The shrine was a stark reminder of the treacherous ocean, although I doubted devotion to God would have made a jot of difference. Having being brought up Catholic, I wasn't even sure God existed. I didn't want to think about it. Instead, I sat on one of the carved stone seats behind the shrine and tried to make up my mind about Puertito de los Molinos and whether or not I liked the place enough to come back.
Food would help me decide if it was worth my while returning to my local beach. No doubt just to get dumped by another wave, I thought, giving way to a sudden rush of self-loathing.
There appeared to be two eateries, one at each end of the village and both up on a bit of a rise. The far one looked rustic and bohemian and closed. I chose the one near the river and closer to my car. The covered outdoor area overlooking the water was a definite draw, and there was already a couple seated at one of the tables.
I thought it too early for lunch, yet as I was choosing a table, I noticed a couple seated in a nearby corner, dive into plates of grilled fish, potatoes and salad, arranged in neat rows on oval plates. The smell made my belly rumble. When the waiter came, frugality held sway, and I ordered a coffee and some of the local goat's cheese.
By now the temperature had soared. Scarcely a breeze came off the ocean. It was cooler in the shade of the canopy but the coffee brought me out in a hot sweat, and the cheese was salty. In all, by the time I returned to my car, I had a raging thirst.
Back at the farmhouse, I went straight out to the washing line, unpegged the sheets and re-made the bed, putting a seal on my sticky embarrassment. Only then did I down a cold beer and prepare some early lunch.
With a tinned tuna baguette filling my belly, I opened out one of the loungers stored in the laundry, slathered my thighs in sunscreen and, leaving the rest of me unprotected, sat in the patio to continue browning myself in the sun. But the heat soon made me dopey, and I started to doze. Irritated by my languor and aware of the danger of severe sunburn, I got up and went back indoors. With the whole afternoon to kill and nothing at all to entertain myself, I donned my gym gear and headed off to the city for more punishment.
Puerto del Rosario was a furnace. I couldn't recall having ever experienced heat like it. Then again, I really couldn't tell. I was radiating my own heat from tip to toe, and the concrete and tarmac of the street were not helping. Armed with my fitness plan, I was out of my car and inside the air-conditioned gym in the space of three breaths, my eyes adjusting to the dim as I succumbed to a head spin.
The feeling soon passed, and I scanned the gym, noticing a very different crowd, comprising serious weight lifters, all of them heavy-set men. You could almost smell the testosterone, the animal masculinity in the room.
It was with some relief that I saw Luis behind the counter. I caught his eye, and he gave me his broad smile. I didn't derive much reassurance from his friendliness, but I also knew that I had as much right to use the gym as those others, and all I needed to do was apply myself to my own routine and avoid eye contact as I went from machine to machine. The loud music would drown out any laughter should they find me a source of amusement, and they were all Spanish-speaking locals, judging by their appearance, which meant I would not understand any ridicule, should there be any. Really, I had no need to feel self-conscious or worse, intimidated. I ignored the lot of them while I pedalled the requisite ten kilometres going nowhere.
It was chest day. When I got to the bench press, Luis came over, and we stood at each end of the barbell.
'Leave the fifteen kilos on the bar,' he said, removing a ten-kilo disc from his end. I did the same. That left thirty kilos plus the barbell itself which was five. I could have sworn he had written down thirty kilos altogether but I wasn't about to quibble.
'You were busy this morning?' he asked as I lay my torso down on the padded vinyl.
'I went to Puertito de Los Molinos.' I glanced up at him and found myself staring into his crotch. I averted my gaze.
'Ah, very good,' he said with approval in his voice. 'Did you visit the caves?'
What caves? Missing sites of significance seemed to be becoming a habit of mine and I kicked myself for being in such a rush out the farmhouse door that morning before fully checking up on the locale online, and for leaving the village before I had had a good look around. 'I didn't get a chance,' I said, pretending I knew all about those caves.
'Next time, but you must go at a very low tide. Sometimes the low tide is not so low.'
'As I discovered,' I lied, hoping Luis wasn't about to ask me exactly what time I was there, and that he lacked an encyclopaedic knowledge of local tides.
'Also make sure you allow plenty of time to explore.'
'I will.'
'And take a torch.'
A torch? I recalled the people I had spotted as I was leaving the little port, like ants scouting the cliffs to the north and south, and I made a mental note to take appropriate footwear too.
I reached my hands up to take the barbell as Luis lifted it off the rack. He stood over me poised to assist if the weight proved too much for my arms. I thought the exercise was meant to work different muscles from shoulder day but I couldn't differentiate and it only took a couple of reps for every muscle in my shoulders and arms to shout at me to stop. But how could I with Luis hovering over me with his crotch not inches from my forehead?
Five sets of five reps later, and I almost caved in to the agony.
When at last Luis took the barbell and placed it on the rack, I felt relieved to no longer have his body with its surprisingly prominent crotch bulge – which on reflection must have been due to the angle I was observing it from – bearing over me like that, a symbol of masculinity, masculinity in short supply in my veins.
As I sat up, Luis left me to my own devices and wandered over to a group of men hovering at the back of the gym.
The four sets of twenty table pec flies might not have been too bad had my muscles not already received a thrashing. The inclined dumbbell press might have been fine as well. I lightened the weight load for each, having realised Luis had probably set every weight a touch too heavy for my capabilities. I had to adjust to a lighter load on the decline machine press as well. Luis had told me to keep pushing on the handlebars until I couldn't manage another rep. That moment occurred all too soon.
For the duration of my workout, I kept my gaze away from the others in the gym, but I could feel theirs on me. I had to be the weakest man in there by a long stretch. Knowing how hot it was outside, part of me wanted to remain where I was, but the psychological oppression of all those hulks far outweighed the physical oppression of the heat, and after my mandatory five-kilometre cool down, I forwent the need to stretch, gave Luis a casual wave and left.
A Surprising Discovery
I was still fuzzy with sleep as I opened my eyes to greet dawn's soft light. I rolled over, a tentative move, and stared at the ceiling, my body tight all over. One calf muscle threatened to cramp. I should have stretched the day before, if not at the gym then at least when I had arrived home. Instead, I had downed a bottle of wine as I completed three ghost-writing jobs, cooked up a chorizo and pasta bake and then kicked back to watch Netflix. I threw off my sheet – thankfully dry – and jumped in the shower.
Over a bacon butty breakfast, I checked the local weather. The heat wave was set to continue. The forecast on one weather site predicted the mid-thirties and, if the day before was anything to go by, the temperature would reach even higher in late-afternoon. Inland, even up on the windswept plain of Tefía, was nowhere to be. The island was enduring a dust haze too, with the wind blowing from the southeast infusing the air with the Sahara. There was nothing for it but another trip to the beach and, after a quick search of the tides, I knew where I was heading. I was out the door in under half an hour.
The sky at Puertito de Los Molinos appeared a touch clearer, at least looking out over the ocean, and standing at the shoreline on the creamy white sand, I thought I detected a waft of cooling breeze off t
he near flat water.
Seemed everyone here had checked the tides like I had, found it to be especially low right at this very moment and come to take advantage. There was a cluster of pleasure-seekers milling about on the wet sand and in the shallows over by the cliff face, one couple even making it the three hundred metres to the caves.
I wasted no time shuffling off my flip flops and dumping my t-shirt and towel on the sand near the pebbles fringing the beach. I wasn't sure whether to wear or remove my sunglasses so I kept them on. I tucked my keys in the secure pocket in my swimmers and with phone in hand, I splashed through the shallows to the cliff.
The water was at times ankle-deep, and I had to go in up to almost mid-calf to walk behind the revellers who were having a hoot mucking about in the rock pools beside a low ledge, and in the nooks and crannies of the gnarly lava cliff.
I kept an uncertain eye on the water as I waded in deeper still, going in up to my knees as I passed by a depression in the cliff face and then rounded a rocky protuberance. Little wonder the more fearful stayed closer to the main beach. The further I went, the more disconcerting the feeling that the tide would suddenly turn or a huge wave would appear from nowhere, like it had the day before. I carried on walking, reassuring myself that I had checked and double-checked. According to the predictions, the low tide was due to occur in about five minutes, allowing me ample time to explore the cave.
The water on the final stretch below the cliff was shallow, and the seabed strewn with large boulders. I slowed my pace, enjoying the moment, stopping to take a few photos.
As I approached the cave, the couple I had seen from the main beach had started making their way back. The woman greeted me and said something rapidly in Spanish I couldn't understand, but I nodded and grinned as though I did. She shrugged and carried on, chatting to her companion; about what, I hadn't a clue. Besides, my attention was well and truly grabbed by the sight up ahead.
In front of me was an arch of lava and, at its base, areas of pink rock. As I neared the arch, the water deepened to form a turquoise pool that was surrounded by seaweed-coated boulders. I waded in, sinking to waist height as I crossed. The water was warm and still, and I wanted to luxuriate for a while, but decided to save that experience for later.
I waded out of the water and entered the cave. I was walking on hard if damp sand. Small waves lapped against my toes. I carried on a few paces, approaching the darkness, at first blinded by the contrast. My eyes slowly adjusted, and I saw up ahead another arch of rock, the sand heading back deep inside beneath a wide domed roof.
Just inside the cave, another rock pool was tucked behind the main arch, and the water swirled around, caressing the sand. I turned, and for a moment, I stood facing out, gazing at the sapphire ocean and milky blue sky. It was surreal and enchanting, and I had to pull my eyes away, keen to explore the interior.
Fascinated by the cave itself with all of its shapes and colours, I wandered into the further reaches, entering a tunnel little more than head height. I ducked, just in case. Before long, the light faded altogether, and I turned on my phone's torch. The sand was cool and a touch damp beneath my feet. Remembering something Luis had said, I stopped to listen to the ocean, which sounded louder as the waves broke against the rocky cliff.
A sudden boom, and I stopped in my tracks. That wave was too big and too close for comfort. I was instantly claustrophobic. How far would the water reach as the tide came in? Not wanting to find out, I turned around and raced back.
I had almost entered the main chamber when something caught my eye, something not made of rock, protruding on a high ledge. I thought at first it was an animal, or even a body, but I soon saw it was a rucksack. I recalled the couple I had passed and decided it must belong to them. I was in two minds whether to leave it there or take it with me when another wave crashed against the cliff base.
I snatched the rucksack off the ledge and, finding it much heavier than I expected, I let it swing to the ground. There wasn't time to look inside.
I entered the main chamber to find the wavelets that had been lapping at the rock pool now creeping into the cave in long sweeps. Beyond the cave, larger waves were rolling in, one after another. They were not high, but they sure were travelling fast. The tide seemed in an awful rush. In my naivety, I had thought the low tide would last at least a couple of hours, but clearly I was wrong. Of course I was wrong. The tide would only be at its nadir for a single moment and after that it would on its way back to high. It was clear to me now that the woman I passed had been trying to warn me of this very fact.
I raced to the cave mouth. Puertito de los Molinos appeared a distant haven cut off from me by the invading ocean. I saw the couple had already disappeared and, scanning the ocean along the cliff base, nobody else was anywhere to be seen.
There was nothing for it but to head back as fast as I could. Staving off raw panic, I shoved my phone in the rucksack and heaved it up above my head, forcing my tight shoulder and arm muscles to obey my will. I waded through the rock pool, now much deeper than before, and as soon as I reached the other side and the water was only calf-deep I lowered the rucksack to my chest and broke into a sprint.
That depth didn't last long.
Where the water had been knee-deep it was now up to my mid-thigh. Eyeing those resolute waves surging for me, I had to resist an urge to retrieve my phone, dump the rucksack and make a swim for it. Otherwise, there was every chance a king wave would slam me into the cliff.
I hadn't waded much further before my thighs and calves started complaining. Curse that gym! Three hundred metres was beginning to feel like a thousand. The current was against me, wanting to drag me south. I pressed on as fast as I was able, but the main beach didn't seem to be getting any closer.
I looked for ways to scale the cliff, thinking that might be my best option, but I was no rock climber, and I would probably only manage to scramble up a fraction, and then I would be stuck, clinging on to the gnarly rock as the tide rose and getting covered in spray, only to then slip and fall in and hit my head and be swept away by that vicious current.
My arms had begun to complain from the effort of raising the rucksack up to save the contents from getting wet. I was a ball of knotty aches and pains, every part of me resisting the effort of wading through the churning water. I kept going, straining against the tide and the current pushing against me, trying to blinker my vision, trying not to give in to the panic threatening to consume me each time a wave surged past.
When I reached the stretch where the water had been mid-calf, I was wading in water above my knees. I wanted to inch closer to the cliff where the water was a touch shallower, but there was a risk that the surge of the backwash would create enough turbulence to knock me off my feet.
As the wash of a larger wave headed for me, I forced the rucksack high above my head and braced myself, feet astride, resisting the surge. Watching the wave crash against the cliff, terror gripped me. If I didn't get a move on, I would be one of those statistics that warranted the warning sign on the beach.
I strained forward, urging my legs to work harder, determined to make it back to shore. Even with a steely resolve only adrenalin can instil, each stride was an effort. The tide was against me in every sense. As I neared the end of the cliff and the beach was enticingly close, the waves gathered their strength as though hell-bent on smashing me into the rocky face. I resisted with all my might, turning side on with the rucksack high above my head. Then I braced ready for the backwash as the surging water hit a ledge that was soon to be submerged. As the ocean pulled back, ready for its next slam, I waded on, unnervingly close to the break line.
My ordeal came to an abrupt end as I rounded the end of the cliff and waded to the shallows of the beach. I half-anticipated a round of applause, but no one was taking any notice. Sunbathers were either lying on their towels on the sand immediately below the band of pebbles, or perching on that band, having somehow found a comfortable spot.
Out of
the water, my legs turned to jelly. I made it to my towel, now dangerously close to the encroaching tide, and managed to don my t-shirt and slip my feet into my flip flops. I found a spot to sit on the beach away from the others and recovered myself. I had a sudden craving for chocolate.
Soon, I became too hot. The sun was fierce, and I badly needed to get into some shade. Thinking I first had to find the owner of the rucksack, I fished out my mobile and, with a cursory glance at the rucksack contents – all I saw was a towel – I forced myself up on my feet.
I approached a couple nearby who were sitting up, enjoying the sun on their faces. I held up the rucksack and asked if it was theirs. They shook their heads. Next, I went over to three women lying on their bellies, roasting their back halves in the midday sun. I had no idea of their nationality, so I asked in my own native tongue. They replied – after gazing up at me, puzzled – in heavy accents I took to be Spanish, that they knew nothing about any rucksack.
I carried on, approaching families, single men, in fact, every single person on the beach at that time. None of them claimed ownership of the rucksack or had seen anyone with it or anything similar. All I got for my troubles were a lot of vacant shrugs.
What a bunch of unobservant cretins!
Hoping to find in the restaurant the couple I had passed at the caves, I picked my way across the pebbles then up a flight of stone steps, entering the outdoor seating area. There I scanned the clientele and circulated the tables. I received the same negative and bemused reactions, along with a lot of furtive stares and whispered exchanges which I caught in my side vision.
Defeated, I was about to head off home, when a large woman in an ill-fitting blouse told me to try the other restaurant.
'It looks closed,' I said.
'Not closed. You go,' she insisted.
I didn't take to being bossed about. In defiance, I felt like heading in the direction of my car for a cold shower and a beer at home, but a sense that I would regret not trying everything to locate the owner propelled me on through the village of ten small huts.
A Prison in the Sun Page 5