Journey to the Sea

by Gil McNeil

  Alison let the swell carry her in, judged the pace of the waves, let one break ahead of her, then ran ahead through the shallows, just in time before the next one came. The couple who had been kissing had both lost their sunglasses. She saw them complaining and gesticulating to Agustin as if he were responsible for the strength of the sea.

  The tide was going out. Four little boys and three girls began building a sandcastle where the sand was damp and firm. She didn’t like them, they were a nuisance, the last thing she wanted was for them to talk to her or to like her, but they made her think that if she didn’t hurry up she would never have children. It would be too late, it was getting later every minute. She dried herself and took the used towel to drop into the bin by the beach butler’s pavilion. Agustin was handing out snorkelling equipment to the best-looking man on the beach and his beautiful girlfriend. Well, the best-looking man after Agustin.

  He waved to her, said, ‘Have a nice day, ma’am.’

  The hours passed slowly. With Liz there it would have been very different, despite the lack of available men. When you have someone to talk to you can’t think so much. Alison would have preferred not to keep thinking all the time but she couldn’t help herself. She thought about being alone and about apparently being the only person in the hotel who was alone. She thought about what this holiday was costing, some of it already paid for, but not all.

  When she had arrived they had asked for an imprint of her credit card and she had given it, she didn’t know how to refuse. She imagined a picture of the pale blue and grey credit card filling a computer screen and every drink she had and slice of pizza she ate and every towel she used and recliner she sat in and video she watched depositing a red spot on its pastel surface until the whole card was filled up with scarlet. Until it burst or rang bells and the computer flashed ‘no, no, no’ across the screen.

  She lay down on the enormous bed and slept. The air-conditioning kept the temperature at the level of an average January day in England and she had to cover herself up with the thick quilt they called a comforter. It wasn’t much comfort but felt slippery and cold to the touch. Outside the sun blazed onto the balcony and flamed on the glass so that looking at the windows was impossible. Sleeping like this kept Alison from sleeping at night but there was nothing else to do. She woke in time to see the sunset. The sun seemed to sink into the sea or be swallowed up by it, like a red-hot iron plunged in water. She could almost hear it fizz. A little wind swayed the thin palm trees.

  After dinner, pasta and salad and fruit salad and a glass of house wine, the cheapest things on the menu, after sitting by the pool with the coffee that was free – they endlessly refilled one’s cup – she went down to the beach. She hardly knew why. Perhaps it was because at this time of the day the hotel became unbearable with everyone departing to their rooms, carrying exhausted children or hand in hand or arms round each other’s waists, so surely off to make love it was indecent.

  She made her way along the pale paths, under the palms, between the tubs of ghost-pale flowers, now drained of colour. Down the steps to the newly cleaned sand, the newly swept red rocks. Recliners and chairs were all stacked away, umbrellas furled, hoods folded up. It was warm and still, the air smelling of nothing, not even of salt. Down at the water’s edge, in the pale moonlight, the beach butler was walking slowly along, pushing ahead of him something that looked from where she stood like a small vacuum cleaner.

  She walked towards him. Not a vacuum cleaner, a metal detector.

  ‘You’re looking for the jewellery people lose,’ she said.

  He looked at her, smiled. ‘We never find.’ He put his hand into the pocket of his shorts. ‘Find this only.’

  Small change, most of it American, a handful of sandy nickels, dimes and quarters.

  ‘Do you get to keep it?’

  ‘This money? Of course. Who can say who has lost this money?’

  ‘But jewellery, if you found that, would it be yours?’

  He twitched off the detector. ‘I finish now.’ He seemed to consider, began to laugh. From that laughter she suddenly understood so much, she was amazed at her own intuitive powers. His laughter, the tone of it, the incredulous note in it, told her his whole life: his poverty, the wonder of having this job, the value to him of five dollars in small change, his greed, his fear, his continuing amazement at the attitudes of these rich people. A lot to read into a laugh but she knew she had got it right. And at the same time she was overcome by a need for him that included pity and empathy and desire. She forgot about having to be careful, forgot that credit card.

  ‘Is there any drink in the pavilion?’

  The laughter had stopped. His head a little one side, he was smiling at her. ‘There is wine, yes. There is rum.’

  ‘I’d like to buy you a drink. Can we do that?’

  He nodded. She had supposed the pavilion was closed and he would have to unlock a door and roll up a shutter, but it was still open. It was open for the families who never came after six o’clock. He took two glasses down from a shelf.

  ‘I don’t want wine,’ she said. ‘I want a real drink.’

  He poured tequila into their glasses and soda into hers. His he drank down at one gulp and poured himself a refill.

  ‘Suite number, please,’ he said.

  It gave her a small unpleasant shock to be asked. ‘Six-zero-seven,’ she said, not daring to read what it cost, and signed the chit. He took it from her, touching her fingers with his fingers. She asked him where he lived.

  ‘In the village. It is five minutes.’

  ‘You have a car?’

  He started laughing again. He came out of the pavilion carrying the tequila bottle. When he had pulled down the shutters and locked them and locked the door, he took her hand and said, ‘Come.’ She noticed he had stopped calling her ma’am. The hand that held hers went round her waist and pulled her closer to him. The path led up among the red rocks, under pine trees that looked black by night. Underfoot was pale dry sand. She had thought he would take her to the village but instead he pulled her down on to the sand in the deep shadows.

  His kisses were perfunctory. He threw up her long skirt and pulled down her tights. It was all over in a few minutes. She put up her arms to hold him, expecting a real kiss now and perhaps a flattering word or two. He sat up and lit a cigarette. Although it was two years since she had smoked she would have liked one too, but she was afraid to ask him, he was so poor, he probably rationed his cigarettes.

  ‘I go home now,’ he said, and he stubbed out the cigarette into the sand he had cleaned of other people’s butts.

  ‘Do you walk?’

  He surprised her. ‘I take the bus. In poor countries are always many buses.’ He had learned that. She had a feeling he had said it many times before.

  Why did she have to ask? She was half afraid of him now but his attraction for her was returning. ‘Shall I see you again?’

  ‘Of course. On the beach. Diet Coke and chips, right?’ Again he began laughing. His sense of humour was not of a kind she had come across before. He turned to her and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Tomorrow night, sure. Here. Same time, same place.’

  Not a very satisfactory encounter, she thought as she went back to the hotel. But it had been sex, the first for a long time, and he was handsome and sweet and funny. She was sure he would never do anything to hurt her and that night she slept better than she had since her arrival.

  All mornings were the same here, all bright sunshine and mounting heat and cloudless sky. First she went to the pool. He shouldn’t think she was running after him. But she had put on her new white swimming costume, the one that was no longer too tight, and after a while, with a towel tied round her sarong-fashion, she went down to the beach.

  For a long time she didn’t see him. The American girl and the Caribbean man were serving the food and drink. Alison was so late getting there that all the recliners and hoods had gone. She was provided with a chair and an umbrella,
inadequate protection against the sun. Then she saw him, leaning out of the pavilion to hand someone a towel. He waved to her and smiled. At once she was elated, and leaving her towel on the chair, she ran down the beach and plunged into the sea.

  Because she wasn’t being careful, because she had forgotten everything but him and the hope that he would come and sit with her and have a drink with her, she came out of the sea without thinking of the mountain of water that pursued her, without any awareness that it was behind her. The great wave broke, felled her and roared on, knocking out her breath, drenching her hair. She tried to get a purchase with her hands, to dig into the sand and pull herself up before the next breaker came. Her eyes and mouth and ears were full of salt water. She pushed her fingers into the wet slippery sand and encountered something she thought at first was a shell. Clutching it, whatever it was, she managed to crawl out of the sea while the wave broke behind her and came rippling in, a harmless trickle.

  By now she knew that what she held was no shell. Without looking at it, she thrust it into the top of her swimming costume, between her breasts. She dried herself, dried her eyes that stung with salt, felt a raging thirst from the brine she had swallowed. No one had come to her aid, no one had walked down to the water’s edge to ask if she was all right. Not even the beach butler. But he was here now beside her, smiling, carrying her Diet Coke and packet of crisps as if she had ordered them.

  ‘Ocean smack you down? Too bad. I don’t think you lose no jewels?’

  She shook her head, nearly said, ‘No, but I found some.’ But now wasn’t the time, not until she had had a good look. She drank her Diet Coke, took the crisps upstairs with her. In her bathroom, under the cold tap, she washed her find. The sight came back to her of Agustin encircling his wrist with his fingers when he told her of the white-bikini woman’s loss. This was surely her bracelet or some other rich woman’s bracelet.

  It was a good two inches wide, gold set with broad bands of diamonds. They flashed blindingly when the sun struck them. Alison examined its underside, found the assay mark, the proof that the gold was 18 carat. The sea, the sand, the rocks, the salt, had damaged it not at all. It sparkled and gleamed as it must have done when first it lay on blue velvet in some Madison Avenue or Beverly Hills jeweller’s shop.

  She took a shower, washed her hair and blew it dry, put on a sundress. The bracelet lay on the coffee table in the living area of the suite, its diamonds blazing in the sun. She had better take it downstairs and hand it over the management. The white-bikini woman would be glad to have it back. No doubt, though, it was insured. Her husband would already have driven her to the city where the airport was (Ciudad something) and bought her another.

  What was it worth? If those diamonds were real, an enormous sum. And surely no jeweller would set any but real diamonds in 18-carat gold? Alison was afraid to leave it in her suite. A safe was inside one of the cupboards. But suppose she put the bracelet into the safe and couldn’t open it again? She put it into her white shoulder bag. The time was only just after three. She looked at the list of available videos, then, feeling reckless, at the room-service menu. Having the bracelet – though of course she meant to hand it in – made her feel differently about that credit card. She picked up the phone, ordered a piña colada, a half bottle of wine, seafood and salad, a double burger and French fries, and a video of Shine.

  Eating so much still left room for a big dinner four hours later. She went to the most expensive of the hotel’s three restaurants, drank more wine, ate smoked salmon, lobster thermidor, raspberry pavlova. She wrote her suite number on the bill and signed it without even looking at the amount. Under the tablecloth she opened her bag and looked at the gold and diamond bracelet. Taking it to the management now would be very awkward. They might be aware that she hadn’t been to the beach since not long after lunchtime, they might want to know what she had been doing with the bracelet in the meantime. She made a decision. She wouldn’t take it to the management, she would take it to Agustin.

  The moon was bigger and brighter this evening, waxing from a silver to a crescent. Not quite sober, for she had had a lot to drink, she walked down the winding path under the palms to the beach. This time he wasn’t plying his metal detector but sitting on a pile of folded beach chairs, smoking a cigarette and staring at the sea. It was the first time she had seen the sea so calm, so flat and shining, without waves, without even the customary swell.

  Agustin would know what to do. There might be a reward for the finder, almost sure to be. She would share it with him, she wouldn’t mind that, so long as she had enough to pay for those extras. He turned round, smiled, extended one hand. She expected to be kissed but he didn’t kiss her, only patted the seat beside him.

  She opened her bag, said, ‘Look.’

  His face seemed to close up, grow tight, grow instantly older. ‘Where you find this?’

  ‘In the sea.’

  ‘You tell?’

  ‘You mean, have I told anyone? No, I haven’t. I wanted to show it to you and ask your advice.’

  ‘It is worth a lot. A lot. Look, this is gold. This is diamond. Worth maybe fifty thousand, hundred thousand dollar.’

  ‘Oh, no, Agustin!’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes.’

  He began to laugh. He crowed with laughter. Then he took her in his arms, covered her face and neck with kisses. Things were quite different from the night before. In the shadows, under the pines, where the rocks were smooth and the sand soft, his love-making was slow and sweet. He held her close and kissed her gently, murmuring to her in his own language.

  The sea made a soft lapping sound. A faint strain of music, the last of the evening, reached them from somewhere. He was telling her he loved her. I love you, I love you.

  He spoke with the accents of California and she knew he had learnt it from films. I love you.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow we take the bus. We go to the city . . .’ Ciudad Something was what he said but she didn’t catch the name. ‘We sell this jewel, I know where, and we are rich. We go to Mexico City, maybe Miami, maybe Rio. You like Rio?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been there.’

  ‘Nor me. But we go. Kiss me. I love you.’

  She kissed him. She put her clothes on, picked up her handbag. He watched her, said, ‘What are you doing?’ and when she began to walk down the beach, called after her, ‘Where are you going?’

  She stood at the water’s edge. The sea was swelling into waves now, it hadn’t stayed calm for long, its gleaming ruffled surface black and silver. She opened her bag, took out the bracelet and threw it as far as she could into the sea.

  His yell was a thwarted child’s. He plunged into the water. She turned and began to walk away up the beach towards the steps. When she was under the palm trees she turned to look back and saw him splashing wildly, on all fours scrabbling in the sand, seeking what could never be found. As she entered the hotel the thought came to her that she had never told him her name and he had never asked.

  OUR SURFING ROOTS

  Or why it ain’t just a waste of time

  ALEX DICK READ

  THANKFULLY THEY HIT land, those hardcore Marquesan canoe sailors who headed into the endless blue Pacific in a time before humans inhabited Hawaii. If their navigators hadn’t skilfully pinpointed this tiny group of islands, the most remote landmass on earth, we probably wouldn’t have surfing today.

  Maybe we would. Coastal dwellers worldwide have always caught swells in their fishing boats when they landed on wave-fringed beaches. In Peru and West Africa certain cultures even worshipped waves, and sometimes rode them on special canoes and rafts. But none of them rode waves with as much skill and passion or made it a central, enduring part of their culture.

  Those early Hawaiians did, which is what made their type of wave riding so different. They probably arrived on the islands armed with knowledge of canoe surfing, like their brothers and sisters throughout Polynesia. But somewhere along the timeline they
developed high-performance, twelve-foot wooden surfboards, designed for standing up on while riding big waves. How or why is not clear, but we do know that they really did surf, a lot, over a long period of time. Chiefs had a certain type of board, the Olo, which was the biggest, and made from wiliwili wood. They reserved certain spots, and the biggest waves, just for themselves. The lower classes, including women and children, rode the Alaia – a shorter board made from koa wood.

  In this culture no one called surfing a waste of time. According to the earliest written records, which are consistent with the ancient legends of Hawaii, often, when the seas were going wild, daily life was put on hold and the people went surfing. At times like these there were fierce contests, heavy gambling and numerous rituals associated with the surf, performed to keep the hierarchy of gods happy and the universe in good order, or pono.

  The first European explorers, who arrived more than a thousand years later, were quite simply amazed by surfing. Captain Cook had already seen people in Tahiti riding waves in canoes, but he’d never seen them ride these long thin boards, standing up. He devoted several pages to it in his diary.

  Subsequent arrivals, Western churchfolk in particular, weren’t so impressed. They did their best to wipe it out, which wasn’t hard because the arrival of white men had set off an instant catastrophe in the islands anyway, as people died like flies from venereal diseases, influenza and other invisible genocidal weapons. The population plummeted in the years immediately after contact with the white men. By the time the missionaries started ordering people to wear clothes and build square houses, Hawaiians had already lost much of their culture anyway. So the ancient sport almost died out completely.

  But the pulse never stopped. The heart of Hawaiian culture was still pumping, even in the late 1800s when a half-Irish, half-Hawaiian man named George Freeth made an old-style Olo board and began to ride it standing up in the mellow waves in front of Waikiki, the capital town of the islands. At the time, only a few Hawaiian families were still riding waves there, mostly on shorter Paipo body boards, as Hawaiians had since the days of King Kamehameha I, the great Hawaiian chief who took control of the whole island chain in the 1700s. The king, it is said, enjoyed surfing long into his sixties and was noted for riding enormous summer swells on the outer reefs of Waikiki.