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

by Owen Hargreaves

  ‘Jeez, they blew up the bridge?’

  ‘Yes, to cut Bermeo off from Guernica.’

  ‘Hard to imagine.’ I shook my head. ‘I’ve walked across that bridge many times, on my way to the lookout.’ Car sick, I wound down the window halfway.

  ‘George risked his life and went with a supply vehicle from Bilbao to Truende, dodging bombs and machine-gun bullets.’

  ‘I told you he was crazy,’ I said.

  She scowled. ‘He wasn’t crazy. He was brave.’

  ‘He could’ve got killed.’

  ‘Any of them could have. Any day. Everyone took risks.’

  ‘But he was a journalist, not a soldier.’

  ‘He was on our side.’

  ‘True.’ I wound the window fully down, took a deep breath, the wind licking at my face. ‘What happened at Mundaca?’

  ‘We were bombed off the road.’

  I swivelled to her. ‘God! I don’t believe it! Beautiful Mundaca bombed.’

  She grunted softly. ‘Many beautiful places were bombed.’

  I glanced back at the twisting road. ‘I haven’t noticed any scars around the village.’

  ‘You could ask the old folk.’ We had almost reached the summit. Maite pulled the car to the side of the road. ‘There’s a spot over there. See, between those two big rocks. We can eat and I’ll tell you the rest of the story.’

  I took the blanket, Maite the picnic basket, and we made our way across to the sheltered grassy patch. Maite unpacked bocadillos of jamón, tomato and cheese, a flask of vino blanco and two glasses.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said, touching her glass with mine. ‘That’s what we say in Australia.’

  She clinked me back. ‘Cheese.’

  ‘Not cheese!’ I laughed. ‘Cheers, meaning good cheer.’

  She laughed too and moved close against me. ‘I know it’s cheers, but at first, in Dublin, I thought people were saying cheese.’

  ‘Oh, I get it!’

  ‘Shall I tell you what happened next?’

  ‘Will I get indigestion?’

  She frowned at me. ‘Don’t make jokes. It’s serious.’

  ‘Alright.’ I raised my hands in surrender. ‘No more jokes. Carry on.’

  ‘You know where we were stopped by the Guardia on our way back from Baquio that day?’

  ‘Jesus! How could I forget?’

  She smiled sweetly and kissed me on the cheek. ‘You were so loyal that day. We –’ She hesitated, the smile dissolving. ‘I … will never forget that.’

  I gazed down the mountain. What did she mean by ‘we’? She reached for my hand, squeezed it, and leaned in to me, searching out my eyes. ‘Shall I continue?’

  ‘Yes, go on.’

  ‘The Italians were forced back and gave up for the day.’ She reached for her drink. ‘But here at Truende, the Germans fire-bombed for an hour before an Italian column advanced towards the pass.’ She pointed down the road. ‘There.’ I followed her finger. The road snaked up the mountain. ‘There were eighteen Italian tanks in pairs, supported by ground troops in the cornfields on either side. But our Basque fighters had blocked the road near the crest with three logs, which the tanks couldn’t cross.’

  ‘What did the Italians do?’

  ‘Because of the steep banks, the tanks couldn’t turn or move off the road. They got stuck. Sitting ducks. And the foot soldiers hid in the corn, afraid of our snipers. Our men,’ she pointed to the summit, ‘were waiting for anti-tank explosives from Bilbao. They could only roll grenades down from their trenches until one brave fighter snuck down and exploded a grenade right under a leading tank. Kaboom!’

  ‘What a gutsy effort!’

  ‘That did it! The Italians gave up, retreated.’

  ‘Victory!’ I grabbed a roll, raised it to the sky, then bit into it. ‘Yes! A good day for the Basques. George rode here with the supply vehicle carrying the anti-tank grenades, terrified he’d be blown up. When they finally arrived, the Basques were already celebrating with a victory dance.’ ‘Could they hold the mountain?’

  ‘At dawn the next morning, twenty rebel soldiers, Moors, waltzed in and took Sollube while our men, Asturian replacements, were having coffee in their shelter behind the ridge. The Asturians fled, the Italians arrived, and up went the Monarchist flag on Sollube’s peak.’

  ‘What a bloody disaster!’

  ‘Basque morale was crushed.’ A tear ran down Maite’s cheek before she could catch it. ‘The men panicked, there was total chaos. Troops at Truende and Cape Machichaco, fearing they’d be cut off and receiving no orders, retreated to the coast. And, to the south of Sollube, the Asturian battalions fell away.’

  ‘Far out! Those Asturians were useless.’

  ‘Aguirre was furious at the loss of Sollube. The Basque Council of War sat to try the deserters.’

  ‘The verdict?’

  ‘All guilty.’

  ‘The punishment?’

  ‘A few were shot.’

  ‘Shot?’

  The muscles around Maite’s mouth tightened. ‘Desertion in the time of war is a serious offence, you know … it can be infectious.’

  I shivered. ‘I can imagine it would be.’

  ‘Aguirre sacked his Chief of Staff and temporarily took command himself. He ordered an immediate counter-attack on Sollube.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘No. And there was other bad news. The Asturians lost Rigoitia and deserted a key mountain position close to the cinturón at Vizkargi.’

  ‘Perhaps their heart wasn’t in it?’

  ‘True.’ She shook her head. ‘They wanted out. The Basques had to go it alone. They counter-attacked for four days at Sollube and for seven at Vizkargi. They fought hard, but ultimately failed.’

  ‘The beginning of the end?’

  ‘In a way.’ She pushed a wind-blown lock from her face, leant on one hand and gazed down on me, framed by sunlit hair. ‘Had enough?’

  I reached up to brush aside the hair obscuring her eye. ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Let’s paint,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the sketchbooks from the car.’

  I raised myself onto my elbows to watch her pick her way across the slope to the car. She came back with pads, pencils and paints and sat beside me.

  ‘Here.’ She handed me a pad. ‘Draw — imagining those Italian tanks coming up the road towards the logs.’ She took a tiny camera out of her pocket, held it to her eye and fired off a couple of shots across the panorama.

  ‘Wow! That’s the smallest camera I’ve ever seen! Almost like a spy camera.’

  She flushed. ‘I like to take a photo sometimes, to refer to, if I don’t finish the drawing.’ She put the camera away and opened her sketchbook.

  ‘Makes sense,’ I said, but such a tiny camera didn’t make sense.

  In an instant she was gone, buried in the drawing.

  When she was finished, she nestled in against me and said, ‘If a parcel arrived from that address in Ireland bearing your name, could you collect it from the post office and give it to me?’

  I pushed out a breath. ‘I said I’d help.’ Jesus, this was getting way out of hand.

  The surf was steadily building. Each day the sea grew stronger. I could feel the energy change with the season. The playful days seemed to disappear, replaced by heavier waves that drew from the deeper waters of the Atlantic. We surfed everything we could and while the surf progressively grew, Jock and Rob’s confidence grew with it.

  With the stronger swells, came a few seasoned surfers. An American called Gary had been living in Hawaii for a few years and had surfed the famous Pipeline break on Oahu’s north shore. He brought with him a prized hand-crafted surfboard, sleek and yellow with a red lightning bolt on the bottom.

  We watched in awe when he casually paddled into the critical part of a peaking swell, dropped vertically down the drawing face, shifted his weight over the board’s inner rail at the bottom of the wave, gliding effortlessly into the wave’s interior while the lip passed over
head. At times he might bow his head or dip his shoulder to dodge the powerful descending lip, but once secure inside the wave, he set a perfect trim that matched the speed of his board with that of the pitching wave, using only his left hand against the wave’s face to temper his speed and delay his exit from the wave’s interior.

  Gary’s surfing was a small miracle. Precise and simple, no acrobatics, no tricks, perfect technique and timing, he nonchalantly made the difficult look easy.

  We watched, mesmerised, sometimes to our detriment. Several times I got hit by waves when I paddled back out and stopped to watch him gliding effortlessly towards me. It was worth the drubbing.

  Gary wasn’t a professional, there weren’t many, and he didn’t surf in competitions even though he could have. We were somewhat in awe of him, but he was happy to show us how to ride the ‘tube’ inside the wave.

  We sat in Ignacia’s lounge, recovering from a session and a long lunch. Jock had Maite’s guitar in his lap, and was strumming away. We’d heard all his songs many times over. Rob was fed up. ‘Give it a bloody rest, Jock! Tell us about Pipeline, Gary.’

  Gary watched Jock set the guitar aside, musing, like he was chewing on a piece of straw. ‘Pipeline?’ He spoke in a quiet, measured manner, like a farmer talking about the weather. We listened, respectful, like disciples. He sat back, creases forming at the corners of his mouth. ‘Pipeline’s unique, mythical, a beautiful beast, the ultimate challenge — powerful, shallow, the coral so sharp, the rip so strong.’

  ‘Yes, and the wave itself?’ asked Rob, urging him on.

  ‘Not for the faint-hearted, man. When it’s big, you can die. You need finely-tuned skills, a lot of courage, a cool nerve. You have to know the place, know its fickle nature.’

  ‘I bet,’ said Rob, like a fox with his tongue out. ‘What’s it like to ride?’

  ‘Like this,’ Gary said, a light shining from within, sitting forward to shape the descriptions with his hands. ‘The swell approaches, the adrenaline starts to flow, you paddle across. Is this one rideable? Am I in a good position? The swell hits the reef, it stands up, tall, double what it seemed. You’re ready to pounce, you paddle furiously, rapid strokes, totally committed.’

  Rob’s mouth fell open. Jock rolled his eyes, but we were all hooked.

  ‘Then it happens, lightning quick, a beautiful blur, speed and fear, board’s snatched up, wave lurches higher, sheer drop, you leap to your feet, plunge, straight down, a glimpse of coral.’ He rose gracefully to his feet. ‘You’re airborne now, feet cling tenuously to the board, spray in the face, blinded, thunder behind, mind on fire.’

  We were all taking the drop with Gary.

  ‘Falling fast, leaning in, rail catches, board’s nose clear. You’re at the bottom now, wave’s arching, you press hard with feet, intense pressure in ankles, sudden acceleration, board’s flying, a blue cavern surrounding you, swirling deep and dark. A moment of stillness, all is quiet, fingers caressing the wall. Board’s singing, blue dissolves, you’re bursting free, flying to light, blue turns to green, singing slows, heart slows, gliding to calm.’

  ‘Jesus!’ said Rob. ‘Sounds bloody awesome!’

  ‘Awesome all right, but brief,’ Gary said, sitting again. ‘Over in a flash. Not like Mundaca.’

  ‘Too bloody dangerous for me.’

  I shivered. ‘Gee, that sounds intense, mate.’

  ‘You need to know the place, man, how it ticks.’ Gary picked up the guitar, set it firmly in his lap and ran his left hand gently up the neck. He let the back of his fingers fall across the strings and a sweet chord sounded. ‘Make the wrong choice on a big day and it could prove fatal.’

  ‘That reef sounds ridiculous,’ said Jock. ‘Give me Mundaca’s sandbar any day, even if it is shallow.’

  ‘Mundaca is better in many ways,’ said Gary. ‘So much longer. And safer. Pipeline’s a blink. A heart-stopping blink.’ He settled back in his chair and began to play. He had a relaxed style and didn’t sing. We listened, glad for the change, happy with the silky, smooth rhythms that made us drift. You could close your eyes and see the palm trees, Pipeline in the distance.

  When I walked in late that afternoon, bearing the parcel I’d collected from the post office, Manolo was alone at the bar restocking the fridge. ‘Where have you been, muchacho?’

  ‘Surfing.’ I pulled out a bar stool. ‘The swell jumped.’

  ‘Too busy to pay me a visit?’ he asked rhetorically, wiping down the bar.

  I made a face. ‘Of course not.’

  He stopped wiping and gave me a penetrating look. ‘Your girl’s sister, the one in the newspaper? It’s true. She’s with ETA. That car bombing two years ago. She’s under arrest.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘No joke, muchacho!’

  I looked at the parcel, the name ‘PJ O’Brien’ on the back. I couldn’t wait to give it to Maite that night, get it off my hands.

  Manolo eyed it too. ‘Cuídate, muchacho,’ he said. ‘Be very careful.’

  I hadn’t visited Dr Arriaza for a while, so the following afternoon, feeling a little guilty, I went to the nursing home. Out the front was a car I knew only too well. My pace slowed.

  At the gate, through the branches of the climbing rose, I spied Maite on the patio. She was talking to the doctor and an elderly man, wheelchair-bound and swaddled in blankets, the same intense character who had helped decide which of Greg’s paintings to buy. Maite handed him the parcel, the one from O’Brien that I’d given her the night before. The conversation flashed through my mind.

  ‘So what’s in it?’ I had asked her.

  She hesitated.

  ‘Can’t you trust me with the truth?’ I implored.

  ‘I can, but it’s better I don’t.’ Her brow crinkled like it always did when she was anxious. ‘It’s safer that way.’

  ‘Safer? Safe from what?’

  She put the parcel aside and took my hands. ‘I can’t tell you. I’m sworn to secrecy. You have to understand.’

  ‘I don’t.’ I pushed her hands away. ‘How can I?’

  ‘I’ll tell you one day. Then you’ll understand. Please be patient.’ She drew me to her and hugged me.

  I didn’t respond at first. ‘Patience,’ I whispered in her ear, ‘I’m running out of that.’ I pulled her tight against me, kissed her neck and she moaned softly.

  Soon our frustrations were swamped by passion. We fell asleep in the sweat that followed and I stirred only briefly when she left sometime across the night.

  Now, as I watched, she kissed the stern man affectionately on both cheeks, farewelling him as if he were her own father. She and the doctor started towards the gate, towards me. I had to walk on.

  When I looked back from the shadows near the bridge, she was getting into her car, the doctor seeing her off. She also kissed him on both cheeks, like she would a close uncle. She drove off and the doctor went inside.

  I followed him a few minutes later.

  He was standing alone on the patio beside my favourite seat, as if he’d been waiting for me, smoking, seemingly lost in thought. ‘Muchacho! Qué pasa? Where have you been?’

  ‘Surfing. Some friends came to town and we’ve been hitting the waves.’

  ‘Lost interest in drawing?’

  ‘No, not all. But, I have to confess, surfing takes priority.’

  ‘I knew something had distracted you.’ A mischievous look crossed his face. ‘I assumed it was a girl.’

  I felt the heat rise to my face and smiled. ‘Speaking of girls, I saw you out the front saying goodbye to one.’

  ‘Ah yes!’ He studied me carefully then drew on his cigarette. ‘The grand-daughter of an old friend. A great man, committed to the end. He’s dead now.’ He pointed to an empty reclining chair. ‘Died right there.’ Smoke drifted from his nostrils, ushered away by a faint breeze. ‘She’s a lot like him. Same spirit. Same passion. Same commitment and dedication.’ His eyes lit up momentarily. ‘Beautiful too.’

&n
bsp; ‘An irresistible combination.’

  He eyed me carefully. ‘Few could resist … Only a fool would.’

  It was my turn to study him. ‘Sounds like a girl you could really trust.’

  He held my gaze. ‘Absolutely.’ He drew hard on his cigarette. ‘Anyone who’d spent time with her would know that. No questions asked.’

  ‘No questions?’

  A faint smile played across his face. ‘No questions, muchacho.’

  ‘Unquestioning trust. That’s a big risk for anyone, Doc.’

  ‘Life is full of risks. In difficult times you have to trust others.’ He motioned to his stomach. ‘The feelings here tell you who.’

  ‘Gut feelings alone?’

  He blew out a steady stream of smoke. ‘If you can’t trust your gut feelings, what can you trust?’

  Manolo stood outside the post office on the other side of the street, talking to the postmistress. He nodded sheepishly when I passed on my way back to the house. The postmistress, as unflinching as the portrait on her wall, stared as I nodded cautiously in return.

  At Casa Ignacia the boys were in a stew. They’d been to the shops and returned to find the house upside down, our belongings strewn everywhere.

  ‘Someone’s ransacked the place!’ said Jock.

  ‘You’re kidding!’ I said. ‘Who?’

  ‘Who do you reckon, mate?’ said Rob.

  ‘No idea!’

  ‘Well, Rob and I have a fair idea,’ said Jock.

  ‘Guardia Civil,’ said Rob.

  ‘Guardia Civil!’ I said. ‘But why?’

  ‘We’ve got a theory,’ said Jock. He looked at Rob.

  ‘A theory?’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’

  Rob gave me the once-over. His eyes sharpened. ‘Who’s PJ O’Brien?’

  ‘Oh, shit!’

  ‘Rob saw that parcel you had,’ said Jock. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘We think they were looking for that.’

  ‘What was in it, Owen?’ said Rob.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on, Owen, spill the beans!’