wind and waves

Hanging the washing out this morning Nico predicted that as there was no wind today the waves would be better than yesterday.  I looked at the static 2 metre high maize in the fields around us and thought that we were maybe a wee bit sheltered in our inland garden and that even a tornado would be hard pushed to touch this cottage given that it was ringed by battlements of sweetcorn.
The Atlantic was a bit of a millpond when we got down there.  
Nico had shlepped his Morey Boogie through the stunted cork oaks and scrub and up over the dunes, but il n'y avait pas de moutons as they say in these parts. 
When there are waves Nico won't take his eyes off them, sitting for hours in a wave trance until the sun goes down and I complain that I'm cold.
When there aren't any waves he buries his head in a book, as if sulking with the ocean, until the sun goes down and I complain that I'm cold.
When there are waves he'll ride the small ones and duck through the big ones in order to get himself and his surf as far out as possible.   When there aren't he'll shiver on the edge of the beach, not allowing the surf to go higher than his knees.
It was one such day. 
Once the sun had dipped he trudged sadly and turtlesquely over the dunes and back through the scrub.
He'd had a good read and I'd had a good swim.
The Morey Boogie stayed dry.