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

by Owen Hargreaves

  ‘Here we go!’ I dug the back of the board in and lunged forward. The wave peaked and for a moment I thought it had passed me by, but the board gathered speed, the wave started pitching and I dropped steeply down the face of a massive watery mountain. It was a long way down, the spray blinding. I angled the board while I dropped and my eyes cleared. At the bottom I drew the longest turn I could muster, unsure of controlling the centrifugal force. The turn held and I began rising on to a giant hollowing wall, rocketing, barely in control. The vast blue came alive around me, like a whale, its mouth open, drawing me inward. For a moment I was deep inside. I reached to touch the silky lining of the beast’s innards but was pushed out by a sudden harsh breath. Stung into action, and varying the pressure through my feet, I manoeuvred the board along the wall. So intense was my focus, it all seemed to unfold in ultra-slow motion.

  It was long and fast, a ride of exhilaration and terror. Bloody hell! I felt like screaming. I did! A blood-curdling, primordial scream from a primitive place within.

  Near the end, bent on surviving, I turned out of the wave early, scared the one behind was bigger and would consume me. I met the crest, was launched upwards and flew for several seconds, toes barely touching the board, before landing on flat water behind the wave. As I sailed through the air I thought I heard a faint cheer. ‘Holy hell!’ I yelled, mimicking the words of John. ‘What a blast!’

  A few locals had gathered on the headland to watch, mostly fishermen, but some of the fishwives too. Maria stood, hand to her mouth, Carmen beside her. No Adolfo, but Dr Arriaza was there, scratching his head.

  The next wave was smaller and I was able to pause and regroup. But I couldn’t linger. Ten minutes of hard paddling against the swell and incoming tide to finally reach Jock and Rob. Jock, sitting wide of the break, was looking anxious, Rob only marginally more comfortable.

  ‘How was that?’ Jock asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘Un-bloody-believable!’ I said. ‘My heart was in my mouth on the take-off, but once on the wall, I was absolutely flying, and then I got swallowed like Jonah and spat out! Incredible!’

  ‘From behind it looked like you were going to get annihilated!’ Rob’s gaze flicked nervously back and forth to the horizon.

  ‘You’ve got to get into the wave really early and make the drop. That’s the hard bit. The rest takes care of itself. You just gotta go for it!’

  John joined us after a laborious paddle. ‘Got stuck in the current, buggered already!’ he said, sitting up on his board, planting his hands on his thighs and breathing deeply. He stared at me. ‘Owen, I saw that monster you caught … Holy hell! And you made it through — saw you fly off the end … Must’ve been a helluva tube.’

  ‘Like nothing on earth! Gary, that Hawaiian, taught me how to ride ’em.’

  ‘So it seems.’ He snatched a grin between breaths. ‘Who’s the hero now?’

  ‘Hero …? No way. Just surviving.’

  After a minute another large set approached.

  ‘Who’s going?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll try the last one,’ Jock said hesitantly.

  ‘I’ll take the one before Jock,’ said Rob.

  ‘John?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll watch for a bit,’ he said, his hands still planted on his thighs, shoulders rising and falling. ‘Have to catch my breath!’

  ‘Alright. I’ll take the third one,’ I said.

  The first two waves rolled through and we rose and fell like flotsam. When the third approached, I felt more relaxed, more conscious of the elements. Now I could better see the wave, its magnificent shape, the line of the wind-swept crest, all the shades of ocean blue; feel the patterned texture of the wall beneath my fingers, the bite of breeze on my face and the steady thunder behind me as the wave crashed on to the sandbar. What a rush!

  I focused on timing and control, modulating the speed to stay marginally in front of the breaking part of the wave, in the ‘pocket’, where the power is centred and the ride is best. The art was remaining there, without getting struck by the arching lip.

  The wave careened down the sandbar, I with it, locked in a perfect high-speed trim. I didn’t really need to do much, except keep on it, vigilant, and let the wave unfold.

  Down the line, the water drew upward as the wave face formed and fell in a glorious arc. Blues turned to greens, dark to light, smooth became rippled and scalloped — a world of sensations unfolding at great speed to be later recalled and relived in countless daydreams. This was heaven!

  I flew off the wave, airborne and attempted a controlled landing, but came adrift from my board, somersaulted and crashed. I surfaced to see Rob racing towards me, weaving, balletic, in full control. He flashed by, eyes lit, a blur of elegant motion bathed in swirling blue.

  On the next wave came Jock, crouching low over his long green board, maximising his speed, barely escaping the wave’s unleashing force. He raised his arms in a victory salute and hurtled past before a flying exit. ‘Whoo-hooo!’ came the cathartic holler of celebration, when he sailed through the air and plunged into the sea behind the wave. There was cheering from the headland when he surfaced.

  Jock collected himself and paddled to where Rob and I were waiting, his grin wide like his eyes. ‘Never in my life!’ he exclaimed. ‘Amazing, man. The biggest, best, scariest wave of my life!’

  ‘You should have seen your face, mate!’ I said. ‘And look at the crowd.’ Half the village were now on the headland, some yelling and waving, many shaking their heads in disbelief. The other surfers stood close by, looking on. A few shot off to change into their wetsuits.

  Jock laughed, the haunted look replaced by nervous excitement.

  ‘Hey, we’d better get moving!’ said Rob, pointing. ‘Look what’s coming!’

  Jock and I didn’t need urging. We paddled in earnest, well wide of the break, back out to sea. Halfway out, another set arrived.

  John, who’d drifted inside, scratched over the first few. The third wave was smaller. He caught it, but was a tad slow and, by the time he was upright, the wave was pitching well over him. Somehow he made it to the bottom and slightly off balance, turned tightly, taking him into the hollow depths of the wave. The wave threatened to engulf him, but he clung tightly, deep within it. With his weight forward, he gathered speed and shot forward, catapulted down the line. He let out a cry of exhilaration and in a blink he’d passed us.

  ‘How was that?’ Jock asked breathlessly.

  ‘Bloody lucky!’ Rob exclaimed. ‘He nearly got it on the head!’

  ‘We will too, if we’re not careful,’ I cautioned. ‘Let’s move it!’

  On my next wave, I passed John paddling back out, a broad grin leaping from his face and a triumphant fist raised. Three hours passed before we started to flag. Back at the take-off zone, we decided on a last ride each. ‘We’re stuffed,’ Rob said to the others. ‘We’re heading in.’

  Roger nodded. ‘Take care, man! You know how it is when you’re tired.’

  We all made our waves to the end, except Rob who fell on the take-off and was smashed.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ yelled Jock, as we sat up on our boards at the edge of the rip and surveyed the sea. He paled, as if he’d lost his own brother. ‘Where the hell is he?’

  It was impossible to see beyond the next surging mass of whitewater. All the memories of Greg’s near-drowning came rushing back. ‘Wait!’ said John. ‘There’s his board!’ It was being pushed towards us by a dying wave. Jock paddled across, grabbed it by its leg rope and held tight.

  ‘And there’s Rob!’ yelled John.

  Attempting to bodysurf, Rob was washed in, flailing, on the following mass of foamy water. Jock paddled towards him as the wave gradually died on the edge of the rip, and he passed Rob his board.

  Exhausted and breathless, Rob hauled himself on and slowly paddled over. ‘By Jesus!’ he whispered harshly. ‘I’m stuffed!’

  ‘God, you gave me a fright,’ said Jock, still pale.

  ‘A close call,’
said John. ‘A brush with death.’ He glanced at me. ‘Must be careful.’

  When Rob was ready, we made the final dash across the rip, all together, back to the calm waters of the little port.

  The villagers surrounded us when we mounted the steps to the top of the port wall. There were smiles, slaps on the back, and endless shaking of heads. ‘Locos! Bravos y locos!’

  Carmen stood to the side, baby in her arms, Dr Arriaza beside her. I approached them, board under arm, dripping.

  ‘You boys are crazy! Brave, but absolutely crazy!’ he said.

  ‘A calculated risk!’ l grinned. ‘It’s worth it!’

  Carmen raised an eyebrow, grunted and suppressed a smile. ‘Calculated stupidity, more like it.’

  I laughed. ‘And how’s the baby?’

  Carmen smiled, ‘On the mend.’ She tipped her head to Dr Arriaza. ‘Thanks to him.’

  The doctor reached into his coat pocket, fumbled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. ‘I didn’t do much. Not much I could do.’ He drew on the cigarette. ‘Whooping cough, you have to ride it out.’ Smoke drifted out of his nostrils. ‘Hope that nature is kind.’ He patted Carmen on the back. ‘We got lucky. Nature isn’t always kind.’ He looked at me, studied me for a moment. ‘You don’t win every battle.’

  I thought of Louise. ‘No,’ I said.

  He stroked the baby’s head. ‘But you never give up, do you? You keep on fighting, struggling to find a way, even if the path isn’t clear.’

  The swell lasted for five days then petered out. The last day was a sprightly four to six feet, without the intensity of the previous days. The sun was bright and piercing and reflected uncomfortably off the ocean’s sleek surface.

  We surfed with casual abandon, no longer confined by the discipline of surviving unscathed. Mistakes were made, we fell, the consequences mild and tolerable. No-one was going to get killed. We surfed in a mood of total celebration, like playful children larking — noisy, smiling, quick to laugh.

  CHAPTER 13

  Snow began to appear on the distant peaks beyond Guernica. The air grew cold and sharp, and the salty damp was everywhere. The days were closing in. The wind whispered under the door. I went early to buy bread. The streets were quiet like always, the villagers going about their usual activities.

  ‘Franco Ha Muerto’ in massive print filled the front page of El Correo. There was to be a period of mourning followed by a state funeral. Franco’s enemies had waited long and patiently for this day. And for them, surely, this was a day of celebration. Finally, the tyrant, the dictator, the oppressor was dead! From the street you couldn’t hear the champagne corks popping or the clink of glasses. You couldn’t see the relief, the quiet joy, the excited whisperings. In the streets of Mundaca there was no marching band, no fanfare, no celebration. Life appeared eerily the same.

  Even the town crier on his afternoon round of the village remained strangely subdued. I guess no-one wanted to appear too elated.

  And for good reason — the military and the Guardia Civil had been placed on high alert.

  When we met that night, Maite could speak of little else. ‘Franco is dead! It’s finally happened! Can you believe it? But what next? His men are still there, still in control. And now the military and Guardia Civil are everywhere. I think it will get worse.’

  ‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘It’s bound to be tense for a while. Then you’ll see. Aren’t you being too pessimistic?’

  ‘So many emotions today.’ Her shoulders sank, as if it were all too hard. ‘I feel exhausted.’

  I wanted to ask her about the parcels, what was in them, but it wasn’t the right time. I drew her to me, held her tightly. She snuggled in close. There was urgency now to our nightly rendezvous, for these were our final days. The clock was ticking down and it would soon be time for me to leave.

  I was deeply in love with Maite. She occupied my waking and my sleeping dreams, taken hold of me. My heart, gladly tentacled, could not contemplate departure from this place and her. But l had to. Time and money had run out.

  It was two nights later, when we lay, regaining our breath, that I was able to broach the subject of the parcels. Maite had brought me a gift. ‘It’s very beautiful,’ I said, gazing over her shoulder at the candlelit painting propped against the wall.

  She turned briefly to look. ‘He’s an excellent painter … a friend of my grandfather.’

  ‘Your grandfather seemed to have a lot of friends.’ I waited until she faced me again. ‘How’s the one in the nursing home — Patxi?’

  ‘Getting worse.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  She sighed. ‘Everything. He’s old and broken. He was injured in the war … most of them were. His body’s giving out. And he’s exhausted from finishing off a project.’

  I turned her words over in my mind. ‘Is he getting good care?’

  ‘Of course. The doctor’s his best friend. He gets special attention.’

  ‘At the nursing home here in Mundaca?’

  She frowned. ‘Yes, of course. Why?’

  ‘Is he that frail, old intense character in the wheelchair?’

  ‘Yes, I go there regularly to visit him. I’m sure I told you that.’

  ‘I saw him give you a parcel.’

  She was silent for a moment. ‘He often gives me a parcel. And then I return it to him at the next visit. Some we send away. The ones I gave you to post.’

  ‘What’s in them?’

  ‘Our secret project.’

  ‘You can’t tell me what it is?’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘It’s best you don’t know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you leave.’

  I sighed.

  ‘You have to trust me.’ She pulled me close, wrapped herself around me, whispered softly in my ear, ‘As I might have to trust you.’

  What did she mean by that: ‘As I might have to trust you’?

  Jock and Rob were the first to go and we saw them to the station. They’d held out for Christmas but couldn’t wait for the New Year.

  We hugged in that restrained macho way, slapped each other playfully on the upper arms, made promises of correspondence and a rendezvous, and joked, tight-throated.

  The train wheezily erupted into life. A railway official moved along the length of the platform, closing doors. He checked both ways, held up a flag and whistled. The train grunted, rocked, spat and inched forward.

  Jock, half out the train window, his glasses fogged, the breeze catching his straggly blond locks, yelled, ‘Adiós, Jean! Look after yourself, Owen! Ondo ibili!’

  Rob’s head pushed into view beside him, eyes darting, searching us out. ‘Adiós, boys!’ he cried. ‘Agur!’

  The ageing train hissed and pulled away from the short, narrow platform. Its rusty, faded carriages rocked discordantly when it picked up speed.

  John waved. ‘Adiós, amigos!’

  ‘Agur, fellas!’ I called, the words half-catching in my throat. ‘Ondo ibili!’

  Jock and Rob hung out the window, their arms outstretched in final salute until they disappeared around the curve of the hill.

  ‘I don’t think I can leave,’ I said.

  John, his mouth half-open, turned to look at me. ‘Are you kidding, Owen?’ The lines in his brow stood out like the tracks beside us. ‘You know what I’d do? I’d grab the opportunity. No question! Go back, study medicine.’

  I shook my head. ‘I want to stay here.’

  ‘Owen, wake up! You can’t stay here. The Basque country is fascinating, Mundaca is a wonderful village and Maite’s a beautiful girl, but you have to move on. Your future lies ahead. What would you do here? Even with perfect Spanish, what work would you get? Be realistic.’

  He regarded me earnestly, his hand on my shoulder. ‘Owen, I couldn’t study like you. But you can. You should.’ He took me by both shoulders. ‘Even your mate, George, knew when it was tim
e to leave, didn’t he?’

  I shrugged half-heartedly. ‘He did.’

  ‘There are certain times in life when you just have to cut and run.’ He seemed suddenly overtaken by a profound sadness. ‘I had to get away after … just had to.’

  ‘I know … I might have done the same at your age.’

  ‘I could stay and get a job,’ I said to Maite the following night. She’d been distant, distracted, but now I had her full attention.

  ‘What kind of job?’ she asked. She touched my face gently. ‘I want you to stay too, but you have to be realistic.’ She frowned, hesitated. ‘Besides, you have to leave … the sooner the better.’

  My throat tightened. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m being closely watched. We all are.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘Franco’s spies. They’re still in place.’

  ‘Me too?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  She nestled into me. ‘I’m scared. I can feel something in my bones. Our project’s finished, and it’s as if they know.’

  ‘Are you in danger?’

  ‘We all are. You included. You must get away. It’s important.’

  ‘Important?’

  She held me close. ‘Yes, important you get away safely.’

  I sighed. Destiny was conspiring against me. ‘New Year, then. The day after tomorrow, when John leaves.’

  She kissed me warmly, placed a finger on my lips. ‘In the meantime, don’t tell anyone what I’ve said, not even your brother. And stay calm, act naturally.’

  I nodded ruefully.

  ‘You can always come back,’ she said tenderly. ‘And, Doctor … there’s one final favour to ask.’

  On New Year’s Eve, the sky was low-slung and oppressive and a scything wind knifed down the valley and cut into the ink blue sea and rising groundswell. In the port, a confusion of waves jostled the fishing boats, which pulled at their moorings like disgruntled mares.