Duotone Magazine No. 06

The sea that morning was alive, restless, almost angry. It rolled in long, powerful waves under a clear, gusty sky. With my adventuring friend Virgil, we stood on the shore, the horizon stretching endlessly before us, calling for adventure. In our backpacks, only the essentials for a night outdoors: some food, a sleeping bag, and just enough to face the vagaries of the Mediterranean. The wind was howling, a true call to challenge it. With our wings firmly in hand, we launched ourselves offshore, determined to reach a wild island where the unknown awaited us. We were looking due west. As the first gusts hit, our wings filled with air and the journey began. The sea, wild and almost hypnotic, rose to test us. The high, sharp waves were not just a backdrop, they were the beating heart of our crossing. The sensation was magical: the soft hum of the wings in the wind, the splash of the sea beneath the foil, and the overwhelming sense of freedom that grips you deep inside. Underneath our boards, schools of fish darted like flashes of silver, while seagulls circled overhead, intrigued by our strange convoy. The ocean was alive, powerful, and we were at the center of its raw energy. After a few hours, the island appeared almost as a surprise. It rose like a forgotten fortress, its sheer cliffs and lonely lighthouse seeming to await our arrival. The wind continued to howl, but a sense of relief washed over us, we were almost there. Reaching the beach, despite the turbulence of the sea, was a moment of respite. Thewaves died softly on the sand, echoing throughout the bay. We pulled our boards onto the shore and dropped our bags, surrounded by the sound of thewind rustling through the pines. The air was heavywith intense scents: salt, pine, and that wild scent of everlasting flowers that grew everywhere. Weset upcamp inashelteredspot andset offtoexplore the island. Everynookandcranny felt untouched, pristine. Turquoise coves, wind-whipped cliffs, and the stoic lighthouse stood as a testament to time. On the ridges, flocks of gulls perched like confetti scattered at a party, cackling as they watched the sea rage below. When we reached the top of the lighthouse, the view took our breath away: the sea, still alive with movement, stretched endlessly under a sky where the wind chased the clouds. The next morning the wind was back, even stronger than the day before. After packing up the camp and our gear, we headed back out to sea. Virgil unfurled his wing while I decided to paddle back, ready to ride the long swells that were already forming on the horizon. The downwind was a dance where the sea set the tempo. Each wave dictated the next move, pulling me into an unpredictable choreography where I had to follow its desires: a quick crest to launch, a smooth ramp to glide, and sometimes an unstable break, as if the wave hesitated before revealing the next step. My foil sliced through the water with precision, carried by the swell and guided by my feet. Virgil, meanwhile, sped ahead with the wind, his wing full of power. He seemed to fly above the waves, an agile silhouette in the heart of chaos. As we progressed, I felt the sea change from adversary to ally. It carried me, lifted me, and pushed me forward. Every gust of wind, every wave I rode was a victory, a moment of pure joy. When the coast finally came, the contrast was striking. The familiar beaches, dottedwith quiet walkers, seemed to belong to another world. But in our minds we were still out there, immersed in the roughness of the offshore sea. When we finally set foot on land, we laid down our boards and exchanged glances, saying nothing. No wordswere necessary. We had just experienced somethingunique, an adventure that only the sea could offer. For two days we had faced its impulses, shared its moments of calm, and felt its raw power. And now it let us return, changed, as if it had given us some of its strength. As night fell, the wind gradually died down. Everything became peaceful. The waves softened, and the sea, exhausted from its own turmoil, seemed to drift off to sleep. The evening programwas simple: cooking dinner, telling stories, and dreaming of future adventures. Under a dark sky pierced by countless stars, we lay down to sleep, lulled by the silence of a nature finally at peace. 65 D OWNW I N D E R DUOTONE