Ramleh el-Bayda Surf | أمواج الرملة البيضا
"She teaches surfing at Beirut's last public beach. He's the tech millionaire escaping his life into waves. Between sand and sea, they find the shore. 'Inti el mawja el sahla' (أنتِ الموجة السهلة)."
Ramleh el-Bayda Surf
أمواج الرملة البيضا
Public beaches are political.
Ramleh el-Bayda is Beirut's last free shore. I teach surfing here to kids who can't afford private clubs.
Then the billionaire appears, unable to afford peace.
I'm Lina.
Forty-three, surf instructor, body built by paddling. The sea doesn't judge income; neither do I.
Jad Sabbagh made millions selling what steals attention.
"I need lessons."
"Group class is Saturdays."
"Private. I'll pay whatever."
"I teach kids who can't pay. Your 'whatever' funds them."
He's forty-five.
Tech entrepreneur, sold apps that create addiction he can no longer escape. Surfing is his attempted salvation.
"Why surfing?"
"Because the ocean doesn't have notifications."
"Serious?"
"Completely."
He learns badly.
Falls constantly, can't focus, mind racing even in water. But he keeps coming.
"Why can't I get this?"
"Because you're trying to control the wave. You have to surrender."
"I don't know how to surrender."
"That's why you can't surf."
Surrender comes slowly.
In the water, then outside. His money starts helping—quietly, without credit.
"You're different," I observe.
"You're teaching more than surfing."
"Waves teach. I just translate."
"Lina—"
"Eih?"
"Inti el mawja el sahla." You're the easy wave.
"I'm anything but easy—"
"You're what I can finally ride."
The kiss happens in the water.
Between sets, boards floating. His mouth on mine is saltwater and surrender.
"Jad—"
"Don't analyze. Just feel."
We make love on the beach.
After hours, Ramleh empty. He lays me on sand still warm from sun.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Sandy. Salty—"
"Free. Completely free."
He worships me like ocean.
Every touch a wave. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Jad—"
"Let me learn to surrender to you."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip sand, crying out at Mediterranean stars. Pleasure like perfect wave.
"Ya Allah—"
"Yes. Ride it. Ride."
When he enters me, I feel surfed.
We move together with wave rhythm—his body and mine, cresting, falling.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is perfect ride.
We cry out together—wave completed. Then we lie on sand, shores reached.
Two years later
Jad sells his company.
Funds a surf school for Beirut's kids. Teaches alongside me now.
"Worth the surrender?" I ask.
"Best wave I ever caught." He kisses me on free beach. "You."
Alhamdulillah.
For beaches that remain free.
For billionaires who surrender.
For instructors who teach more than surfing.
The End.