with which she had registered, in Kilifi, I am being swept out to sea , she grasped simply, Oh. I lost my balance. The air rushed in her ears like water. This time the feeling was different—that is, the starkness was there, the calmness was there also, but these clean, serene sensations were spiked with a sharp surprise, which quickly morphed to perplexity, and then to sorrow. She fit in a wisp of disappointment before the fall was through. Her eyes tearing, the lights of high-rises blurred. Above, the evening sky rippled into the infinite ocean that had waited to greet her for fourteen years: largely good years, really—gravy, a long and lucky reprieve. Then, of course, what had mattered was her body striking the line, and now what mattered was not striking it—and what were the chances of that? By the time she reached the sidewalk, Liana had taken back her surprise. At some point there was no almost. That had always been the message. There were bystanders, and they would get the message, too. Save this story Save this story. Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon. Link copied. A new biography of the late British monarch is also a book about the dream life of her subjects. By Rebecca Mead. Lily is not upset. She just wants to live in a castle or a secret cottage in the woods. She is writing a novel about a girl named Ambrose who becomes a swan at night. By Allegra Goodman. The greatest challenge of all: accommodating her nascent bunions. By Kerry Elson. Musical Events. An Idyllic Music Series in the Hebrides. Mendelssohn on Mull celebrates chamber music away from urban pressures. By Alex Ross. Cowboy-Dance Future World. By Jack Handey. Letter from the U. For a recent contest, topiarists—gardeners who clip plants into elaborate sculptures—displayed their creations to the world. By Sophie Elmhirst. Don Luigi Ciotti leads an anti-Mafia organization, and for decades he has run a secret operation that liberates women from the criminal underworld. This Week in Fiction. By Cressida Leyshon. The HBO show—the most thrilling offering currently on TV—zeroes in on the domineering masculine impulse that drives the world of finance. By Naomi Fry. Annals of Psychology. By Eren Orbey. Pop Music. Sophie Is Gone. Her Music Lives On. By Jia Tolentino. Anxiety causes gray hair in mice. By Paul Rudnick.

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Kitesurfing is far more than just getting into the water to catch a bit of wind. We discovered Kilifi a few years back and it turned out to be a place that hit all the sweet-spots. Dive into this guide and explore what our little kitesurfing paradise has to offer. When we found ourselves on Bofa Beach we were blown away. The green stretches of palm trees, bright white sand and vivid turquoise water made us feel like we had landed in paradise. This gives the town a very laid-back and chilled vibe. Because the beach is empty most of the time, it has proven to be an excellent place to learn to kiteboard. Another important aspect is the wind direction, as it determines the quality of the wind and general safety. Our kitesurfing village has everything you need for the best holiday. You can enjoy tasty food from our ever-changing, locally sourced menu. On the premises we have an outdoor space - perfect for setting up a personal tropical office - and the lush, green garden has a few quiet chilling areas with hammocks and hanging beds. Add to it wind blowing everyday and you have the most dreamy kitesurfing destination! Kenya undergoes two windy seasons which are very different from one another. From mid - December is when the wind blows from the north and continues until mid-March. The weather during the Kaskazi is mostly sunny. The wind starts around 10am and gets stronger throughout the day due to a sea breeze effect and as a result blows knots on average. Thanks to the side on-shore wind direction , the wind is very consistent and provides safe conditions for training. The other season - the Kuzi - starts around May and blows until October. This is when everything changes. The wind, now coming from the south, is brought by tropical storms that occur far out in the open Ocean. Most of them happen miles away, but there are days when the rains reach the shore resulting in short showers. The weather might be a bit less predictable during the Kuzi but mostly these storms bring a lot of wind with them. The average speed of wind during this season is knots which turns our spot in the ultimate kiteboarding playground. Both seasons even though different from each other are awesome and allow you to progress in all kitesurfing disciplines. Thanks to changing tides, we have completely different conditions for kiting during the day. Low tide brings perfect flat and calm water and high tide brings chop and waves. The higher water levels provide perfect conditions for practicing body dragging and waterstarts. Not many people know that Kenya is a great place for wave riding in the Kuzi season. From June - September the tropical storms create massive swells very often reaching 3m at the reef. Combine it with very strong wind and you have conditions that can rival Cape Town, but on a completely uncrowded spot and without the need of wearing a wetsuit. You just need to ride away for 1 km from the shore to find yourself on these glassy, light-blue waves. Our team now consists of four experienced instructors - two are Kenyan, one Polish and an Egyptian. Over a year ago we affiliated our school with IKO International Kiteboarding Organization in order to provide the highest standard of teaching kiteboarding for our students. In addition to the regular kite school services we also hold professional kitesurfing courses. This certification enables you to take jobs in any part of the world and share your passion for kiteboarding. It also massively improves your own skills thanks in part to covering common mistakes new kiters often make. Assistant Training Course 30th January - 3rd February. Instructor Training Course 6th February - 10th February. First Aid Course 4th February. Lamu Kite Safari. Gear Rental. Book A Kite Course. Beach Bar. Saltys On The Creek. Contact us. The wind in Kenya Kenya undergoes two windy seasons which are very different from one another. The water conditions for kitesurfing in Kenya Thanks to changing tides, we have completely different conditions for kiting during the day.

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