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

by Owen Hargreaves

  John glared at me. ‘You’re on the edge, Owen. ETA may be closer than you think.’

  I held his glare for a while before looking out the window, chewing on my lip. A set wandered in. The breeze grasped at it, contorting the wave faces, holding each back, stalling them until they broke free, rolled over and continued on their path to shore.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Jock. ‘It’s getting gloomy.’

  Rob stood up and stretched. ‘Those curves won’t be fun in the dark. Owen, you better sit up front again. I don’t want you throwing up on me.’

  John sighed. ‘No throwing up full stop, little brother.’

  ‘I only get sick in the back.’ I eased out of the chair and stood up. ‘Come on, guys, chip in, I’ll fix up the bill.’

  Jock shrugged sheepishly. ‘I left my wallet at the house.’

  ‘Jesus, Jock!’ Rob grappled him into a mock headlock. ‘Same every bloody time!’

  John laughed. ‘Nothing’s changed!’

  ‘I forgot, man.’ Jock wriggled free, adjusting his glasses. ‘An oversight.’

  ‘You can tie the boards on,’ said Rob. ‘Punishment.’

  We were stopped by a Guardia roadblock at the edge of the pine forest, the same place Maite and I had encountered one.

  ‘How often does that happen?’ asked John, a strain in his voice.

  ‘Second time for me,’ I said. ‘In a car at least. Maite and I were stopped walking in Lequetio.’

  ‘Not particularly friendly, are they?’

  ‘I suppose they’re looking for weapons,’ Jock mused.

  ‘Or fugitives,’ Rob added.

  ‘Maybe it’s a manhunt!’ said Jock. ‘Those Guardia were certainly looking for something … or someone. I hope it’s got nothing to do with your girlfriend, Owen.’

  ‘Come off it,’ I said defensively. ‘But something’s happened.’

  ‘It should be in the news,’ Rob said.

  We had nothing to hide, but the torch-lit faces of the Guardia, the guns, and that spiked metal device were unnerving.

  ‘They seemed jumpy,’ Jock added.

  John snorted. ‘This is the kind of trouble you just don’t need, Owen. They must know something we don’t.’

  ‘Something’s definitely up,’ I said. ‘You can feel it.’

  John stole a sideward glance at me while he ran the MG down through the fields towards Bermeo. ‘Instinct, hey?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  He laughed and put his foot down. It didn’t take long to get back to Mundaca.

  John settled into the spare room while Jock and I prepared a meal of anchovy fillets. We ate in the kitchen and talked. Surf was first, like always. ‘And Mundaca?’ John asked. ‘Have you had it any good?’ He lit up when I described the last big swell, the rides and the wipeouts. ‘Bloody hell! I wish I’d been here for that!’ His brow crinkled. ‘We’ll get decent waves soon, won’t we?’

  ‘Hard to say.’ I snapped a piece off the crusty breadstick.

  ‘It’s getting stormier every day, the swells are steadily building.’ ‘It’ll be unreal!’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I just need to get surf fit.’

  We had a long catch-up in the kitchen. John did most of the talking, but we all had our turn. ‘George has made a big impression on you,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should read this book of yours.’

  ‘George is a legend!’ I wiped crumbs from the corner of my mouth. ‘In certain ways, you remind me of him — same adventurous spirit, same love of a good story.’

  ‘Me … like George? I doubt it.’ John sat back, scratched his head and mused. ‘Adventurous spirit, maybe. Stories, yes. War zones? No. In love with the Basques …’ He pointed a finger. ‘That sounds more like you.’

  I smiled wryly.

  He wagged his finger. ‘Make sure that love doesn’t get you into trouble.’

  I folded my arms. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not joining ETA.’

  John sat back in his chair. ‘When Franco’s dead, maybe ETA won’t be needed.’

  ‘George never really foresaw ETA,’ I said circumspectly. ‘But he said the Basques would never be suppressed for long.’

  ‘The Basques have been suppressed far too long.’ John leaned back, hands behind his head. ‘But, Owen, let’s face it, it’s not really your business, is it?’

  ‘It’s a cause worth fighting for, isn’t it?’ I swallowed, thinking of Maite’s passionate devotion. ‘What would you fight for?’

  John shook his head and groaned softly. ‘Little brother, where are you going with all this?’ He leaned forward, picked up my sketchbook from the table and began leafing through it.

  ‘Wait till you read the book.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Your drawings?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Not bad. Too realistic though, Owen. No interpretation. You haven’t captured the spirit, mate.’ He tossed the sketchbook aside, smiled at me. ‘You’ll make a better doctor than artist.’

  I sighed. ‘You’re right. I tried to tell them I had no artistic talent.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no talent. You gave it a shot. That’s important.’

  ‘I enjoy it, but you can see I don’t have the feel. Greg taught me the basics … a lot of other things, besides. Mate, what a surfer! He taught me how to really ride a wave. The artful approach!’

  ‘A soul surfer, hey? Sounds like a brother as much as a friend.’

  ‘You could say that.’ I was silent for a moment, glad to have my real brother at hand. ‘And Maite taught me a lot too.’ ‘More than drawing it seems?’

  I smiled. ‘A lot more.’

  In the casino, we chatted, waiting for the weather report. Jock stopped us, pointing at the television. ‘Look at this!’ A grim reporter related how three agents of the Guardia Civil were killed by a car bomb in the neighbouring province of Guipúzcoa.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Jock, eyes bulging. ‘It was a manhunt!’

  A shiver ran through me. ‘No wonder they seemed so tense.’

  My brother gripped my shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, releasing myself.

  The weather girl appeared with the latest synoptic chart behind. A low-pressure system near Iceland was visible over her right shoulder, 982 in its centre.

  ‘Is a big storm brewing?’

  ‘Could be.’ I checked my watch. ‘I’m going to meet the girls. I’ll bring them back. You’ll see.’

  Maite, Ines and I found the boys in Los Chopos, still talking travel and surf. I peeled John away after introducing them.

  ‘John,’ Maite said, ‘we have the same name in Basque — Jon.’

  ‘Common name.’ He winced. ‘I prefer the French version. You can call me Jean, too, if you want.’

  She smiled. ‘I prefer the original, it sounds Basque.’

  ‘I don’t mind what you call me,’ said John, a grin forming, ‘providing there isn’t a swear word attached.’

  Maite laughed. She studied him. ‘So you are the long-lost brother Owen’s been telling me about.’

  ‘I wasn’t lost, simply out of reach. The Moroccan postal service is not the speediest, at least not from Anchor Point.’

  A mischievous light played in her eyes. ‘Do they use camels?’

  John laughed. ‘Not quite, but the result’s the same. It took four months for one letter to get home.’

  ‘Your poor parents. They must have been worried.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said John. ‘But there have been longer gaps. Mum worries regardless.’

  ‘Mothers always worry,’ she said. ‘Brothers and sisters too.’ She appeared momentarily distracted, no doubt thinking of her own family, before touching my arm. ‘Owen was worried about you.’

  ‘Was he?’ John sized her up. ‘Brothers can be a worry, can’t they?’

  ‘They can.’ She bit her lip.

  In the moment of awkward silence, John stole a glance my way. ‘Owen and I narrowly missed each othe
r back in early summer.’

  ‘So I heard,’ she said. ‘A near miss.’

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be,’ he said. ‘Anyway, he obviously didn’t need me to hold his hand.’ He gave me the once-over. ‘He’s transformed into a fully-fledged man since I last saw him.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, he might never have met you, if we’d hooked up.’

  She felt for my hand. ‘True. Destiny took its course, brought me a true friend.’ Her fingers slipped between mine and grasped tightly.

  I squeezed back.

  John raised his eyebrows, shook his head at the two of us. ‘I can’t believe my brother has a girlfriend. Who would have thought?’

  Maite frowned. ‘You took off a long time ago, didn’t you? He’s not the boy you remember.’

  John stared at her but said nothing.

  ‘Well, he’s a man now.’

  ‘So it seems.’ John shrugged, changed tack. ‘Owen tells me you’re an artist and that you’ve taken him sketching.’

  She scowled slightly, as if I’d betrayed her confidence. ‘We’ve been on a few picnics.’

  ‘Baquio too, I hear.’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘We got stopped there today by the Guardia.’

  ‘Same place we were stopped,’ I added.

  She looked at me questioningly.

  I shook my head discreetly to indicate I hadn’t told John what she’d said to the Guardia about the sketches.

  She relaxed slightly and turned to John. ‘Have you seen the news?’

  His eyebrows went up. ‘About the ETA killings?’

  ‘Yes. There are Guardia roadblocks all over the place.’

  ‘I wonder why they’re looking around here, when the killings were in Guipúzcoa?’

  She flushed and moved closer to me, until we were touching. ‘They look everywhere. Everyone’s a suspect under Franco. Even you.’

  John laughed. ‘I don’t think they’d be too worried about foreigners.’

  ‘You might be surprised. Foreigners have helped us in the past.’

  ‘Like George Steer?’ John raised an eyebrow. ‘Owen’s been telling me about the book.’

  ‘George,’ she said. ‘And others. There was an International Brigade during the Civil War. Men of conscience, from far and wide.’

  ‘I know about the International Brigade. Hemingway fought with them.’ John brushed a crumb off his sleeve. ‘But that was a long time ago.’

  ‘Their spirit lives on,’ she retorted, her voice rising, her face red. ‘Not everyone’s given up on us.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said John.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said passionately. ‘You don’t know. You have no idea.’

  John said nothing, brooding, as if turning the possibilities over in his mind. Maite, her face still burning, clutched me with one hand and reached for her drink with the other. She took a long, slow mouthful, calming herself. I watched the colour settle, felt the tension in her body ease slightly. She put down the glass, tried to smile, squeezed my hand and excused herself. We watched her walk to the rest room, dragging Ines from Jock as she went.

  John toyed with his glass. ‘She’s quite something.’ He pursed his lips, searching for the right words. ‘A tender beauty … with real fire in the belly.’

  ‘She’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘Now you understand a little more about what I’m feeling.’

  ‘I do.’ He frowned, like Mum did. ‘But, Owen, you still need to watch your back. Passion can be misleading.’

  ‘You think I’m being led astray?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He hesitated, ran a hand through his hair. ‘That’s for you to find out.’

  We rejoined Jock and Rob and the conversation was back to travel and surf by the time the girls reappeared. Maite, her composure restored, searched out my hand, then watched and listened. I thought she enjoyed seeing John and I reunite, but sensed a sadness too, perhaps imagining a reunion with her own brother.

  ‘He’s a strong character,’ she said, when I walked her to the car. ‘A lot like my own brothers.’

  ‘I’ve always admired him.’

  ‘I can tell.’ She was quiet for a moment. ‘You’re strong too, you know.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do. John might be a wanderer, an adventurer, and that’s fine, but you can stick things out — commit, persevere. Those traits will help you to become a good doctor.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Look how you’ve stuck it out here in Mundaca, waiting patiently.’

  ‘I love it here,’ I said, when we reached the car.

  ‘It’s more than that.’ She pulled me to her. ‘It’s about who you are.’

  It was good to see John, but I didn’t feel quite the way I’d imagined I would. John had changed but not that much. He looked older, had roamed the world, was more knowledgeable, and had become very sure of himself. No, it wasn’t him who’d really changed. It was me. When we finally had some time alone, we talked about home, about Mum and Dad and Rosie and shared what was in our last letters.

  ‘They went out to the crematorium,’ I said hesitantly.

  His head sank and he ran his hands through his hair. ‘Jesus, I’d rather not talk about that,’ he said quietly, and then, looking up at me with a pained expression, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not really.’ My chest felt hollow and I looked away.

  ‘There’s not much to say, is there?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I said, mouth dry.

  ‘Another time, alright?’ he said, his face set.

  You can’t run away forever, John, I thought. One day you’ll have to face it.

  CHAPTER 12

  Friday night came and we went on a vuelta, starting in the casino where we could catch the weather report on the television. The weather girl spoke in long, breathless bursts. The synoptic chart appeared. An intense low-pressure system sat to the north and west of Iceland. The isobars were tightly drawn and in the centre the number 946. A king-size swell was in the making in the North Atlantic.

  Jock and I stared at each other in disbelief.

  ‘Nine-four-six,’ Rob mouthed.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s going to be huge! This is what I’ve been waiting for!’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Jock’s eyes were wider than the river mouth. ‘This is going to be the mother of all swells!’

  John, surf-less in Denmark in recent months, swallowed hard. ‘Oh Jesus! First not big enough, now too big!’

  No-one knew how big a swell the sandbar could hold, but we’d soon find out. It would arrive in about thirty-six hours.

  I met Maite at the usual place at the usual time. She could see how excited I was when I jumped into the car and laughed, while I feverishly told her in jumbled Spanish about the coming swell. We drove to Plaza Santa Catalina, parked, and when we walked to the bars, she told me about the alert to all seafarers.

  The others were still holding up the bar in the casino.

  ‘Nine-four-six,’ Jock kept saying, with a shake of his head.

  ‘Nine-four-six — what’s that?’ Maite asked, before tiny creases appeared at the corners of her mouth. ‘Ah! The big storm, the big swell that’s coming!’ She laughed.

  ‘I’ve been waiting ages for this.’ I chewed on my lip, trying to imagine the seas.

  Rob turned to John. ‘What do you think, mate?’

  John shivered. ‘Not sure I’m up to it!’

  Rob’s eyes darted mischievously. ‘Not as brave as your little brother?’

  John didn’t take the bait, but pretended to. ‘Owen’s not little,’ he said. ‘Look at him, he’s fully-grown. There’s no competition.’ He took me in a headlock.

  I played along. ‘Let go!’ I called out. ‘You’re hurting!’

  The others laughed. He released the pressure and I wriggled free. ‘You bastard!’ I said, rubbing my neck and trying to keep a straight face. ‘Just like the old days!’

  ‘Brotherly love,’ s
aid Jock. ‘Nothing like it.’ More laughter.

  ‘Don’t worry, John,’ I said. ‘You’ll manage. We’ll keep an eye out for you.’

  Rob smirked. ‘Don’t know about that, mate. I’ll be busy surviving.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Jock.

  ‘Nice friends you are!’ said John. ‘Every man for himself, hey?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Rob patted him on the back. ‘We’ll fetch your body if it washes up downstream.’ He let loose with a characteristic staccato laugh.

  Maite watched us laugh, shaking her head. ‘You’re all mad. You won’t be able to surf, anyway. It will be too wild.’ She eyed each disbelieving surfer. ‘Trust me.’

  Perhaps she was right, time would tell, but her last words hung in the air, the double meaning clear.

  Maite sensed something was amiss but misunderstood our reaction. ‘Believe me, our beautiful Bay of Biscay will turn into a monster. You wait.’

  The others, squirming, waited for me. I had to get back on track. ‘We’ve all surfed big waves,’ I said resolutely. ‘John might be rusty, but Jock and Rob are ready and I’m itching to go.’

  Rob winced. ‘I’ll give it a crack … if it’s not too big.’

  ‘Me too, I guess,’ said Jock. ‘How big can it get?’

  Maite raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Once you get a taste of those big long walls, there’ll be no holding you back.’

  We talked of the deep-drawn swell speeding towards us from the north and how we would ride it. Maite laughed at us. ‘Impossible! Far too dangerous! Don’t even think about it.’

  We tried to argue with her, but she’d seen it all before. Giant swells that sent fishermen scurrying; boats tied down hard inside the walls of every port; mountainous seas that seethed and smashed; the seafarers, landlocked, grimly watching on until the beast lay still.

  But we were surfers. We lived and breathed the ocean swells. We travelled far and wide to search them out, hunt them down, and ride them. And the bigger — the better. We all had our limits, but those were rarely tested.