Gnarly

by Mickie B. Ashling

  What he needed to do was venture outside. He should sit on a beach and soak up some rays, except it would be tricky trying to navigate across the sand with crutches. Fuck. Maybe one of the younger surfers might take pity on him and carry his skinny frame closer to the water. The older guys, who’d been his friends for years, wouldn’t be hanging around waiting to catch the next wave. They would be working day jobs or at home with their wives and children.

  Accused by his family of being an irresponsible adrenaline junkie, along with the more derogatory label of “Peter Pan,” Javi had reluctantly listened to his accountant and invested some of his earnings. He’d paid cash for his flat twenty years ago, a fortuitous move as it turned out, or he’d have been homeless now, adding insult to injury.

  By all accounts, Javi should have had a tidy nest egg after years of being a pro surfer, but he’d foolishly believed there was no end in sight to his endorsements. He’d pissed away a lot of his earnings on family, hoping it would lessen the sting whenever he refused the responsibility of a full-time job at the bar. His father had begged him to buckle down, take a larger interest in the family business, but his need to pack up and go whenever he felt like it surpassed his loyalty to hearth and home. Thus, gifts.

  When he found himself in the embarrassing position of being unable to afford proper medical care because they’d used up most of his savings getting him stabilized, he was ashamed of the wasted opportunities and his current impoverished state. If the worst was going to happen, why hadn’t the beast dragged him out to sea and finished the job? At least he’d have died a legend. As things stood, he was a washed-up cripple, and one by one, the requests for interviews had dried up. People didn’t give a shit about him unless he did something extraordinary like appear on a dancing show with a bionic foot. Someone had actually sent an invitation asking him to consider that option. He hadn’t bothered replying.

  Patxi and his two sisters had been patient while catering to his every need, hoping he’d snap out of his depression and get back to living, but Javi was taking too long, and they were starting to lose patience. Friends no longer called to try and cheer him up or entice him outdoors, because he’d been a grumpy asshole from the beginning, turning angrier each day. His part-time gig at the bar was still his for the taking, but even that couldn’t entice him away from his bed. All he wanted to do was sleep or daydream, escape back in time to a place where he could be whole again.

  In his dreams, the sun beating down on his shoulders didn’t burn, and the warm wind ruffling his hair felt oddly comforting, like a lover’s caress. Swell sizes were over sixteen feet, and rips and undertows didn’t exist, only the incredible high of catching a wave and riding it to completion. Like most surfers, Javi never dwelt too long on the negative. Life itself was a risk, and anticipating potential disasters was counterproductive to living in the moment—a surfer’s credo. Getting bitten by a shark was always a possibility, but so far down on his list of things that might go wrong, it didn’t even factor into his planning whenever he contemplated his next adventure. He wasn’t oblivious to the danger—after all, he was dabbling in the predator’s playing field, but sharks usually ignored surfers, unless it was a case of mistaken identity. Always on the hunt for sea lions or turtles, sharks looked up at the silhouettes of surfers on their boards and mistook them for natural prey, choosing to investigate with a bump or bite. It was a random event, but it explained why some surfers were targeted and how some survived the maw of nature’s most deadly killing machines.

  When Javi had awoken from his coma, he didn’t remember the attack and therefore refused to accept the verdict. Surely they were mistaken. The person lying in the hospital bed without a foot wasn’t him. The guy who could only see out of one eye must have been his doppelganger, the evil twin he carried around to absorb life’s shit so his fun-loving alter ego could carry on without missing a beat. But then the images rose up like the great white. Out of nowhere. In vivid splashes of red and gray, and the shaking and screaming would start….

  He’d been sitting on his board, feet dangling in the water, calmly waiting to catch a fun ride on a perfectly peeling left-hander when he felt the first bump. Before he could grasp the magnitude of the problem, the fast-moving grayish-white blur reversed course and headed back his way. Adrenaline kicked in when he finally realized he was under attack, and he paddled frantically, trying to get to the outcropping in the distance. In the back of his mind, he knew he didn’t have a chance in hell, but the alternative was too awful to contemplate. Somehow he made it far enough that when the monster head-butted his board and flipped him into the water, he was close to the rocks. He kicked out, foot bouncing off the shark’s big snout, and closed the distance between safety and the jaws of death. After that, it was all a blur—the frenzied scramble to climb up the slippery rocks, landing headfirst, piercing his left eyeball with a sharp rock. The intense pain exploding in his head barely masked the horrific realization that the shark had made off with his foot. That he survived the blood loss was a miracle in and of itself, and losing consciousness a blessing. Rescued by fellow surfers who risked their own lives, Javi was hospitalized for weeks before he recovered consciousness.

  Gradually the dreams and unwelcome memories lessened in frequency, but when they surfaced, the fear and horror were just as intense.

  It was no wonder Patxi decided to bring Edu around. His father was clutching at straws and counting on his old flame to fix Javi. He’d suffered many injuries throughout the years: broken bones, lacerated limbs, contusions, concussions, near drownings. You name it, and he’d experienced it, bouncing back effortlessly from each incident, but none of them had been this severe. Multiple people had offered help, but Javi had turned them away. He hadn’t stepped foot in the ocean since the attack and had given away all his equipment. His spirit was broken, along with his body, and suicide hovered dangerously on the periphery.

  Until tonight. Edu had managed to break through his defenses, getting closer than anyone in recent memory, and in that sense, Patxi hadn’t been wrong. Javi was actually worrying about his appearance, anxious to make a better impression than the one Edu had carried away when he left the apartment earlier, his mouth set in a grim line.

  Javi picked up his phone and messaged his father.

  “Hey,” he said when Patxi called him back instead of texting.

  “What’s the matter?” Patxi asked.

  “Nothing. I was wondering if you’d be willing to come and get me.”

  “Seriously?” Patxi sounded surprised but delighted.

  “Yeah, stop pretending, old man. This is exactly what you were hoping to accomplish.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Patxi blustered.

  “Enough, Aita. I’m not angry at you, just curious. Why is Edu back?”

  “Ask him yourself.”

  “Is he still there?” Javi asked.

  “Yes, but he’ll be leaving soon. He can hardly keep his eyes open.”

  “Get his phone number and find out where he’s staying.”

  “Do you still want me to come and get you even if he might be gone when we get back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Patxi said eagerly.

  “Don’t forget to get his information first.”

  “I’ll do it right now.”

  Javi disconnected and, dropping his crutches, hopped over to the closet. He stared at his clothes, trying to remember the last time he wore something other than boxers and a T-shirt. He yanked at a pair of jeans. The hanger fell to the floor after he grabbed his pants, and he didn’t bother picking it up. He reached for a short-sleeved button-down next. Hopping back toward his bed, he sat down and shrugged into the shirt, buttoning up quickly. Crossing his bum leg over his knee, he yanked the child’s sock off his stump, averting his eyes as he did so. He couldn’t bear to look at it, a constant reminder that he was damaged. The only time he paid attention was when it hurt and he had to rub moistu
rizer on it or risk infection. He’d been repeatedly told that phantom pains or the need to scratch a nonexistent limb were a common phenomenon and would disappear in time, but Javi hadn’t reached that point yet. Keeping it covered helped, mostly. Out of sight, out of mind. He pulled up his jeans and buttoned them.

  Patxi arrived shortly after and nodded approvingly when he saw that Javi had made an effort to clean up. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a ten-minute walk to the bar, but he was out of shape, and he had to stop every few minutes or he’d give up and go back home. There were several benches along the way, and he and Patxi sank down, grateful for the reprieve.

  “This is what happens when your body forgets how to move,” Patxi remarked. “Isn’t it about time you started getting more exercise? Come to the bar nightly so you can get back into shape.”

  Javi raised his eyes. His father was staring at him, concern written all over his face. The nasty rebuttal died on his lips and he nodded instead. “I hear you.”

  “You’ll start coming to work?”

  “Sure. Let’s give it a shot.”

  “You want to start tonight?”

  Javi laughed. “Not so fast, Aita. Give me a few days to get back into the swing of things.”

  “Your friends will be happy to see you again.”

  Javi snorted.

  “Don’t you believe me? They ask about you all the time.”

  Javi grappled with his crutches and got up. “Let’s keep on moving.”

  Patxi chatted all the way to the bar, throwing out possible duties Javi might take on. He listened to his father with one ear, wondering if he was really up for the challenge. A large part of this sudden interest in returning to life had to do with Ed. Regardless of what he’d said earlier, Javi couldn’t help being curious. Why was he back? Lost in his thoughts, he wasn’t paying attention to his path, and the crutch caught in a small divot on the sidewalk, causing him to lose his balance. He fell on his hands and knees with a grunt, more embarrassed than hurt. Patxi exclaimed loudly and did his best to help Javi, but he wasn’t as strong as he used to be, and he struggled to pull him up. When Javi was finally vertical, they were both winded.

  “I’m pathetic,” Javi said, shaking his head.

  “We’re both out of shape,” Patxi said. “You more than me.”

  “I’m going to work on that in the next few days.”

  “Recovery takes time,” Patxi said philosophically. “Don’t lose hope.”

  Javi didn’t bother to reply. He gritted his teeth and looked down to make sure there wouldn’t be any more stumbling blocks. When they arrived at the bar and the room burst into applause, he was stunned. He hadn’t expected such a reception, but it lifted his spirits, and he greeted the patrons he recognized and worked his way slowly around the bar. Patxi had placed a stool for him to sit when he needed to rest, which was helpful. Knowing they were shorthanded, Javi changed his mind about working. He reached for the apron on one of the lower shelves and wrapped it around his waist.

  “What’ll you have?” he asked the first gentleman he saw.

  “A mojito, please.”

  Javi smiled. It was his favorite drink and one he could whip up without much prompting. “Coming right up.”

  Chapter 4

  NINE HOURS after Ed fell asleep, his overloaded bladder nudged him awake, sending him staggering out of bed and fumbling for the light switch. He remembered lowering the blinds last night to prevent the sunlight from spilling into the room, but now he regretted the move as he tried to make it to the bathroom in the dark. He found it in the nick of time and stood over the toilet for what seemed like forever. After flushing, he washed his hands and face and brushed his teeth.

  Feeling slightly more human, he stepped back inside his bedroom and raised the thick wooden blinds. Temporarily blinded by the bright light, he moved away from the direct glare in search of his sunglasses, which were still in his carryall. Glancing at his wristwatch on the nightstand, he saw that it was eleven o’clock in the morning. No wonder the sun was burning ferociously.

  Glasses in place, he moved back to the window and glanced out. There was a slight view of the ocean in the distance, even if it was only through gaps between the two buildings directly in front. For a brief moment, he regretted his decision to rent the cheaper apartment instead of the one facing the beach, but he’d always been a practical man, and with two sons in college, it felt frivolous to pay extra for scenery he could get by walking two blocks.

  Before tackling his suitcases, he went in search of caffeine. His brain only functioned at fifty percent without the morning stimulus. It was predawn back home and his body was craving the hit. The carafe held yesterday’s dregs, and he cleaned it out, dumped the paper filter, and reloaded with enough scoops to wake the dead. He detested the watered-down stuff they served in the hospital and would rather have the shakes than not get a buzz.

  While it brewed, he explored the cupboards and fridge, taking stock of his surroundings. Yesterday had been such a blur he couldn’t remember what was or wasn’t available for his use. He was grateful to the rental agent for starting him off with a few necessities such as bottled water, eggs, butter, yogurt, and a small container of milk. In the cupboard, there was a box of American cereal, granola, peanut butter, local jam, and sugar. He dumped some of the Special K and milk into a small bowl and mindlessly ate one spoonful after another.

  Reaching for his phone, he began a short list of items he needed to buy while he was out and about. Cooking three meals a day wasn’t part of the plan, but stocking up on a few more staples—fruit, bread, cheese, local hams, and chorizos—might be a good idea. He’d subsisted on the stuff when he was here last, and he couldn’t wait to explore the markets, where the variety was endless and the quality outstanding. San Sebastián was renowned for its food, along with its beaches and countryside. The magazine he’d leafed through on the plane had mentioned the Basque Culinary Center, located on the outskirts of town. It was the home and restaurant of Juan Mari Arzak, a world-famous chef whose five-star restaurant had a two-year waiting list. A colleague had waxed poetic over the amazing Arzak, but when Ed heard the price for one meal, he decided it was too steep for a nonfoodie like him.

  After downing one more cup of coffee, he finished unpacking, hoping he’d find an ironing board in the apartment. His clothes were a crumpled mess. Cursing at his stupidity for buying pure cotton and linen instead of the more practical wash-and-wear poly blends, he went in search of the ironing board and found it hanging on a hook near the stacked washer and dryer. The heavy-duty iron with steam functions guaranteed to knock out any wrinkles was on a shelf close by.

  Ed couldn’t remember the last time he’d ironed anything, but found himself oddly soothed by the mindless task. Afterward, he showered and shaved, wondering what today would bring. Should he venture back to the bar? Maybe Patxi could shed some light on Javi’s hostile behavior. Ed wasn’t sure why he even cared after all this time, but he did, and perhaps Javi did too, since Patxi had asked for his contact information. Call it nostalgia or just plain old human kindness, but standing by and doing nothing while the formerly vibrant man gave up on life felt wrong on so many levels.

  Was it only yesterday that he’d boarded the plane with a heavy heart, convinced he’d never shake the depression that had settled on him since Carol’s death? Feeling hopeless after a traumatic event was normal, and he should have been more sympathetic instead of reacting to Javi’s bad temper like a civilian instead of a doctor.

  Javi’s current predicament made Ed feel ungrateful and self-indulgent. He had everything going for him: a thriving practice, money in the bank, two healthy children, respectful colleagues, a solid core of friends, and wonderful parents who still functioned even in their eighties. He had no reason to complain about anything, and yet he’d been despondent. In comparison, Javi had few resources to fall back on, and suddenly Ed was determined to turn things around. Even if he had to browbeat the stubborn man int
o accepting help, he’d do it. Once he figured out why in fuck Javi was so pissed-off.

  Dressed in his newly pressed ensemble—white cargo shorts and striped blue-and-white Robert Graham shirt—Ed exited the building and headed for the beach. It was the most familiar thing at the moment, and he needed to get a whiff of the sea breeze and check out the scene. There’d been a short promenade back in the day, and he was pleasantly surprised to find they’d added miles to the original. Picking up a brochure from one of the souvenir stores, he read up on the new and improved walkway known locally as Paseo Nuevo. It circled Mount Urgull in its entirety. Starting at the Kursaal on Paseo Zurriola, he crossed the bridge into the older part of town and turned right on the promenade. Ed started the upward climb with the Cantabrian Sea to his right and the mountain to his left. It took him forty minutes to get to the aquarium around the bend, and he continued on until he got to La Concha Beach.

  The sand was covered with sun worshippers soaking up the rays on colorful oversized towels lined up in uneven rows, while children and adults frolicked in the water. He noted that Zurriola Beach was far less crowded and the waves seemed more suited to surfing. Undaunted, he proceeded another half mile until he was too tired to go on. According to his fitness app, he’d already walked five miles. It was no wonder he was beat and his shirt was soaked with sweat. Temps were in the high eighties.

  Walking back to Gros, where things were more familiar, made more sense. Instead of circling back, he chose the easier route through the center of town, but hadn’t planned on conking out midway, letting thirst and hunger get the better of him. He ducked into a bar and ordered a large bottle of mineral water along with a tankard of beer. When his thirst was sated, he addressed his hunger. The bar top was lined with a delectable assortment of pintxos. He chose a pair of small sandwiches—bocadillos—filled with Iberian ham, freshly fried salted green peppers—guindillas—piled high on an oval platter, tiny round croquettes stuffed with salted cod, anchovies sitting atop a bed of tuna on slices of bread, a generous slice of potato omelet, and to top it off, a small ramekin of flan.