Some days you don't want to look at the sea. You want to hit it at speed. Jet skis, flyboards, a kart at midnight, the coast from 4,000 feet up. You'll come home sunburnt and grinning.

You've finally got nothing to rush to. A round that takes all morning, a boardwalk after dark, a film you hadn't planned on. The coast at walking pace.

No booking, no dress code, no plan. Just the chalet, the crew, and whatever the night turns into. Cards, a grill, and a long argument about the rules.

The argument starts around noon, and it's always the same one. Where are we eating? Long lunches, mezze that keeps coming, and a table worth crossing three compounds for.

Sahel spends all summer trying to undo you. Three-hour lunches, later nights. This is the counterweight: a session before the heat lands, a plunge that buys back the evening.