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

by Owen Hargreaves

  ‘I swear to God, I’ve got no idea! I gave it to Maite unopened, like she asked.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ said Jock. ‘No wonder the Guardia have been here!’

  ‘And worst of all, you didn’t let us in on it,’ said Rob. ‘Your mates!’

  ‘She made me promise I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Blinded by love!’ yelled Jock ‘That’s what you are!’

  ‘Jeez, I’m sorry, guys. I wanted to tell you.’

  ‘Bit late for that, Owen,’ sighed Rob.

  It took a few days for the boys to forgive me, and only after I’d told them all that I could. Of course, there wasn’t a lot to tell that they didn’t already know. They understood that a promise was a promise; they just weren’t happy about it. A few days of being slapped around the head seemed to fix the problem, much like a bad wipeout tends to set you straight.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jock called from the balcony, a note of concern in his voice, ‘There’s a little red MG in the car park with roof racks and a board on top. I think it might be another Pom!’

  I was rugged up in bed, reading. It was mid-afternoon, a dreary day in early November. ‘God help us!’ I yelled, and winced at the lingering memory of the Englishman, Graham, whom we’d adopted briefly but had to kick out of the house for not pitching in or paying his way.

  ‘Amigo, let’s go for a look-see,’ said Jock, his face a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

  I marked my place, set George on the bedside table and climbed out of bed.

  We rounded the edge of the port through a light misty rain, the sky grey and sullen. I pulled up the hood of my jacket. The port was silent, no fishermen in sight. We climbed the steps on the casino side to the headland. The river mouth was subdued. Signs of a swell but nothing breached the sandbar at this high tide. The slate-grey sea lay heavy like a metal plate. Where a sea mist had formed, sky and sea merged on the horizon. There was no wind.

  We inspected the MG at close quarters. The surfboard bore a large number of scars, but the car was impressive. You couldn’t live in this little roadster, but it would be fun to drive.

  We found him in Bar El Puerto. The newcomer was standing, coffee in hand, wearing a midnight blue plastic rain jacket over a heavy black seaman’s sweater and dark blue corduroy trousers. He had his back to us and seemed to be studying the rows of bottles behind the bar.

  ‘Nice car,’ said Jock when we drew near. The guy half-turned towards the voice and a spark lit his brown eyes.

  ‘Jock!’ he said, reaching to shake his hand, a grin on his half-shaven face. He took my hand, his grip strong and measured, and followed it with a bear hug. ‘Little brother! You look so different, all grown up.’ He stood back, examined me. ‘You look fit. Really fit. Lots of waves, hey?’

  Jock’s glasses had steamed up. ‘Jean! I don’t believe it, man! Is that really you? You look like a Nordic fisherman.’

  ‘John!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is amazing! Where have you been?’

  ‘I was in Morocco.’ A broad grin overtook his face. ‘But then I met this girl –’

  Jock laughed and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Must run in the family.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Jock tipped his head in my direction and winked.

  ‘Owen too.’ ‘Owen … a girl.’ John frowned, stared at me. ‘You have grown up.’ He shook his head.

  ‘What happened next, man?’ said Jock.

  John was still focused on me. ‘Mum’s letter arrived saying Owen was here with you, so I borrowed a car for a few weeks.’

  I smiled meekly. Had he come to see me or Jock?

  ‘Rob, remember me telling you about Jean,’ said Jock. ‘The Aussie from last summer.’

  ‘How could I forget?’ They shook hands. ‘Jeez, you’ve gotta helluva grip, mate,’ Rob said, jiggling his hand.

  John laughed. ‘Sorry! Working the boats, hauling ropes and buckets — and God knows what else — gives you hands of steel.’ He examined them. ‘Look at the bloody cuts! Still healing. But it’s been a trip.’

  And he was off and running. John knew how to tell a story. He had a way about him, a feverish look in his eye when he spoke, as if he were there and you couldn’t help but go there with him. He held court like a tireless raconteur. Where he got it from was a mystery. Not our parents. His enthusiasm was infectious, his appetite for life, boundless.

  I was proud to be his brother. He reminded me a little of George — same adventurous spirit, same tireless passion, same descriptive powers — George with his pen, John with his tongue. John had always inspired me. He’d pushed the boundaries, defied the odds. No wonder I’d followed in his footsteps.

  But I’d stepped out of his shadow now, followed my own path, hadn’t I? And, if part of him had rubbed off on me, was there anything wrong with that? I wanted him to be proud of me.

  ‘The landscape!’ he said. ‘Especially dusk and dawn. By day, an unforgiving desert, muted, washed out by sun. But dusk, at Anchor, out on the rocks, where burning desert meets the cold Atlantic, a fiery sun melting into a restless, purple sea. It’s incredible! So beautiful! And the stars! Solitary at dusk, but when night closes in, the sky comes alive — a celestial sea.’

  ‘How about the surf?’ Rob asked.

  ‘The surf! Agadir! Incredible! Anchor point was even better, camped there for months. What a crew of crazy guys! Surfers from all over — Americans, Brits, South Africans, Aussies, Kiwis.’

  ‘And the waves?’ Rob licked his lips. ‘What about the waves?’

  ‘Anchor was crowded but we managed, surfed in shifts of sorts. The shoulder’s fat, but it’s a nice long ride. Water’s chilly though — it’s that crazy, cold current, like in Portugal. You really need that wetsuit.’

  ‘Sounds incredible!’ said Rob, hand working at his stubble.

  ‘It was, it was. But it seems an age ago. Denmark snuffed it out.’ John ran his fingers through his hair, combing it back.

  ‘I’m itchy for waves, real quality. What about the surf here?’

  ‘Tide’s too full. There’ll be a decent wave at Baquio,’ said Rob.

  ‘No problem. We’ll take the MG.’ John rubbed his hands together.

  ‘Will you get us all into that little thing?’ asked Jock.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said John with unwavering confidence. ‘I’ll get you in.’

  We headed back to the car and I tried to explain the directions to Plaza Santa Catalina.

  ‘Get in and direct me,’ he said.

  ‘Our humble domain,’ I announced, when we climbed Casa Ignacia’s dusty old stairs.

  ‘Humble’s the word,’ said John, hesitant to handle the rail.

  We showed him through and reached the lounge balcony. ‘She’s old and creaky, but look at that view!’ I said.

  John whistled. ‘It’s beautiful all right.’

  ‘You should see it when the surf’s firing!’ Rob clutched at the rail. ‘It’s unreal, isn’t it, Jock?’

  ‘It is, my man! It is.’ Jock scanned the view. ‘But not today, amigos. On y va?’

  We tied the boards to the MG’s roof with some pieces of old cord that John had in the boot, then Jock insisted we toss a coin for the front seat.

  ‘Bugger!’ I clambered into the back with Rob.

  John inched out onto the main road. While he accelerated up the winding road towards Bermeo, he flicked a switch in the wood-grain dash and the cabin filled with a haunting melody. A strong female voice backed by piano — Carole King. It had a potent, melancholic feel, and l felt decidedly homesick. Away for eleven months, on this still grey day in Spain, my thoughts drifted to my own country — summer on the way, the comforts of a warm family home and my closest friends. John’s presence only seemed to make it worse.

  We drove through Bermeo and out past the cemetery where the narrow road snakes into the patchwork of fields, to the long series of gentle uphill switchbacks. John couldn’t resist and we raced towards the summit, to the pine forest where the s
cent of juniper begins.

  ‘Pull over,’ I pleaded. ‘I need air or I’ll throw up.’

  ‘Poor bugger! What a curse,’ said John, turning into a clearing.

  Jock jumped out, lurched the bucket seat forward and I stumbled out. I took a few long, deep breaths, hands on knees. What a horrible feeling! It took me back to the Great Ocean Road in Victoria — hunched over at the roadside, wave upon wave of vertigo traversing my head, trying not to vomit. When I was a child, I always vomited.

  ‘How are you feeling, mate?’ John asked, patting me gently on the back.

  ‘Not so good,’ I replied, focusing on the long, slow, deep breaths, my trusted panacea.

  ‘Your colour’s coming good,’ said Rob.

  I stood up. The vertigo and nausea had retreated, but I continued breathing deeply until I’d regained my equilibrium. ‘Getting there,’ I replied. ‘Give me a few more minutes.’

  ‘Reminds me of all those surf trips with Dad,’ said John. ‘God you suffered.’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it.’

  The others strolled to the edge of the clearing. In the foreground, the fields to Bermeo and its port, and beyond, the sea, Izaro and the rugged Pyrenees. A thick sea mist hung over the distant seascape.

  ‘Still spectacular! Can’t wait to see it with a swell running. Jock, you’d better get in the back unless you want Owen throwing up all over the back of your head — remember when you did that to Dad?’

  They all laughed and so did I. Poor Dad!

  The base of the island at San Juan de Gaztelugatxe was shrouded in mist, giving the peak and chapel a mysterious, fortress-like appearance. Baquio was eerily quiet, the beach deserted. A solid swell slunk in from the Atlantic and rolled across the sandbanks. Six-foot waves, oily smooth.

  We paddled out — Jock, Rob and John to the sandbank in front. I wandered the shoreline about 150 metres away, dodging plastic bottles and tar balls as I went. The waves were fast, clean, increasingly bigger and I rode one after another, a hypnotic session punctuated by bursts of activity. Between the waves, I absorbed the grey mood. No rainbows today, no Maite on the beach — no Guardia, no guns, no shooting — only the ghosts.

  It was mid-tide when I made my first mistake. A rogue set appeared out of nowhere. Paddling deep inside on the first wave, I dropped late, made it to the bottom, but looking down the line, realised I wouldn’t make it onto the wall, not even with the best bottom turn. An enormous thud caught me from behind. The lip had actually missed me and the back of my board, but the force of the exploding wave catapulted me forward.

  Airborne, I tried to go deep when I hit the water, but I was out of control, helpless. I somersaulted along, pushed by the surging whitewater. Relaxing was the key to minimising oxygen consumption and surviving. I was shoved deep under the rolling mass, and still tumbling, completely lost my bearings. A sudden jerk on my leg rope, when the wave pushed the board forward, halted the tumbling, but now I was being dragged underwater. I couldn’t pull hard on my leg rope to escape in case it snapped, so I relaxed, waiting until the power of the whitewater diminished. My breath began to run out when the pressure on the leg rope eased. I carefully flexed my leg, a counter-pressure, until the resistance dissipated completely and I was released. I scrambled to the surface, careful to protect my face.

  A single gasping breath was all I could take before the next wave was on me. I duck-dived deep, but I couldn’t escape the dragging. I resurfaced, snatched a breath, and headed under the next wave. Eventually, I was washed to the edge of the sandbank. I hauled myself onto the board, grateful that the leg rope had held, and lay catching my breath.

  After a minute, I’d regained my composure. That was close. A slap in the face, a reminder not to disregard the forces of nature. ‘Push the limits at your peril, you fool,’ I whispered. Had my instincts deserted me?

  I felt battered and weary but not enough to kill the desire for another ride. I paddled out and across to the others. ‘Are you all right?’ Rob asked, his brow knotted.

  ‘I thought you were going to drown!’ said Jock.

  ‘I’m all right.’ I stretched, rubbing my neck. ‘Wouldn’t want to go through that again in a hurry. What a thrashing!’

  ‘Stay wide and rest up for a bit, amigo.’

  John looked at me, grinned, and shook his head. ‘That’s a hell of a way to get fit!’

  After the surf, we went to the same bar I’d gone to with Jock that first time. The others started quizzing me about my little sandbank in ‘the corner’.

  ‘Short, fast and hollow,’ I said. ‘But only enough waves for one surfer at a time!’

  ‘One surfer at a time, hey?’ said Jock, an eyebrow raised.

  ‘I came here once before, with Maite, and a firing squad turned up for practice at the end of the beach.’

  ‘Bizarre!’ said John. ‘I bet surfing under the spectre of Franco wasn’t what you had in mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘It was surreal.’

  He strummed his fingers on the table. ‘Perhaps,’ he mused, ‘if you were more aware of political developments, you might have anticipated an increase in military activity. According to the Danish newspapers, Franco’s ailing, hanging on by a thread, and speculation’s rife.’

  ‘I thought I was aware.’

  Rob jumped in. ‘Owen, there’s probably more accurate news in the foreign press than you’d get here.’

  John put down his tortilla. ‘He’s right. It’d be controlled, censored, here.’

  ‘But I hear things from Maite, too,’ I said defensively.

  John grunted softly. ‘She’d have her own slant.’

  ‘And the foreign press wouldn’t?’

  John frowned.

  ‘She’s a proud Basque,’ I said, ‘but no zealot.’

  Jock and Rob exchanged a look. ‘From what you’ve told us,’ said Rob, choosing his words carefully, ‘she seems fully committed to the cause.’

  I leant forward, gripping the edge of the table. ‘Yes, she’s passionate. She gets emotional about it. Why wouldn’t she? She’s involved on a personal level.’

  ‘And now,’ added Jock coolly, ‘so are you.’

  They stared at me. Would they mention the parcels or the raid on the house? I hoped not. I sat back. ‘Perhaps, but she doesn’t tell me everything. I’m sure she’s seen and heard many things and hasn’t told me.’

  Jock leaned towards me. ‘It’s what she’s not telling you that worries us.’ He wagged a finger. ‘We warned you to be careful.’ He turned to John and raised his eyebrows. ‘Your little brother’s blinded by love.’

  ‘He’s got himself a girlfriend who’s in ETA,’ said Rob.

  ‘Oh, Jesus! Is that right?’ asked John.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We don’t know that.’

  He hunched forward. ‘What have you got yourself tangled up in, Owen?’

  ‘Tangled up in?’ I frowned out the window at the sea. ‘She’s wonderful, beautiful,’ I said. ‘Wait until you meet her.’

  ‘She is lovely,’ said Rob. His eyes skipped from John to me. ‘But can you trust her?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said defensively.

  ‘Completely?’ asked Jock. ‘Her family’s obviously involved in politics, ETA.’

  I pursed my lips, thinking. They were all watching me. ‘It’s true, she can be elusive. But she’s asked me to trust her.’

  ‘Do you?’ John tapped the table with an index finger. ‘ETA is serious business, Owen.’

  ‘I do trust her.’

  ‘Why?’ John asked. ‘You don’t seem to know what she’s really up to.’

  ‘Instinct.’

  ‘Instinct?’ John raised his eyebrows. ‘Is instinct enough?’

  I thought of Dr Arriaza. ‘It’s all I’ve got when I don’t know.’

  John sat back, folded his arms across his chest and grinned. ‘Where was your instinct when you got hammered in the waves today?’

  I glared at him. ‘What do you think I
should do?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I just arrived.’ He tilted his head towards Jock and Rob. ‘They’d know better. Based on what I know from earlier in the year and what I’ve read, all I’d say is be extremely careful.’

  ‘Jean’s right.’ Jock stabbed the air with a finger. ‘Be really careful, Owen … remember why you came here, man. To surf. Right?’

  Jock wasn’t wrong. Our days were dictated by the rhythms of the ocean. Our pursuit was apolitical. But that was before I understood anything. The Frenchmen had sparked my interest. George with his book had lit a slow burning fire, and Maite — with her smouldering determination — had allowed me to feel its heat.

  ‘I’m not saying ignore it,’ said John. ‘But be aware of what you’re doing, what you’re getting involved in.’

  I glared at Jock. ‘We can’t simply surf and ignore where we are and what’s going on around us!’

  ‘Of course we can!’ said Jock. ‘It’s none of our business!’ His gaze narrowed. ‘You’re under her spell. And as for that book and George Steer, they’ve got you hostage.’

  I gritted my teeth. ‘Isn’t dictatorship and repression everybody’s business?’

  Rob groaned loudly. ‘Come on, settle down, fellas.’

  I eased back in my seat. ‘Jock, read George’s book when I’m finished. You’ll feel differently.’

  Jock’s shoulders dropped. ‘I’m sympathetic,’ he said, ‘but we’re only foreigners passing through. There’s nothing we can do.’

  ‘That’s true, Owen,’ said Rob. ‘What can you do?’

  I bit my lip. ‘I’m not sure. Something, perhaps.’

  John snorted. ‘You?’

  If he only knew, I thought. I stared at him and said nothing.

  ‘Strange.’ He sat back, his hands behind his head. ‘I’ve read a bit about the Civil War, but I’ve never heard of George Steer.’

  ‘He’s an amazing man!’ I said leaning forward again. ‘Intelligent, brave, big-hearted, loves the Basques. A real hero!’

  ‘You talk like he’s still alive.’

  ‘I told you,’ said Jock, shaking his head, ‘Owen’s obsessed. Maite’s got him hooked on the Basque cause. Her brother’s in prison, sister’s in custody.’