He nodded to me and closed the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts. A voice-in-my-head reminded me I’d seen those red letters and that symbol before—in another dream. But you know how it is with dreams—the more you struggle to remember things the more elusive they become, like trying to grab soap in bath-water.
I decided to relax and go with the flow. Things could be worse—I could be drifting around the Atlantic, a dismembered corpse with my eyes pecked out, or in the stomach of one of the Men in Grey Suits.
After my bath, I returned to the supremely comfy bed and my helper brought me breakfast. I’d eaten nothing since Saturday night in El Médano and I was literally starving, but I still had time to appreciate the quality of the food.
“I hope el señor is liking la comida?” he asked.
I nodded enthusiastically, my mouth full of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs.
“The Master would like to speak with you now, señor. Are you ready to meet him?”
I shrugged.
My helper stepped back and another figure entered the room. He was much older, perhaps in his late fifties—my dad’s age, but unlike my dad this bloke didn’t move like an old man. He was an imposing individual: tall, thin, grey hair, lined face, dressed in black—in stark contrast to both the room and my helper in his immaculate white uniform. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored sunglasses. Somehow he commanded respect without needing to open his mouth or look into his eyes.
We studied each other in silence, until it became uncomfortable. I swallowed the last piece of toast, took a swig of the sublime coffee, and opened my mouth to speak ... but he got there first:
“So, señor, how are you feeling after your ordeal?” A thoughtful, urbane voice, with an accent I couldn’t quite place.
“—” I couldn’t answer his question. My brain, like my eyesight, was still working sluggishly.
“I hope Carlos has been looking after you?” He gestured towards the man-in-white.
I nodded and then I caught a glimpse of myself reflected in his mirror shades. It wasn’t a pretty sight: sunburnt, haggard, but alive—thanks to him. I figured it was about time I showed some gratitude:
“Yes, yes, it’s been ... I can’t ... I feel ...” I croaked, through cracked lips. For the first time the enormity of what I’d been through struck me. The emotions poured out and I wept.
“Look mate, I can’t thank you enough” I sobbed. “You saved my life. But where am I? Please tell me I am alive! Is this a dream? Who are you guys? Where are you from?”
He raised his hand. The gesture was kindly but it halted my hysterical raving instantly.
“All in good time. You need to rest now. We’ll talk again later. In the meantime, what is your name?”
“—” Again I couldn’t answer him. Who was I indeed? He waited while I wrestled with the question. Eventually the voice-in-my-head replied: “my name is Nick.”
I must have said this aloud, or perhaps he read my thoughts, because he leant in towards me, shook my hand and greeted me:
“Pleased to meet you, Nick. Welcome aboard. My name is Alejandro Langer, but my crew call me the ‘Master’. I would appreciate it if you did the same.”
I nodded and he continued:
“To answer some of your questions: yes, you are definitely alive and this is not Heaven or Hell. It is the Abyss ...”
He paused, amused by my obvious confusion. I said nothing and waited to see where this was going.
“As to whether you are experiencing a dream we call ‘reality’ then I would ask you in return: who is dreaming it? But that is something we can, perhaps, discuss later over a glass of red wine?”
I shrugged and tried to meet his gaze, but I was once again confronted by myself reflected in those impenetrable glasses.
He smiled—the faintest of smiles—a mix of irony and world-weary amusement.
“Very well, Nick. Get some rest. Later you can tell me how you came to be drifting around in the Atlantic.”
He spoke to the man-in-white: “Deberíamos dejarle dormir ahora. Por favor, Carlos, traédmelo a la una y comeremos juntos.”
Before leaving he explained what he’d said:
“Carlos will wake you in a few hours and we will have lunch together. I see you’ve enjoyed your breakfast but I expect you will be hungry for his cuisine again.”
He closed the door and I was alone again. I closed my eyes and fell back into deep, dreamless sleep.
Time jumps. There’s a knock on the door. I open my eyes, try to focus and make sense of my surroundings, but I’m disoriented again. Things are blurred and confused—like an acid trip. It feels as if time has jumped ahead and barely a few seconds have passed but I can see from the clock on the bedside table that it’s now one o’clock, so several hours have elapsed.
The man in the white uniform entered the room and passed me a bathrobe. It was as luxurious as everything else in this dream. A voice-in-my-head reminded me that I knew his name and that I could speak a little Spanish: “Gracias Carlos” I croaked in my salt-encrusted Ozzie accent.
He seemed pleased by this improvement in my state of mind and its capabilities: “Ah, veo que habla mi idioma señor ... you are speaking some Spanish, no?”
I nodded. “Sí, un poco, pero necesito practicar más ... I’ve been living in Tenerife for three months but I only ever speak a few words.”
Carlos helped me climb a spiral staircase up to a wooden deck. The first thing I noticed there was my board, propped up against the polished steel railings and secured with some white rope. Relief and gratitude surged through me—she was here with me in this dream!
Draped over the board were my wetsuit and harness. These familiar objects jolted me out of my reverie. This was no dream, nor was I hallucinating. This was for real—I really had survived! My board had kept me alive and now she was even more precious. I stroked her like a much-loved dog.
A clichéd phrase popped into my head: ‘welcome to the first day of the rest of your life’ and I looked around with fresh eyes. I was standing on the main deck of a large catamaran. It was a beautiful afternoon and we were surrounded by crystal-clear water glistening in the sunlight. In the distance I could see islands, mountains. I recognised Mt Teide, Tenerife’s iconic volcano. We appeared to be heading back towards the coast I’d left two days ago.
There was a moderate breeze, perhaps fifteen knots and we were under sail as well as cruising with an engine—‘motor-sailing’ I think it’s called in yachting parlance. We were making good headway on a beam reach heading for the port of Santa Cruz and it looked like we’d be there in a few hours.
Looking around I began to realise just how sophisticated this boat was. In the centre of the main deck there was a circular bar made of exquisite inlaid mahogany, complete with more bottles of exotic alcohol than should be allowed near a thirsty Ozzie windsurfer. It put to shame the humble local bar in El Médano where I’d been working for the past few months. Next to the bar was a long dining table, again constructed of fine wood, laid with places for three. Carlos gestured to me to sit and asked if I would like a beer:
“¿Le apetece una cerveza fría, señor, antes de comer?”
“Sí, gracias Carlos, eso estaría estupendo” I replied, dredging my brain for the little Spanish I’d acquired.
He handed me a chilled Dorada from the bar and I sat there sipping it in the sunshine, marvelling at the transformation in my fortune. “It’s amazing the difference a day can make ...” the voice-in-my-head sang.
Two men walked across the deck towards me. One was dressed in the same white uniform as Carlos but he was, perhaps, twenty years older. The other was the man I’d met earlier—the bloke who’d introduced himself as the ‘Master’ (I tried to recall his real name but already it escaped me). He was dressed as before, in black, and spoke to me in the same cultured, rather formal tone:
“Good afternoon, Nick. I hope you are feeling better and ready for some lunch?”
I manag
ed to overwrite my default shrug with a polite nod. He introduced his colleague:
“This is Pablo Vasquez, my captain. He is in charge of the boat—I just tell him where we go.”
Pablo gave me a wry smile, with a hint of a wink. He seemed like an agreeable sort of chap and I warmed to him immediately. I was still wary of this Master bloke though. I just couldn’t figure him out. He seemed to operate on more than one level simultaneously. Everything he said seemed normal enough but then resonated with layers of hidden meaning.
“So Nick, as you see we rescued your tabla de windsurf when we plucked you out of the sea yesterday ...” he pointed to my beloved wave-board, “but Pablo and I were under the misapprehension that this sailboard of yours required a sail to move?”
I wasn’t sure if this was a genuine question or his version of sarcasm, so I said nothing. He continued in his dry, amused tone:
“I was hoping that perhaps you had invented a new form of propulsion?”
Now it was clear he was joking, so I smiled politely.
“Seriously though, Nick, I have been fascinated by your sport of board-sailing ever since I first saw it in the Canary Islands. It seems to be the purest form of sailing and the participants have the most direct connection with the wind and waves, no?”
I nodded my agreement.
“So, for me, it was a rather fortuitous moment when one of these board-sailors turned up and I could welcome him aboard my own sailing craft.”
Again I couldn’t be sure if he was sincere but he seemed to be doing his best to reassure me.
“Clearly we are members of different sailing tribes …” He scrutinised my dishevelled dreadlocks and Aboriginal tattoos “... but we share this connection with the wind and I’m fascinated to find out more about your tribe.”
I nodded, cautiously.
“Of course, for you the circumstances of our meeting had a different significance ...”
“—” I could find nothing to say to this and he sensed my unease:
“But let’s eat now. Perhaps you will be happier to talk about your voyage after lunch.”
He clicked his fingers and Carlos arrived at the table with plates of food. The meal was extraordinary, simply out of this world. Again I wondered if I’d been abducted by aliens—beings with highly advanced culinary skills and perhaps even an extraterrestrial equivalent of Michelin stars. The solomillo a la parrilla was so superior to any steak I’d previously experienced that with the first mouthful still in my mouth I announced I was giving it ten out of ten “ ... and that’s praise indeed, coming from an Ozzie!”
The Master nodded and acknowledged my praise on Carlos’ behalf.
“So Nick, you are from ‘down under’ as I believe it is popularly called. I thought I recognised the accent. And if I’m not mistaken, you have indigenous roots?”
I took a gulp of red wine (again worthy of an advanced civilisation) and answered with my usual shrug. He took this as an affirmative:
“Yes, I thought these markings on your skin were familiar ...” He gestured towards my tattoos. “But this is quite unusual, no? An antipodean native who is a fellow sailor, a board sailor ...”
Turning to his colleague he added: “By the way, I hope you are not a ‘bored sailor’, Pablo?”
The captain gave a self-conscious laugh—as if it was a required response. His employer continued to interrogate me:
“So Nick, please enlighten us: were you perhaps attempting a long-distance crossing with your little sail-less craft? Something like that Thor Heyerdahl fellow did with his Kon-Tiki raft?”
Now it was my turn to laugh politely. Then bit by bit, helped along by the beer, wine, and liqueurs, the Master extracted my backstory. I tried to keep some of it to myself, but the more alcohol I consumed the more I felt compelled to open up to this strange man. He had an uncanny knack of probing with just the right question and then, once he’d uncovered one detail, he’d use it to lever out the next.
“If he isn’t an alien super-being he could be a detective” a voice-in-my-head warned. “Just be careful, mate. Remember, you’re the one on the run.”
I was more intrigued than worried though. He had far too much empathy for a policeman. He was more like the father I never had—a father-figure who wanted to listen rather than kick the shit of me.
So, all was gradually revealed … my roots in that deprived little fishing community; my obsession with surfing the wind and waves; my escape to uni; the drug deals and betrayals; my life as a ghost in El Médano; the severed lifeline; the twenty-four hours I’d spent drifting in the ocean, hope receding with the coastline; the bleak realisation that my life wasn’t worth preserving; and finally, the miraculous arrival of the Abyss at my exact space-time coordinates.
Eventually, after Carlos had cleared away the dessert, coffee, and liqueurs and Pablo had returned to the bridge, the last of my confession had been extracted. I was overcome with self-loathing and gratitude—to have someone listen to my story—someone who saved my life and, perhaps, my sanity. I broke down and wept like a child.
The Master put his arm around my shoulder. Again I thought of my father—how I’d longed for a simple gesture like that from him. A brick had been removed from the wall I’d build around myself and now I could see out. I lifted my head from my arms, sat up, and looked around …
It was already mid-afternoon. Mt Teide was much closer now and I could make out Tenerife’s capital city, Santa Cruz. It looked like we’d make land before dark. Two days ago I’d watched this coastline recede into the distance, terrified I’d never see it again. Now the familiar landmarks were a poignant reminder of just how lucky I was.
“How can I ever repay you?” I asked him, tearfully.
“Don’t worry about that now, Nick. Or as they say in your great nation: no worries!”
I wiped away a tear and smiled.
“I’m so sorry for exhausting you. What kind of host am I? You are my guest and I reduce you to tears. You’ve been kind enough to tell us your story and now I understand exactly what you’ve been through. You should rest now.”
He helped me to my feet and beckoned for Carlos.
“We’ll be back in the harbour in a few hours. I suggest you stay onboard for one more night to recover from your ordeal. You can decide what you want to do in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.”
I agreed that this was sensible. There was no rush to return to my life as a ghost just yet.
“In the meantime, I invite you to dine with me this evening so I might enjoy the pleasure of your company for a little longer. It’s been quite a while since I was able to converse with someone in English.”
I took this as a compliment. My tribe back in Oz didn’t ‘converse’—more yell at each other. I’d barely spoken more than a few words in the last six months and most of those had been in my broken Spanish, so I hoped I’d be able to hold up my end of the conversation.
Carlos arrived and I decided to show the Master that an Ozzie surf-punk could have a few more strings to his bow:
“Gracias por la maravillosa comida Carlos” I said, thanking him for the wonderful meal. “Ha sido la comida más deliciosa que he probado en mi vida! ... My compliments to the chef.”
He bowed to us and the Master looked suitably impressed.
When Carlos woke me again it was early evening and we were already berthed in Santa Cruz marina. The sun was setting behind the mountains, leaving the usual incandescent sky, and the lights of the city were framed in the window. I gazed at the familiar skyline, determined to change my life. I’d been gifted a second chance and now it was up to me to make the most of it.
Carlos presented me with a fresh bathrobe. Then, before escorting me upstairs, he gave me a tour of the yacht and introduced me to the rest of the crew. I’d caught glimpses of them but only spoken to Carlos and Pablo. The others were like shadows. They were all young men and spoke Spanish, when they spoke at all. They seemed embarrassed when I shook their hands and th
anked them for rescuing me.
The all-male crew, and their reluctance to speak, were like a religious sect—a closed community of monks who’d taken a vow of silence. Then there was their leader—what to make of him? Ostensibly, the Master was the wealthy owner of the Abyss, but he seemed more like their high priest, or guru. The name of his boat was something else that perplexed me ...
“It’s a bit strange, el nombre: ‘El Abismo’, no?” I asked Carlos.
“—” He shrugged and I recognised the gesture. It meant: “don’t ask me ...” but not as in: “I don’t know ...” no, it meant literally don’t ask me.
I arrived on the main deck and the Master greeted me with a glass of his fabulous red wine.
“So Nick, now Carlos has shown you around my floating home, what do you think of her?”
“She’s beautiful” I replied, “but I’m intrigued by the name ...”
“Ah yes, the ‘Abyss’. Have you, by any chance, heard of Friedrich Nietzsche?”
I smiled. “The bloke who discovered that God is dead?”
He looked at me quizzically.
“Yes, that’s correct Nick. Well, I named my catamaran after something else he said ...”
“… if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
He seemed surprised that I’d interrupted him and by my enthusiasm for the philosopher’s work, so I explained:
“I did plenty of reading to get into Uni and I studied philosophy there for a while. I was just getting into Nietzsche until I got distracted by the windsurfing trips and drugs.”
We shared a smile and he allowed me to continue:
“Funnily enough, that quote was rattling around my head while I was drifting on my board, gazing into the abyss below me and wondering what was down there. When I saw the word written on the side of your boat it was like a sign—a divine vision of a lifeboat come to rescue me. Not that I believe in a supernatural being. I agree with Friedrich: we killed him off a long time ago.”
Too Close to the Wind Page 5