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

by Owen Hargreaves

‘You are crazy!’ said Michel. ‘What are you going to see? Cathedrals? Churches? Castles? Museums? You can see those things later, mon ami! It’s summer, the time for the beach, for le surf! Allez! Don’t be stupide!’

  I bit the inside of my lip while I digested his words. ‘Perhaps.’

  Jean-Louis glared at me over the top of his glasses. ‘Michel is right. It’s summer. The rest can wait. Not forever, but for now, yes, it can wait.’

  ‘You are a surfer, no?’ Michel raised his eyebrows and threw up his hands. ‘Mon dieu! On y va!’

  ‘Come with us, mon ami! We have room in the car,’ said Luc. ‘We fit you in. No problem. Don’t be crazy! Come to Biarritz! It’s summer. You must return to le surf!’

  Glancing across the quiet port and through the seawalls, I spied a wave in the river mouth. The offshore breeze had caught the top of it, sending a gentle spume of spray airborne. The wave feathered teasingly, broke with a sharp crack, and rolled out of sight. I looked at the Frenchmen’s faces and the surfboards stowed atop the car. Something moved inside me.

  ‘Okay!’ I said and pushed out a breath. ‘You win.’

  ‘Bravo!’ Luc grabbed my backpack and put it in the boot before I could change my mind. ‘Vite! Allez!’

  We stopped in Guernica on the way through. ‘Jean-Louis wants to show you something,’ Michel said dismissively.

  In the paseo outside the town hall was a fairly ordinary-looking oak tree surrounded by a low metal fence. ‘This,’ said Jean-Louis proudly, ‘is the tree of Guernica. The symbol of the Basque people since the Middle Ages.’

  We didn’t hang around long. The tree was unremarkable and Michel was itching to leave. While we motored out of Guernica, I looked everywhere for Maite.

  At least I had the book, I consoled myself. The tree’s namesake. For the moment, that would have to suffice.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘How sweet is this?’ said Greg when we passed into the foothills of the Pyrenees. He put his hand out the open window as if reaching out to the landscape. The scent of hay, wildflowers and herbs rushed in, answering his call.

  The Pyrenees grew around us when we approached San Sebastian. A massive black bull glared at us from a billboard in a cornfield, reminding me of the fascist menace. It was advertising a liquor. Greg saw it and shuddered too.

  A signpost. Amorebieta left. San Sebastian right. ‘Which way, man?’

  I pointed left.

  ‘Through the tunnel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We emerged in the floor of the long valley that stretches to Bilbao, dwarfed on either side by high peaks. Greg whistled. ‘This is beautiful, dramatic,’ he said, ‘like Switzerland.’

  ‘Welcome to the Basque country,’ I said with a sweep of my arm, and with the same feeling of relief and awe I’d felt that first time.

  ‘I think I’m gonna like it here. Look at these mountains, the hills, the patchwork of little farms, the haystacks, the meadows, the stone walls. Look at the way the farmhouses are built, the lines, the symmetry, the colours, the terracotta tiles. It’s an artist’s paradise!’

  ‘Wait till you see the Pyrenees tumble into the ocean.’

  He drank it in. ‘I’ll need to get more art supplies,’ he murmured to himself. He strummed the steering wheel, his fingers singing a happy tune.

  We drove through Amorebieta. ‘Go right here,’ I said, and we turned into the steep road I’d hiked up that first day. It slithered silver up through the green fields.

  ‘Oh! What a vista!’ Greg slowed the car to a crawl. ‘It’s waiting to be painted.’

  ‘Are landscapes your favourite?’

  ‘Not necessarily. It’s whatever inspires me, moves me, drives me.’

  ‘Like good waves.’

  ‘Same feeling.’

  ‘No wonder you paint.’

  Greg rounded a curve. Two tethered goats were munching grass by the side of the road. ‘I can show you how to draw, if you like?’ he said.

  Maite’s words came to me and a warm feeling spread from my chest out to my limbs. ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’m naturally talented, but I’ll have a go.’

  He gazed to where the far hills gathered themselves, grew into mountains and reached to the skies. ‘No shortage of inspiration here.’

  We passed through a hamlet, a few houses snoozing in the siesta hour, a half-built stone wall. Greg’s face hardened.

  ‘Spain,’ I said soothingly, ‘will be better than Morocco.’

  Greg studied me briefly. ‘So, are you close to your brother?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ I said. ‘He dropped out of school and went surfing in the South Pacific.’

  ‘Are the rumours true? Did they find good waves?’

  I stretched my shoulders and neck, the muscles tight from surfing, and eased back against the seat. ‘No, nothing spectacular.’

  ‘That’s a drag! Then what did he do?’

  ‘Travelled, worked, surfed — New Zealand, California, Mexico, Central America. Then Europe. And, well, you know the rest.’

  ‘Man, I thought I’d travelled a lot!’

  ‘Surfers thought he was a real hero, but not the teachers or the other parents. They thought he was a bad influence, a villain. But I was proud of him.’

  ‘I can tell. You’ve followed in his footsteps.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

  ‘No. But one day you’ll have to find your own path.’

  ‘I suppose.’ But what was my own path?

  ‘Got any other brothers or sisters?’

  Memories flooded in. ‘My little sister’s only four, really cute.’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘I do … I felt bad leaving her. Still do.’ I stretched out my legs as far as they’d go. Not far enough. ‘My other little sister —’ I swallowed hard. ‘My other sister died, six years ago.’

  Greg’s voice was low, hesitant. ‘How old was she?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘What did she die from, man?’

  ‘She’d been sick since she was a baby,’ I said quietly, a flurry of memories crashing in uninvited. Louise standing in front of the heater in the living room in her favourite nightie — stunted, limbs slender, belly distended by a swollen liver, skin and eyes tinged golden yellow, her body — but not her temperament — overloaded with bile, scratching herself. Always scratching herself. They said it was the bile salts that made her scratch. She never complained, not even when her nose bled for hours, the white bath towel draped over her chest and lap blotched with crimson, her yellow fingers clamped firmly on her nose. Not even when she had to go back to hospital, again.

  I swallowed back tears. ‘Something to do with her liver.’

  Greg stole a glance. ‘Sorry to hear that, man. It must have had a big effect on your family.’

  ‘I suppose so. At the time it certainly did.’ I gathered myself. ‘But that was six years ago … and then my baby sister was born. And well, you know … life goes on.’ I turned to the side window to look for that circling hawk, but all I could see was smudged glass.

  It was siesta in Guernica and the streets were deserted. ‘So this is it,’ said Greg, looking about. ‘I imagined something different. I’m not sure what exactly. I guess the painting gave me ideas.’

  The photos in George’s book had transformed my perception and with the ETA killing of that Guardia Civil, the town had seemed full of violence and ghosts and shadows, but when we drove through, the reality was different again. Here was a peaceful, modest, rural town, almost asleep. Was Maite sleeping too?

  We got out, stretched and went to look at the famous tree. ‘There it is, the tree of Guernica, the symbol of the Basque people,’ I said, parroting Jean-Louis.

  ‘Huh,’ said Greg, ‘just a regular-looking oak tree.’

  Déjà vu! ‘Apparently the Spanish kings came here to pledge to uphold ancient Basque rights. Is it in Picasso’s painting?’

  Greg frowned and ran his fingers through his damp
hair. ‘The painting’s full of symbols, but I don’t remember a tree.’

  We drove on. My eyes roamed the streets and houses, wondering where Maite might live, until, too soon, the town gave way to fields.

  ‘George says they bombed Guernica because it was the centre of Basque culture. To break the morale of the Basques,’ I said.

  ‘I guess it worked,’ said Greg.

  ‘I’ve only read bits and pieces of the book, but you’d have to think so.’

  Greg, too, was speechless at the first sight of Mundaca. At the lookout, we took in the view. ‘It’s an artist’s dream!’

  The surf was modest, but there was sufficient swell on this low tide to demonstrate the long left break. Greg licked his lips and smiled a big goofy smile. His eyes danced along the sandbar while he followed a larger wave. ‘Man, it’s stunning!’

  ‘I knew you’d love it.’

  The sleepy fishing village was alive with people, the streets busy, shops and bars overflowing, the port and beach host to myriad holiday folk. I was right, despite Carmen and Maria being happy to see me, there was no accommodation anywhere.

  We retreated along the coast to Baquio and found a primitive camping ground alongside the beach. It bordered on a cornfield, the corn almost ready for harvest, and the ground was hard and uneven. There was no shade, unless you counted the tent, and the sun was fierce. The ocean was our refuge.

  Quiet solitude had been replaced by the noisy energy of a thousand vacationers. Umbrellas, deckchairs, towels, beach balls, and people of all ages, shapes and sizes — sat, lay, swam, walked, talked, read, slept, ate and drank. Greg and I found a quieter spot on the beach and in the water found our peace, for by and large, the Spanish had not yet discovered surfing.

  Our lives took on a hypnotic quality. One day blended into another. Endless blue skies, searing heat, and the sea restrained and playful. Our routine changed little, dictated as it was by the water, the tides and the wind. We whiled away our time surfing the gentle glassy waves.

  Greg had great style — relaxed, polished. He manoeuvred his long blue board rhythmically across the arcing green waves with deceptive ease, always matching the wave’s power, blending his ride smoothly with the wave’s unfolding. He had that artful stance — poised, limbs loose and graceful.

  ‘You surf like Gerry Lopez,’ I told him. ‘You make it look so easy.’

  But it wasn’t easy, and he taught me his underlying technique: how to turn the board, thrust the ankles, use the power in your legs, shift weight, position yourself, watch the wave’s movement, sense its energy, time the moves, anticipate, react, balance, and string it all together in a seamless flow of motion, like a dancer.

  We slipped deep into summer, and my surfing improved. Gradually, wave by wave.

  On a bigger day we ventured to Mundaca to try the sandbar. Greg had first taste. He paddled back to the take-off area, beaming. ‘Man, what a freight train!’ said Greg. ‘I can’t wait to ride it on a decent swell.’

  ‘Me too! How big do you reckon it can hold?’

  ‘No idea, eight, maybe ten feet. Imagine it at that size! I can’t wait until September.’

  ‘Four to six feet will do me fine!’ I said. The adrenaline surged through me thinking about it.

  On my third wave, the lip hit my head and I wiped out. Sharp pain pierced my backside, but it eased and I kept surfing. In the car park, I stripped my wetsuit to the waist. ‘Hey, Greg, is there much of a bruise?’

  He screwed up his face like he’d seen something dead. ‘Man, that’s horrible!’

  I twisted my neck, managing a glimpse. The fin had ripped through the wetsuit and I could see muscle. Suddenly, I couldn’t move.

  ‘We better get you to a doctor.’ Greg tried not to look at the wound, but couldn’t resist. Again, the screwed-up face. ‘Pull up your wetsuit, man, or I’ll faint!’

  I did what he said and leant on the car, not daring to move, while Greg dressed and ran to find a doctor. Five minutes later he came rushing back.

  ‘There’s a doc at the nursing home,’ he panted.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Near the bridge where you come in from Guernica. It’s that big old stone place on the corner. Hurry up, amigo! Get in the car.’ Greg jumped into the driver’s seat. He was on a mission.

  I leant over and scowled at him through the window.

  He laughed. ‘Sorry, man!’ He jumped back out and supported me while I eased into the front seat, still dripping, my wetsuit at half-mast.

  ‘Don’t forget the boards!’ I said, when he jumped in again.

  ‘Man, I nearly forgot!’ He jumped out, tied the boards on the roof, and jumped back in. He grinned, all teeth. ‘Vámanos?’

  ‘Vámanos!’

  The plane tree-lined street beyond the boat-building yard climbed gently up to the main road near the post office. From there, we descended in the shade of the buildings, almost to the bridge. The nursing home — half-fortress, half-manor house — sat comfortably perched on the corner and overlooked the gully, the bridge, and an inlet that reduced at low tide to a beach the breadth of the river.

  The nurse eyed Greg and then me. She lowered her scrutiny from my wet hair, to my bare chest, to wetsuit at half-mast, its vacant arms hanging at my side, to wet, sandy feet, to the pavement I was standing on, pooled with seawater. I shivered.

  ‘Qué pasó?’ she asked.

  Greg explained in Spanish.

  She nodded curtly and said, ‘Wait here.’ Moments later she reappeared with crutches, motioning for us to stay put, then went off again.

  Greg took the crutches while I leaned against the door jamb. ‘I broke my leg once. I’ll give you a demo.’ He took off down the pavement. ‘Watch this.’

  The nurse, returning with a dressing gown, barked, ‘Qué hace usted?’

  Greg sheepishly tried to explain himself and it was my turn to laugh.

  She scowled. ‘Déme éstos.’ Taking them and growling instructions, she herded us down several corridors to a consulting room. She glared at Greg. ‘Abra la puerta.’

  He opened the door.

  The room was empty. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase occupied the far wall. In front of it was an old, leather-top desk and a wooden chair, a stethoscope dangling from it.

  ‘Adelante.’ She engineered me towards an examination couch. ‘Espere.’ She parked me, still dripping, beside it. There was a trail of bloody water on the parquetry floor, back to the door. ‘Trae una toalla!’ she barked at Greg, who took off, almost running. She shook her head. A faint smile crossed her face, vanishing when Greg returned with my beach towel and clothes. She pointed to the floor, glaring again. ‘Seca.’

  I moved aside and Greg sank to his knees and rubbed the floor with my towel. He chuckled while he dried. It was a nervous habit I’d seen before. The nurse watched him, unamused. When he was finished, I stood on the towel and Greg helped me out of the wetsuit. The nurse supported me. Greg’s chuckling intensified.

  The nurse couldn’t see the humour. ‘Qué pasa?’ she demanded.

  That only made things worse. Greg’s chuckling increased. The nurse, face on fire, went at him in rapid Spanish.

  ‘Greg, you’re not helping the situation,’ I pleaded, as I lay down on the couch.

  ‘I can’t help it, man.’ He tried to contain himself.

  The nurse pointed at the wetsuit. ‘Fuera!’

  Greg, shoulders convulsing, left the room with the wet gear.

  He was still quaking when he returned.

  The smell of tobacco and mint followed the doctor through the door. Slightly stooped with thin grey hair, a silver beard and spectacles, he wore a white coat over a crumpled suit. The nurse scowled. He raised his hands in protest, face etched with mischief. ‘Yes, I know, I promised, Begoña. I’ll give up soon.’ When he closed the door, his hand trembled.

  ‘Who have we here?’ he asked in English and approached the couch. ‘What’s happened, muchachos?’

  Greg explained
, beginning in English and then switching to Spanish. The doctor listened, lifting the gown to examine the wound. ‘Hmmm.’ He bent down to look at me, face to face. ‘Chico, this will hurt a bit. Be brave.’ He patted me on the shoulder and stood up.

  ‘Take a seat over there,’ he instructed Greg. ‘We don’t want a second patient. I’ve seen a few faint over the years, bang their heads.’

  The nurse returned with a tray laden with metal instruments. I turned away while they prepared the equipment. ‘Ready?’ he asked. I heard Greg squirm. ‘Here goes.’ The needle went in, deep, searing. I jumped. ‘Hold still,’ he said firmly. Pressure, painful pressure, progressed down one side of the wound. Then, momentary relief. The needle bit again on the other side. ‘That will numb it.’

  He chatted with Greg in Spanish while he waited for the anaesthetic to work. ‘Let’s see.’ He prodded the wound. ‘Sharp?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘I can sew.’ I felt the needle push and the stitch pull. He worked rapidly, chatting with Greg while he sewed.

  My eyes roamed the spines on the bookcase, starting with the lower shelf. Medical books. I recognised a few of the technical words, similar to the English. The books on the top shelf were smaller, more like novels. One resembled The Tree of Gernika.

  ‘Your friend says you are going to be a doctor, too, one day,’ the doctor said warmly. ‘Last stitch.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said.

  ‘Who is sure of anything at your age?’ he said softly, a tinge of melancholy to his voice. The nurse cut the thread and he patted me on the back. ‘All done. Come back in a week. I’ll remove the stitches.’ He turned to Greg. ‘You must get tetanus at the pharmacy and give him a jab. I’ll give you a script.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Greg. ‘No problem.’

  ‘And bring your paintings,’ he added in Spanish, while the nurse helped me from the couch. ‘I’m sure we can come to an arrangement to cover the fee.’ The nurse scowled again. The doctor smiled at her and shook his head. ‘Señora, you forget how it is to be young.’

  At the door, he turned to study me. ‘It’s a good profession, you know. Because of the Civil War, I started late. I was a medic in those days. I saw terrible things, but I was able to help. Eventually I became a doctor. It wasn’t straightforward.’