Too Close to the Wind

by Richard Attree

  Pablo eventually broke the silence, announcing that our destination was the Dingle peninsular. He pointed to the map on the GPS display and said that it would take us most of the day to get there. I nodded and told him that was fine with me. It was exactly where I wanted to go—the idyllic location described in windsurfing magazines and, of course, Caitlin’s ‘Special Place’. The second of these was presumably the reason we were going there?

  No reply, just the hypnotic rhythm of the windscreen wipers and occasional directions from the robotic voice on the dashboard. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift.

  When I opened them again several hours had passed. Soft rain was still falling. We were travelling between rounded, grassy hills towards mountains that were just emerging from the mist. Every now and then we passed through small towns, with gaily painted houses and equal numbers of churches and pubs.

  Eventually, the disembodied voice of the GPS prompted us to turn off the highway onto a country road, which then became a lane. We found ourselves stuck behind tractors, moving at the locals’ pace. I was just starting to get a little bored with the overdose of misty softness when we rounded a corner and there she was: the Atlantic Ocean!

  Instantly everything changed. I forgot about Martyn, his brother, the gun in my pocket, the Troubles ... and gazed at one of the finest beaches I’d ever seen—and I’ve seen some good ones. So, this was the famous Brandon Bay—Caitlin’s ‘special place’. Neither Langer nor the magazine articles had exaggerated its pristine beauty. It reminded me of the beaches in Esperance, or the Caribbean, but on an even grander scale.

  The green fields ran straight down to dunes, then just an empty expanse of sand which stretched out forever, disappearing into the mist as it became a rocky headland way in the distance: the Dingle peninsula. At the other end of the bay was a narrow spit of land sticking out like a single raised finger, a peninsula off a peninsula—the Maharees.

  Lines of swell were marching in and peeling cleanly, breaking right across the bay. From this distance it was difficult to judge the size of the waves, but I knew they’d come thousands of miles to detonate on this exposed spot. This was where they arrived first—the most westerly bit of Europe. Looking out to sea, the next land was America.

  We drove along the coast road, past abandoned houses looming out of the mist like ruined castles, monuments to a battle with nature. There was a primal feel to the place, a majestic rawness which went far beyond the usual tourist description: ‘unspoilt’.

  The GPS voice directed us to turn off the road, down a farm track, and onto the beach itself! As we drove onto the sand the robotic voice announced that we’d arrived at our destination: Gowlane strand.

  I had no idea what I was doing there, but somehow I knew my journey was over. There’d been so many twists and turns, and no doubt there’d be more, but I’d definitely arrived at my destination. It was a spiritual thing for me—the ocean was in my soul. I was back in my spiritual home again.

  22

  The Craic

  Pablo turned off the engine and we sat there in silence for a few minutes, gazing at the waves. Viewed from sea level, close up, they were much bigger. These were waves of consequence—powerful, unforgiving. This was a beach break to challenge anyone. Pablo looked at me and gestured towards the ocean:

  “So, Nick, now you can show me how you are sailing this board, no?”

  I opened the window and stuck my head out. Driving, salty rain stung my eyes. This was no tropical paradise—there were no palm trees and the water wasn’t turquoise. The sea was steely grey, streaked with white in the gusts. It looked wild out there—the wind was blowing at least thirty knots and the waves looked like mountains. It was cold, raining, and late—there was perhaps an hour of light left, and there was nobody else out. The beach was empty, desolate, immense. It reminded me of Esperance, the day Robo died …

  “Yeah, OK mate. No worries. Looks perfect for a swift session before the pub” I said, trying to ignore my demons.

  Windsurfing is often like that—you watch the weather forecasts obsessively, desperate for wind, then when shedloads arrive you know you want to be out there and it’ll be fine once you are, but all sorts of excuses are available to dampen the enthusiasm.

  “OK. Let’s do it!” I said, to myself as much as to my nautical amigo.

  I rigged up in the lee of the van—a four metre sail—the smallest he’d bought. Oh well, it would have to do. I flattened it off with as much tension as I could apply, to handle the gusts. Most places I’d sailed this would be called a storm, but I was aware that here it was just an average November day. The weather on Europe’s most exposed, westerly coast could be far more extreme—all four seasons in one morning was quite common.

  Pablo watched me rig, fascinated by every detail, comparing it to his yacht. “You know Nick, this is something we are sharing: sailing, the wind, the love for la mar. It is, how-you-say, in our blood, no?”

  I nodded and told him we had salt water in our blood. It was his job and my obsession. I remembered a fascinating quirk of nautical Spanish grammar: true sailors, fishermen, watermen always refer to the sea as feminine—rather than the more usual: el mar.

  “Many times I am in the middle of the ocean in a storm like this, but never I choose to go sailing in this wind. You are crazy, Nick!”

  “Well, Pablo, perhaps you’re right. But I’m a windsurfer—it’s what we do.”

  I’d finished rigging now and was struggling with the thick winter wetsuit he’d provided. I’d never worn so much rubber before. It felt like a straight-jacket and I was beginning to share Pablo’s doubts about the sanity of this session. I muttered to myself, trying to stem the panic before it had me in its grip, reminding myself that the Gulf Stream kept the water relatively warm. Pablo interrupted my mutterings:

  “The Master, Alejandro, he is also sharing this with us, Nick. Alejandro has the same love for la mar.” Again the implication was that love for the ocean was like love for a woman.

  “He tell me what his father write in his journal: how Caitlin love the wild ocean in this place. He say: when he meet you, drifting in the Atlantic, he already know you must come here one day—to Brandon Bay.”

  That was prescient of him, I thought, or did he have all this mapped out two years ago? No worries—it was indeed a ‘special place’ and I had him to thank for bringing me here.

  “When Alejandro see windsurfing in the Canary Islands, before you show up, he is also fascinating with it. He make me drive the Abyss to where you do windsurf—how is it called, the surfing pueblo in Tenerife?”

  “You mean El Médano?”

  “Si, vale. We park the boat there and he watch the windsurfistas for many hours. He is telling me how special he think it is, what they do, how they are connecting to the wind and waves.”

  I’d managed to squeeze into the wetsuit and was more-or-less ready to go, but his talk of the Master had me intrigued now …

  “So, tell me Pablo: is Alejandro here in Ireland at the moment? Will I be seeing him soon?”

  “—” He reverted to the deaf-mute gestures again.

  “OK. Well, at least let me give you back the gun. I won’t need it now, will I?”

  “—”

  “And in any case, it didn’t actually have bullets in it, did it?”

  A significant pause. It would have been another tumbleweed moment, except the wind was so strong the weed would’ve been shredded in milliseconds. Finally, he replied:

  “Correct, Nick. The Master, he tell me give you the gun for protection, but not to kill Martyn. So you no need bullets.”

  Somehow this made sense to him, but his logic was lost on me.

  “Now I give you bullets.”

  “What, you think I’ll need a gun while I’m windsurfing?”

  He laughed—a refreshingly unambiguous sound, in his case.

  “No, Nick. Not on the water. But when you finish windsurf, you have a mission for Alejandro, no?”


  I nodded, wearily. I’d hoped that it had been fulfilled in Dublin, but apparently not ...

  “For this mission you need a gun, and ... (a Mandu style pause) ... you need bullets.”

  I sighed. No wonder the Troubles went on for so long. Could I trust anyone here? I’d had enough of this conversation—enough talk, enough paranoia, it was time for some action …

  “See you later, señor Fix-it” I yelled, picking up the board and rig and struggling to carry them into the wind, through the rain (which was certainly no longer ‘soft’), down to the water’s edge.

  When it’s this windy, carrying the equipment is often more stressful than sailing it, but as soon as I step on the board I leave the stress, doubt and anxiety behind. Once on the water, they all evaporate. I’m free again, living each present moment—no worries about the future, no regrets from the past—just packets of now, instantaneous decisions, intuitive movements, flow.

  The wind is strong, for sure, but it’s quite constant and not unfriendly. The waves are big, yes, but they’re super clean, predictable, not too threatening once I suss out their behaviour. The rain is a bit of an issue—making visibility difficult, but the biggest problem is the water temperature. The first time I wipe out it feels as if all the breath has been knocked out of me. I’ve never experienced water this cold before, but I don’t panic and sensation gradually returns to my numb hands.

  You can do this, I tell myself, and anyway, Pablo’s keeping an eye on me—if anything goes wrong he’ll call the coastguard. I relax and start to enjoy myself. After a while I forget about the cold water, the rain, Alejandro, the Troubles ... and I’m going for loops and swooping wave rides. For the next forty-five minutes I’m in the zone.

  Eventually, the light starts to fade and it’s hard to see anything in the gloom. I can just make out the van, but I can’t see Pablo. Doubts creep back into my mind. I think about Robo and decide it’s probably time to come in.

  I sail out to sea for one last run, hard upwind to gain ground for a final ride down the line. A set approaches from the deep ocean, perhaps all the way from America. I fly over a few swells and gybe onto the final one—the biggest. I stalk this pulse of energy as it prepares to end its life on the edge of Europe.

  The swell becomes a wave, a clean wall of water stretching downwind for perhaps two hundred metres. I choose my moment carefully—timing is crucial in wave sailing. Go too early and there won’t be a lip to hit, too late and you get eaten by the wave. Time it right and you find yourself in just the right place—the critical part of the wave—the ‘pocket’.

  This is it, the right moment. I take the drop and swoop into my first bottom turn, defying gravity for an instant, weightless. I sheet the rig in, lean forward, bank the board onto the toe-side rail, feel it bite, feel the fins grip.

  I’m going seriously fast now, heading back towards the lip at warp speed, fully committed. So many ways it can go wrong at this point: catch a rail, bury the nose, hit some chop, spin out ... a mistake could have serious consequences, but I trust this board completely—like an old friend, like my much-missed brother-in-arms, Robo.

  She doesn’t let me down. I hit the lip, feel the fins lift out of the water, then reconnect, and we’re flying down the line again with acres of wave still left to carve up.

  My God these waves are special, world class. No wonder they hold international competitions here. I want more of them, but it’s nearly dark now. As I sail in through the shore-break I think about making this place my home for a while. Never mind the cold water, the rain, the Troubles ... Waves this good made life worthwhile.

  As I stepped off the board and felt terra firma beneath my feet, time reverted from ‘in the moment’ to ‘normality’. Past, present, and future were separate worlds again and I rejoined the highway of everyday life. I struggled back up the beach to the van, shivering as I came down from my adrenaline fix, and dumped the equipment on the sand.

  There was no sign of Pablo, but an old man was sitting in the dunes watching me. He was dressed in the traditional black suit, head covered in a black felt hat, eyes hidden behind dark glasses—a shadow in the twilight. As I watched him watching me I had another of those déjà vu moments—they’d dogged me ever since landing in Dublin—an overwhelming feeling of finality and a familiarity with that feeling.

  My old enemy, paranoia, gripped me and Martyn O’Connor’s advice to “watch yer back” played in my head like a clichéd movie-trailer. Tense, dramatic music underscored his words in my mental movie, accelerating in time with my pulse. It occurred to me that Martyn, or one of his henchmen, had followed me across the country, watched me windsurf, and was now going to kill me!

  I wrenched open the door of the van, reached inside and grabbed my jacket. The gun was still in the pocket. I had it in my hand and my finger on the trigger. The music built to a climax ...

  Then, as quickly as they’d overwhelmed me, the paranoia, panic, and déjà vu left. I put the gun back in my jacket, packed my equipment away and changed out of the wetsuit.

  When I stepped out of the van the old bloke was still sitting there, in the gloom. I strolled over to him wearing my leather jacket, the gun in my pocket, ‘tooled up’ just in case ... but he seemed harmless enough—probably just a local who liked to watch windsurfers.

  As I approached he removed his hat to greet me, but it was only when I was a few feet away that I recognised him. He’d aged, terribly, in the past two years. What was left of his hair was white, his eyes sunk in a skeletal skull, the body twisted and shaking like an ancient tree in a gale, a walking stick propped up beside him.

  “Good evening, Nick.”

  The voice was frail, but it still had some of the same authority.

  “G’day, Alejandro.”

  I knew he was fourteen years younger than Martyn, but he seemed so much older than his brother now. The black suit didn’t help. Goodness knows why old people here dressed like they were going to their own funeral. No wonder the pubs felt like churches.

  He removed his glasses (still those impenetrable mirrored lenses) and looked at me. His eyes were dimmer, but he could still hold me with that hypnotic gaze.

  “I’ve been watching you sailing your board and now I understand who you are.”

  “I’m a survivor, mate—that’s who I am!” I replied, pleased that he’d witnessed me sailing as well as I could. “The bloke you dragged out of the Atlantic has been around the block a few times and grown up. Now he’s wondering what he’s doing here?”

  “It’s good to see you here, Nick. There have been times when I wondered if I would ever see you again, but as you say: you are a survivor.”

  He looked at me warmly and for a moment I thought he was going to embrace me, but that wasn’t the Master’s style. As we shook hands I could feel tremors running up and down his arm like an electric current. Parkinson’s, I thought to myself, wondering if he’d inherited the rest of his father’s problems.

  “So, Nick, you asked me why you are here, in Ireland. I intend to answer your question—in due course, but first, you must be hungry and thirsty after today’s adventures? We should go to my favourite pub in this part of the world: Spillane’s bar. They do the best pint of Guinness on the west coast and their steak is almost as good as in my own country, or yours for that matter.”

  I presumed he meant Argentina and Australia—we were both a long way from home.

  “By the way, where’s Pablo?” I asked him. “Is he meeting us in the pub?”

  “No Nick, his job here is done. He delivered you to me and now he will return to the Abyss, in the Canary Islands.”

  “I see. That’s a shame. I was just beginning to bond with your señor Fix-it.”

  A hint of a smile appeared, fleetingly, like a crocus bud poking through snow in early spring. It was replaced by an expression of deep sadness I hadn’t seen from him before.

  “Yes, el capitán Vasquez is a good man and a loyal friend. I shall miss him.” He picked up the walk
ing stick and levered himself painfully to his feet. “Now, let’s drown these sorrows and fill our stomachs.”

  We drove for a few miles along muddy country lanes that wound their way tortuously between stone walls and high hedges, spinning us in circles, so that when we arrived at the pub I had no idea which direction we’d travelled. I did the driving, thankfully, and he did the navigating.

  Spillane’s lived up to its billing. It was a very different experience from the earnest, church-like ambience of the Oval bar in Dublin. Spillane’s shared the same traditional, sombre, dark wood interior, but little else. First, there was the location—a stone’s throw from some of the finest reef breaks in Europe: Mossies, Garry William, and the ironically named: ‘Shitties’. Then there was the ‘craic’, the local term for letting the good times roll. Spillane’s had plenty …

  The customers were a mixed bag of ages and types, ranging from the by-now-familiar old-men-in-black to families with kids, and they were all sharing the craic. Several dogs roamed around, scavenging for food, joined by a pack of hungry windsurfing dudes in designer surf-wear. As we walked in the music started up—a fiddle, guitar, and penny whistle, making the kind of infectious groove that had even the black suits’ feet tapping. I’d be happy to call Spillane’s my local if this was a typical night in there.

  Alejandro had more serious plans for the evening, however. We sat down at a table in the corner, away from the more raucous punters. He ordered seafood, steaks, pints of the Black Stuff, and then got straight down to business:

  “So, Nick, we have much to discuss … Do you remember: when you were onboard the Abyss I expressed the hope that one day you’d read my father’s journal, and I told you that it would reveal the full story?”