‘You’ll see!’ said Maite, smiling wryly.
She and I left them to the bars and went home. And there, later, beneath the salty blankets, our energies spent, she cautioned me again. ‘The sea will be terrifying, you have no idea. Don’t do anything silly!’
‘Don’t worry, I love surfing but I’m not going to die for it! I’m not that stupid.’
The next day we stocked up on food in Bermeo. We weren’t sure how long the swell would last. In its old port sat a few of the beautifully shaped, wide-hipped, wooden boats that ran to the Canary Islands off Morocco to fill their hulls with tuna and cod, the catch quickly whisked to the covered market across the road.
At the butcher, alone behind his counter, we bought ham and salami and a whole chicken. At the grocer, the locals, all women, studied us at arm’s length as we entered, their tongues momentarily silenced. They watched as we dipped into the sacks of flour and pulses and baskets of vegetables. The gossip began again when we plucked a few garlic bulbs and peppers from the strings that hung from the cobwebbed ceiling, then intensified as we scoured the shelves for tinned fish, tinned tomatoes, fresh bottled olives and a few haberdashery items.
It was the usual gossip — our appearance, our habits, where we lived, what we did, the surfing, why we didn’t work, how long we had been around, how long we would stay.
At the counter we waited quietly. The storekeeper chatted endlessly with the womenfolk as he chopped, cut, poured, weighed, wrapped the produce, counted the money and dished out the change. One old lady, garbed in black, like a widow still in mourning, gave us a withering stare. ‘Look at these four. Fish out of water.’
The others laughed until gently rebuked by the manly shopkeeper, who eyed us sheepishly.
I smiled. ‘Don’t worry, hombre. We’re used to it,’ I said in Spanish.
The shopkeeper laughed. The women flushed, their tongues momentarily anchored. As we left, grinning, they whispered tactfully in Basque.
We bought a few luxury items, including a bottle of excellent red. ‘Not like that flagon rot-gut you told us about!’ Jock said later, with a dreg-filled smile.
‘Hey, don’t knock the flagon!’ I replied, recalling the dreamy moon-filled nights at Baquio, the smell of earth and sea, and the swish and sway of the breeze-swept corn.
The fish market reverberated with the catch-cries of the burly fishwives. The fisherwomen, tense, talked of their menfolk racing home across the seas. In the damp of its sluiced cement floors, one fishwife hauled and butchered a thirty-kilogram tuna fish. Glistening with scales, apron besmirched with blood and guts, and reeking of the sea, this rubber-gloved fishmonger was a formidable woman. Her knife flashed across the whitetiled benches as she scaled, chopped and filleted the fish with power and precision. Almost finished, she gave us a long hard stare, mopped her sweating brow with the back of her bloody glove. She wiped her knife on her apron, and looked at John. ‘Qué quiere, hombre?’
‘She’s cute!’ said John, under his breath, a wicked glint in his eye.
She grunted, picked up the fish’s guts and tossed them into a bin beside her, leaving the fish head on the bench.
‘Not my type,’ Rob replied, biting his lip. ‘Yours?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Jock, trying to keep a straight face.
She glared at us. ‘Bacalao?’
We’d tasted bacalao, salted cod, in the bar, and it was good. But I knew from Adolfo that the de-salting in fresh water took two days and was beyond our patience and resources.
‘Tuna steaks, a few anchovies and some merluza fillets,’ John said in Spanish, his eyes still glinting.
She weighed and wrapped the fish. We paid and made to leave. ‘Muchachos,’ she said, brandishing her giant fish knife, ‘Some of us speak a little English, you know.’ She brought the knife down hard cleaving the fish head in two. ‘You aren’t so cute, either!’
At the hardware shop we bought rubber tubing, nylon cord, fishing line, a strong dog collar each and a couple of handkerchiefs. Knowing we were strange foreigners who rode waves, the storekeepers regarded us curiously, as if to say: ‘Surely, they wouldn’t be mad enough to venture out.’
As we were leaving Bermeo, a steady stream of boats scooted into port, sighing with relief when they rounded the walls to safety.
In Casa Ignacia’s dilapidated lounge, we set about making our extra-strong leg ropes. Scorned by purists, the leg rope had become crucial. All committed surfers knew how to make them, like they knew how to work with fibreglass and resin to repair a damaged board.
We threaded the nylon cord through the thin latex tubing and, taking an end each, stretched out the tubing and tied the ends off with fishing line. The leg rope was secured to a special fixture in the ventral side of the tail of the surfboard. The other end we tied to a handkerchief or dog collar, which in turn could be fastened to the ankle.
The leg rope had to be strong but carefully tensioned to withstand a sudden force — a bit of give, a bit of stretch, but not too much of either. Too much stretch and after a wipeout the board might recoil into your head, too little and it would snap. With luck, it might save us from a long and dangerous swim and the board from damage on the rocky shore.
After lunch, we checked the sea. Not a hint of a swell. It was still too early, and we were too anxious.
Back at the house, bored and restless, Jock and I decided to cut each other’s hair — long and wild after months of neglect. We laid a plastic raincoat under a chair.
‘I’m not having a bar of it,’ said Rob. He scuttled to his room to write to Rebecca. John, leaning against the door jamb, watched on suspiciously.
Jock assured me he knew what he was doing, so I agreed to go first. Curls fell steadily to the floor.
‘There goes your strength, Samson,’ said John. ‘At least Jock can cut.’
Using a mirror, Jock guided me through cutting his own hair.
‘Jock, are you crazy?’ said John. ‘You’ll look like a robber’s dog!’
‘Not a robber’s dog,’ he said, checking in the mirror when all was done. ‘Not even a dog.’
‘A few snips short of an Afghan, I reckon,’ said John.
Jock laughed.
‘At least he’s not a stray,’ I said. It had slipped out before I could catch it.
A dark cloud raced across the room. John bared his teeth and looked ready to take me by the throat.
‘Hey, easy, boys!’ said Jock. ‘No need for that … Besides, I’ve got an idea,’ he said, inspecting the floor, grinning. He picked up one end of the raincoat. ‘Take the other end, Owen, and follow me.’
John put his teeth away. ‘You idiots.’ He shook his head.
We carried the raincoat full of curls and locks out of the house, down the narrow walled-in path towards Santa Catalina chapel and the port, chuckling as we went.
We mounted the seawall. Jock, fighting off the laughter, conjured a few semi-spiritual words. ‘Oh gods of the oceans and seas, send down big waves — big, beautiful waves.’ With that we threw our ‘offering’ into the sea.
There was something strangely sobering about the arc of the fall and the way the curls floated and disappeared — the thought of injury, death and a watery grave — but after a moment of eerie silence, we were laughing so hard that we nearly toppled in, then chuckled our way back to the house.
John was waiting at the top of the stairs, glaring, mostly at me. ‘You’ve both gone mad,’ he said, when Jock explained the empty raincoat. ‘Surf fever.’
Indeed, a temporary madness had taken hold.
An hour later, nerves on edge, we re-checked the sea. There was a pulse! A small consistent swell had arrived. The tide had dropped, and the swells began to break, but it was still a little full. A fishing boat snuck into port.
‘I’m in,’ said John, when a wave broke along the full length of the sandbar. He was chewing at the bit to ride the famous waves and, at that first break, he shot off to change into his wetsuit.
&
nbsp; ‘Hmmm. It’s tempting,’ said Rob, taking his hands from his pockets. ‘What about you guys?’
‘I’ll wait for the tide to drop a bit further,’ I said.
Jock hesitated. ‘I’m with Owen. It’s only going to get better. I’ll conserve energy.’
Another set arrived, each wave broke teasingly down the line.
‘Don’t wait too long,’ said Rob. ‘The crew from France are bound to descend on us.’ He raced off to the house in pursuit of John and, almost immediately, a van pulled into the car park, and then another. Soon a posse of surfers had formed on the headland.
The swell was now about four feet. We spotted John heading down the slippery stone steps on the side of the little port and launching into the water. He paddled out through the harbour walls into the channel, picking up the current, then stroking quickly out past the rocky point with its little chapel, to behind the break.
While the rest of us stood chatting, we spotted a local fishing boat, a traditional Basque one — the old heavy wooden sort — with beautiful lines and about five metres long, coming back to port from the far side of the river mouth. We didn’t think too much about it at first, because we were watching John and the waves, but the boat kept motoring steadily towards us. John had paddled across to the take-off area at the far edge of the sandbar and positioned himself, sitting on his board, waiting.
Another set appeared. Even when the waves were only a few hundred metres off the sandbar, the boat kept coming. The two fishermen seemed unaware that the swells would turn into breaking waves.
The chatter stopped as the boat drew near the edge of the sandbar, our eyes magnetically drawn by its relentless course and speed. ‘Check this fishing boat!’ an Aussie surfer yelled. ‘What the hell are they doing?’
The fishermen were locals. They knew the sandbar. They’d fished here all their lives. They were masters at judging the tide, the swell, and when to run their boats across the sandbar to get in and out of the little port. They never took chances.
‘Buggered if I know,’ I replied. ‘They’re going to cop a hiding!’
The boat kept coming. And then I realised … it was Adolfo’s boat!
John positioned himself for a wave out the back. He’d let the first one go and it reached the sandbar, reared up and broke with a heavy thud.
It was too late. Hit side-on by a wall of whitewater, the boat rolled over, pitching the two fishermen into the sea.
We were transfixed. Was this really happening?
After a few long moments, flailing limbs appeared in the froth. God, I thought, I hope they can swim! It didn’t look that way and the upturned boat was bloody close. If they didn’t watch out, they’d get it in the head!
The next wave broke and rolled through, washing the boat and the fishermen further down the sandbar and into the river mouth. Again, the fishermen disappeared under the water only to bob up, arms flailing. They looked to be in big trouble.
There was a loud cry for help from about fifty metres along the railing. Raul had stirred from his hangover to raise the alarm. He shouted and waved his arms towards the port and the bars. Locals appeared from everywhere, running, yelling, one or two barking orders. Almost in an instant, it seemed the whole village had converged on the headland.
Carmen, tea towel in hand, was amongst them. She gripped the nearby railing. ‘Dios mío! Qué pasó?’
John must have seen the boat heading to port and guessed what had happened. And so, with all eyes on him, he had to ride that wave with no mistakes and get to the fishermen — fast. He rose to his feet and raced across the wave’s face, speeding down the line of the sandbar, manoeuvring artfully. He covered the distance with amazing speed, every movement of his body and surfboard matched to the fast-breaking wave.
Gliding off the end of the wave, John lay prone on his board and streaked into the midst of the drowning men, then slid off his board to help them grab hold, steadying the board so it didn’t turn over.
On the headland, an infectious hysteria had taken hold, women screaming and crying, men shouting, but when John rode that wave it was watched in silence, breath held, eyes fixed on his flight downstream, and when he reached and saved them, you could hear and feel the collective relief.
Rob launched into another feathering wave and streaked down the river mouth to lend support and the fishermen’s survival seemed assured. I wasn’t aware of any cheering, but there might as well have been — that’s how it felt.
From that moment, the surfers could do no wrong, our uncertain reputation instantly transformed. Now we were heroes. Not just John and Rob. All of us.
The coastguard arrived from Bermeo and whisked Adolfo and his crewman away, but the boat and all its gear — the fishermen’s livelihood — were still adrift in the river mouth, so we surfers suited up and headed out en masse to recover them.
Many hours later — and with the help of a tugboat from Bermeo to drag the righted fishing boat off the sandbar — all was saved. Well, almost all. Adolfo and his crewman had lost face in the worst possible way. They’d made a catastrophic error of judgment and would never live it down.
After all was done that could be done, it was time to warm up, to eat, drink and celebrate. Naturally, we took to the bars.
Many of us surfers had only just met. Today brought us close like brothers. It would not be forgotten soon, although perhaps Adolfo would wish it otherwise. We had to do a round of the bars, all together, and go over what happened from every angle, from every point of view. The whole village was grateful. Drinks were on the house, or shouted, well into the night.
It started in Bar El Puerto with Carmen watching on. John was the centre of attention, Rob by his side. Jock and I stood to the side.
‘What you don’t realise,’ John told the gang, ‘is that when I slid off the board to help the fishermen, an octopus — part of the fishermen’s catch, I guess — wrapped around my neck and I could feel the tentacles slithering.’
‘Was it alive?’ asked Dwayne, an American from southern California.
‘I’m not sure!’ John laughed. ‘There wasn’t time to find out …! It slid away when I grabbed the two men and dragged them onto the board.’
‘Radical, man!’ drawled Roger, another American.
‘One of the guys was so desperate to clutch onto something, he pushed me under.’ John, using his hands, ducked and weaved, re-enacting the moment. ‘I thought I was going to drown, too … But that slithering sensation, so cold and slimy.’ He put a hand to his neck. ‘And the feel of those suckers on my skin — it’ll stay with me forever.’
‘Jesus, mate. We couldn’t see that part from the headland,’ said Ian, an Aussie from Sydney. He chuckled. ‘You’re gonna have some nightmares, alright!’
Jock turned to me and winked. ‘John’s on a roll, Owen.’
I shrugged. ‘Same old … right place, right time … He falls on his feet wherever he goes.’
‘In his element now.’
‘That’s his gift. Holding court.’
‘Look at them hanging on every word. They think he’s been here forever, not just a few weeks … If anyone’s a local, it’s you.’
‘No foreigner’s ever going to be a local, Jock.’
‘You know what I mean.’
The door flew open and Raul was carried in on the shoulders of a group of fishermen, his head bobbing in customary turtle fashion. His thick lips parted and he burst into song. They set him down and he staggered to the bar, leering. ‘Carmen,’ he shouted, bringing a fist down on the bar top, ‘Vino para todos!’
Unable to suppress a smile, Carmen raised an eyebrow, grunted, and filled a long line of glasses with a single pour. A fisherman passed them around.
‘A John y todos los Australianos!’ Raul yelled, with a slur. ‘Salud!’
‘Salud!’ came the response, before we downed the shot of rough red.
‘Carmen, por favor, más vino,’ John called out.
She poured another line.
/> John raised his glass. ‘A Raul! The lifeguard!’
‘A Raul!’ came the booming response.
Raul was in heaven. He burst into song. The fishermen shouldered him again and headed for the door. He didn’t quite duck in time and there was a dull thud as head met wood. He barely noticed, but the fishermen swayed. One reached up to pull Raul’s head down and off they went. The bar erupted in laughter.
I sidled up to Carmen. ‘Nobody’s shushing the town drunk tonight!’ I said.
She was silent for a moment. ‘I’m sure Adolfo and Jose might if they were here.’
‘Raul helped save their lives.’
She shrugged. ‘He did, but their lives will never be the same. Doctor Arriaza came to our piso again earlier, to see the baby. The men are in the nursing home. He said their broken bones will mend. Their spirits, he’s not so sure about.’
‘Poor buggers!’
‘Yes, a tragedy, but their families are grateful … As for Raul, he certainly helped, but your brother was the real hero. You must be proud of him.’
It was my turn to be silent. ‘And Rob.’
Carmen studied me for a moment. ‘Rob too,’ she said.
I surveyed the bar. John, once more, was surrounded by the pack of ogling surfers. ‘I have to go.’
Carmen smiled. ‘Maite?’
I nodded.
‘Where are you off to? You can’t go!’ the group exclaimed, when I made to leave. John frowned, his story disrupted.
I gave a vague answer about meeting a friend and promised to return.
Rob winked, smiling that knowing smile.
Jock looked enquiringly. ‘Ines?’
‘I think so.’
‘Check the surf, won’t you?’
Under the stars, accompanied by Maite and Ines, we had a final look. A cool breeze pushed down the valley. The tide was close to low. Huge swells loomed out of the night and pitched onto the sandbar. Unbroken, they were difficult to discern, but once they pitched, their sound and size were unmistakeable. Ten feet, we gauged, and growing fast. The swell was unrelenting.
Mundaca: A Tale of Intrigue, Romance and Surfing in Franco's Spain Page 22