Mundaca: A Tale of Intrigue, Romance and Surfing in Franco's Spain

by Owen Hargreaves

  ‘Maria,’ the woman said softly.

  They talked briefly and Carmen said goodbye. The tired lines of her handsome face softened, like calm restored to a windswept sea. There was a lightness in her step when she descended the stairs, reminding me of home, of my own mother.

  Mum. She’d be disappointed I missed the rendezvous with John. But, hell, John was elusive, and she knew that.

  Maria and I stood regarding each other in the wood-panelled living room with its dining area and large window that overlooked the port. Under it sat a dark wooden table and chairs and, nearer me, a formal lounge suite with crimson cushions. Jesus wearing a crown of thorns hung on the wall and there was a crucifix above the door. She was calm, almost angelic, while she studied her new charge.

  Maria then ushered me into an adjacent room where there was an untouched single bed near the door. The bed looked neat and clean. There were three other single beds in the room, all unmade. Three surfboards stood upright against the far wall. The whole room seemed fairly well ordered.

  ‘Dos cientas pesetas al noche. Two hundred pesetas a night. Okay?’ she said.

  My thoughts were still mostly with John, so I nodded absently. ‘Okay.’ I was in the hands of others and had to trust them.

  I dropped my dirty backpack beside the offered, untouched bed, glad to be relieved of the thing. Almost as soon as my back-pack hit the floor, three guys filed into the room and Maria began introducing me to the owners of the three surfboards.

  Dark-eyed Luc wore a winning grin. Jean-Louis nodded shyly, a leaner, taller, studious type with sandy hair and steelrimmed glasses, and Michel, who gave me the once-over. I returned the scrutiny. He was a little older than me — tall and slim with brown hair, steady brown eyes and a fine wispy moustache. The three of them greeted me with the same brief, loose-grip handshake, one with more style than substance. A handshake that never really got going.

  ‘They speak English,’ Michel said. ‘But not so good like me.’ He smiled and the room felt instantly lighter. ‘Come,’ he beckoned me with a forefinger. ‘We make a little tour.’

  Michel, with due Gallic gravity, carefully explained the details of the domestic arrangements. The white-tiled bathroom and kitchen were scrubbed meticulously clean. Michel turned his back on Maria who hovered not so discreetly in the background, touched his nose and winced. ‘Maria’s husband, Adolfo, is a fisherman,’ he whispered. ‘She try hard to keep the stink of fish out of the apartment.’

  But I could smell it everywhere. I could imagine Maria with the other fishwives I’d seen repairing nets down at the seawall, bringing home the catch when the boats came in, cleaning and scaling the fish. Over time, the smell must have become ingrained into her tough leathery skin.

  Back in the bedroom, Luc and Jean-Louis were reclining on their beds under the crucifix, reading surfing magazines. They observed me over their pages, Jean-Louis discreetly, Luc less so.

  ‘You come from where?’ asked Michel coolly, eyebrows rising.

  ‘London.’ I was a little taken aback by his tone. ‘I hitched.’

  ‘Hitched?’ His demeanour changed. He seemed impressed. The others too.

  ‘I like hitching,’ I said. ‘I’ve hitched all over the place. Since I was thirteen.’

  ‘Really?’

  I told them how I’d started off hitching with a group of mates from Melbourne to the coast.

  ‘Your parents, they do not mind?’ asked Michel.

  ‘At the beginning, but everybody hitches, especially surfers. “Safety in numbers,” Mum always said. Besides, my brother made it easy for me.’

  John had fought the heated battles about hitching years ahead of me; I’d merely watched anxiously from the sidelines as the arguments unfolded. Eventually, the folks gave up. John became too big and strong and I don’t think Dad was the fighting kind. When my turn arrived, I quietly followed in my brother’s footsteps.

  ‘They’d seen that John had come to no harm hitchhiking,’ I added. ‘Although I’m sure he didn’t tell them everything that happened. Mind you, neither did I.’

  ‘Did anything happen?’ Jean-Louis asked.

  ‘Well, occasionally you’d get separated on the road, and end up in a car alone. On one of my earlier rides, an old codger put his hand on my knee. I screamed. He panicked and jammed on the brakes, wanting me out as quickly as I wanted to get out.’

  They all laughed.

  ‘I was more wary after that, but there was no way I was telling the folks. That would have put a stop to my weekend surfing trips away with my mates.’

  ‘J’imagine.’ Michel tapped his chin with his finger.

  ‘Go anywhere interesting?’ asked Luc, setting his magazine aside.

  ‘When I was sixteen, I flew to New Zealand for my first overseas rendezvous with John. He was living and working there. We hitched from Auckland down the east coast to Gisborne, and then on to Mahia to go surfing. Six months ago I hitched to London from my aunt’s in Genoa.’

  ‘Genoa?’ said Jean-Louis, frowning.

  ‘I was glad to get out of that place. Poor aunty was struggling.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I said. I didn’t tell them how she’d gone a little crazy living there, divorced, with a young child to bring up. She tried hard for twenty years, but remained forever an outsider. Not even a passion for opera and the violin could break down the local prejudices. It finally got to her. I’d seen her rage against the world and it wasn’t pretty. I had to escape. ‘I was lucky,’ I added. ‘One long ride with two chirpy Canadians, the whole length of France, all the way from Nice to Lille. It must have been some kind of record.’

  ‘A long ride, but Lille?’ Jean-Louis frowned again. ‘You finish in Lille?’

  ‘We picked up a medical student on the outskirts of Paris. He was hitching to university in Lille. We got talking and he invited me to stay. It was a cramped apartment, so I spent a few nights on the floor amongst scattered anatomy and physiology books on a stained mattress that a mate and his girlfriend occasionally used.’

  ‘An intimate encounter with French anatomy and physiology, n’est-ce pas?’ Jean-Louis mused. The others laughed and I joined in.

  ‘Anyway, he took me under his wing and we visited his various girlfriends. He was a real charmer, the girls seemed to love him.’ I was silent for a moment, reflecting. ‘A good guy, shared what he had. Thoughtful too, he seemed interested in my prospects.’

  Michel digested the anecdote. Then he shrugged. ‘Hitch anywhere else, anywhere interesting?’

  ‘Mostly the local coast of Victoria. The surfing brotherhood in Australia are an adventurous lot, you know.’ I felt proud telling them about exploring for surf breaks, the neverending obsession fuelled by surf magazines and the promise of uncrowded perfect waves. ‘Dad used to say when he drove us along the coast, “You boys always think the waves will be better at the next spot around the next corner.” My father had his limits, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And you?’ asked Michel.

  ‘Limits? Not really. I nearly drowned once and got chased out of the water by a shark at Yallingup, but other than that, no. Not me. Not yet.’

  ‘And so, what now?’ he asked, hands on hips.

  ‘I came to find my brother. He was here, but he’s gone. I don’t know where.’ I shrugged. ‘I guess I’ll go travelling.’

  ‘In London, you did what?’

  Michel’s English, although slightly comical, was pretty good. His forthright manner, however, was off-putting. I glanced at the others. Luc rolled his eyes, Jean-Louis sighed and stretched out his arms, mirroring the crucified Christ above.

  I launched into the part of my story that began in London and they listened, nodding, looking me over. In London I’d focused on survival and saving money so I could meet up with John. My back-up plan if I didn’t find him was to travel around Europe and see the sights.

  ‘Et voilà!’ Michel said, with a grand sweep of his right arm, when the
interrogation was over. His theatrics made me laugh. I wondered what they’d make of him back home.

  ‘What about you guys?’ I asked.

  ‘University students from Paris,’ he said, puffing out his chest. ‘But the study year is finished and it’s time for le surf.’ The detached look deserted him momentarily. ‘Le surf is important for us. Also, there is fiesta,’ he said. ‘It begin in a few days.’

  The Frenchmen intrigued me. These guys had learnt the basic skills, bought the latest equipment and adopted many of the ways of the beach culture, but they hadn’t dropped out or let surfing dominate their lives. After all, they were Parisians and le surf was only really possible in holidays, mostly in summer. The rest of the time they studied hard, preparing for their careers. They were well-groomed for surfers, their hair relatively short, their clothes casual, yet welltailored. Their gestures were refined and even their excitement when discussing le surf, restrained. I’d never seen such an enthusiastic yet stylish approach to the sport. It was like Paris at the beach.

  ‘I haven’t surfed for seven months,’ I confessed. But now, faced by three keen surfers, I felt a rush of blood through the veins, a familiar tingle in the skin.

  Luc sat forward on the edge of his bed, a little fire in his eyes. ‘You want to surf! I can see it. Good!’ He gave an excited glance to Jean-Louis.

  Jean-Louis pushed his glasses high on his long narrow nose and ran his left hand through his thick sandy hair. Something about his hands made me wonder if he played the piano. ‘Where is your board, your wetsuit?’ he asked in meticulous English. The parlour cat was as capable and accomplished as he was reserved — you could tell, he only had to stretch.

  ‘In Australia.’

  Luc checked his watch. A hungry light prowled in the depths of his eyes. Panther-like, he sprang to his feet. ‘Mes amis, it’s time,’ he said. ‘Allez!’

  Michel beckoned me with a wave of his hand. ‘You want to come and watch?’

  Thoughts of John were swept aside by talk of the sea, he barely need ask. The reply shot out. ‘You bet!’

  ‘On y va!’

  Greg grinned. ‘Man, you must have been excited! Seven months without waves. I can’t imagine it. How did you feel when they were suiting up, grabbing their boards?’

  ‘It was like my blood was flowing again! I was hot on their heels from then on.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  I stood beside the cannon while the Frenchmen cautiously descended a short flight of moss-covered steps to a patch of sand exposed by the low tide. They negotiated the taut slimy ropes that cross-tethered several grounded fishing boats to the walls, waded into the murky green water and paddled to where the port opened to the sea.

  What a sight! Surfers slipping across the silent waters of this tiny ancient harbour. In the distance, framed by the seawalls, waves were breaking in the river mouth, and beyond, the mountains and that huge cliff. This was surfing like I’d never seen or imagined. When I thought of surf, I thought of bush, coastal hills and wild, wide, open beaches that stretched for miles. This was bizarre — surf in a medieval setting.

  I followed the path around the port, taking my gaze from the surfers only to prevent a fall into the oily water. Out of the port, the surfers paddled into a channel that narrowed between the sandbar and a rocky outcropping. Beyond the breakers, they paddled parallel to the waves around to the edge of the sandbar to sit on their boards to wait.

  The swell was modest and inconsistent. A gentle breeze flitted down the river, smoothing the sea and momentarily holding up the waves when they peaked. Arriving in sets of three or four, the swells rose precipitously and broke with a sharp cracking sound on the shallow sandbar, a well-delineated triangle at this low tide, running from the rocky outcrop into the river mouth and away from the shoreline. I could see a weathered old chapel on the point beyond the rocks.

  A set approached and the surfers paddled for the first wave. Luc caught it, but was barely upright before the wave broke around him, throwing him forward and off his board. The others tried their luck with the swells that followed, but all were tossed aside and left flailing in the sandy whitewash, no doubt slightly stunned.

  As waves go, these were challenging. They were fast and powerful. You’d need excellent technique. Today’s waves were too small and too fast to ride properly, but I could see the potential of this perfect set-up with the long, shallow sandbank abutting the deep ocean. In certain respects the wave was safe because it ran down into the river, but the out-flowing channel was dangerous. It allowed easy access from the port to the break, but it could also suck you well out to sea if you lost your board.

  At sunset, they emerged from the water looking frustrated. Luc was crestfallen and silent. Jean-Louis put his arm around him, like a big brother would. ‘Ça va, Luc. Ça va. It’s okay.’

  ‘Poor Luc!’ said Greg.

  ‘He must have been bummed.’ ‘He was, and Michel rubbed it in. He didn’t let up.’

  ‘That’s harsh, man. Sounds like a critical wave. Any surfer could get rolled there.’

  ‘It is critical. The locals have a healthy respect for it.’

  ‘Local surfers?’

  ‘No. There aren’t any. The fishermen I mean. The landlord told us that night.’

  We joined Maria and her husband — the wiry, diminutive Adolfo — and their two watchful children, for dinner.

  ‘You boys love the sea, don’t you?’ said Adolfo. ‘We fishermen do, too. It’s our livelihood. But we also fear it.’ He took a sip of red wine. ‘Most of us can’t swim, or not well.’ He leant forward, still clutching the glass. Half his little finger was missing. ‘The waves are our enemy. We can’t leave the port if there are waves. In the summer it’s not a problem, but in autumn and winter, when the waves are big, we stay at home.’

  He put down his glass and ran a hand through his cropped greying hair. ‘When we see you boys paddling out in the big waves, we think you’re crazy.’ He grimaced and scratched his scalp. ‘Don’t get me wrong, we know you’re brave, and that you understand the sea, and the winds, the tides and the currents. We can see that.’ He picked up a piece of crusty bread and snapped it in two. ‘But still we think you’re mad.’ He waved one of the pieces. ‘All I can say is that it must feel damn good to ride those wretched waves and take such risks.’ Adolfo shook his head. ‘I take my hat off to you … but still think you’re crazy … locos!’ He took a bite and began chewing.

  ‘Adolfo sounds like quite a character,’ said Greg.

  ‘He is. He doesn’t hold back. You should have heard what he said the next night about surfers.’

  We were sitting around the dining table waiting for Maria to bring the meal. She was singing quietly as she cooked, her gentle melody battling with the spit of the fry-pan. The aroma of fried fish preceded her, stealing in on the breeze from the kitchen window.

  Adolfo was hungry. He kept glancing towards the kitchen door and playing with his cutlery. The backs of his hands were covered in linear scars, presumably where the hand lines had bitten deep when they fished. ‘Well, the villagers think surfers are eccentrics,’ Adolfo observed with a glint in his eye. He seemed determined to share his insider knowledge. ‘And a little bit like gypsies, only fairer.’ He rolled up his sleeves and leant forward as if about to tell a secret. ‘Gypsies, you know, have a bad reputation in Spain. They pass through,’ he made a sweeping motion of his scarred hand, ‘never stay long, and get up to mischief.’ He scowled. ‘They’re often dirty, lazy and thieving.’ He jabbed the air with his finger. ‘And not to be trusted.’

  He sat back hard against his seat, crossed his arms and examined our blank faces. ‘The surfers aren’t thieves, don’t get me wrong,’ he clarified, uncrossing his arms and offering up his calloused palms. ‘But a number are scruffy and they do come and go like gypsies. The villagers are naturally suspicious.’ He raised his palms, shrugging, bringing deep creases to the weather-beaten skin of his neck.

  He leaned towa
rds us again, another secret to share. ‘The villagers work hard. When they see the foreigners hanging about doing nothing, they think they’re lazy.’ His face hardened, as if feeling a sudden tug on his hand-line. ‘And we don’t tolerate laziness. No, no, not at all. Never!’ He threw back his shoulders, laughing, and showed his palms again. ‘So that’s what you’re up against!’

  The road began to climb. I took a long deep breath and let it out, releasing the tension.

  ‘Well, surfers are accustomed to those kinds of sentiments,’ said Greg. ‘We battle a similar denigration back home.’

  ‘Yeah, in Australia, we’re depicted like hippies or dropouts or fringe-dwellers, living on the edge of society,’ I said.

  ‘Same in America, man. They say we’re a subversive influence with nothing valuable to contribute.’

  ‘I reckon the allure of surfing has always been hard to explain to those that don’t surf.’

  ‘Exactly. Why would it be any different here?’

  I took another big breath and surveyed the peaceful countryside.

  ‘So, did you get to ride Mundaca?’ asked Greg.

  ‘We waited for it.’

  Over the following days the weather was near perfect. It was a time to relax, to rejuvenate, to stretch the limbs. And the Frenchmen and I did just that.

  The village readied itself for the coming fiesta and we idled, spending long intervals sunbaking on the seawalls. From there we could observe the villagers at work: fishermen making minor repairs or painting their boats; fisherwomen patching nets on the walls below us, rarely silent; bartenders tidying their bars in the quiet of the morning; villagers white-washing everything that didn’t move, including the lower trunks of every plane tree. Steadily, the village was renewed.

  Body pressed against the hot cement atop the seawall, closed eyes to the sky, I could let my thoughts go. The sun on the skin, the slight taste of salt, a lick of sea breeze and the lap of the water against the seawalls proved an intoxicating combination. Sometimes, like today, it felt good to laze.