Too Close to the Wind Read online

  Occasionally it feels like you can do no wrong and you’re in sync with everything around you—the wind, the waves, the equipment, the seabirds, flying fish, turtles ... this was one of those rare sessions. It’s difficult to find the words to explain it, even to another windsurfer.

  I could mention the timing of the sets—the way there was a lull every time I finished a wave-ride, opening a channel for me to blast back out to sea; providing just the right ramp to launch me skywards; the ideal swell to carve my gybe on; and then another perfect wall, peeling down the line, the lip just begging to be smacked ... time after time.

  I could describe the colour of the water, the exquisite graduations from aquamarine over the reef to deep ocean violet; the way that Mt Teide, the highest peak in Spain, was etched against the azure sky with a fresh dusting of snow. This island has scenery on a grand scale and that morning everything was larger than life.

  I could paint a picture with my words but that’s all they are and words are woefully inadequate to describe pure visceral experience like the hour I spent alone at El Muelle. I was running on feeling, intuition, emotion ... thoughts were unnecessary. But then one of my unthinking spontaneous decisions turned out to be yet another miscalculation—and it changed everything.

  For some reason, I chose that morning to try something I’d thought about but never had the nerve to do. Looking way downwind I could see waves breaking on the rocky point at the foot of Montaña Roja, the red mountain. They looked bigger and better than the playful ones up at the harbour. The hordes would be arriving at El Muelle any minute now but nobody ever sailed the point—you’d have to be mental to consider it.

  Of course, I knew how dangerous it could be. The surf there was seriously powerful, breaking onto razor-sharp lava, and the balance of danger versus reward was stacked against the surfer. If anything went wrong I’d be swept behind the mountain, at the mercy of the current that ripped out into the Atlantic. Once hidden behind Montaña Roja no-one would see me again—next stop was South America. That’s exactly how people had been lost before.

  I knew all this but the warnings were drowned out by a stream of ridiculous clichés repeated over a pounding beat in my addled brain like a stupid rap song: “no pain, no gain”; “if you don’t go, you’ll never know”; “fuck it, just go for it mate!”

  I looked around, startled to hear myself shout the last of these gems aloud. A couple of gnarly old Canarios were fishing from the harbour wall, immersed in their own world. They had their own agenda that morning, their own connection with the sea, and they ignored me like the tourists on the boardwalk. I glanced back at them and charged off downwind on an exhilarating broad reach over huge open ocean swells.

  Within a couple of minutes I was blasting past the beach I launched from and out into unfamiliar water. A few moments later I was sailing past the vertical cliffs at the foot of the mountain. I’d walked around there sometimes, marvelling at the otherworldly rock formations, but never experienced Montaña Roja from sea level. The cliffs towered over me, gouged by barrancos—volcanic ravines like gashes in the blood red rock.

  For a while I sailed defensively, trying to get a feel for the setup, wary of choosing the wrong wave and getting a pounding. It was as daunting as anywhere I’d windsurfed, including some famously challenging spots I’d visited on my travels. I was in my comfort zone up at the harbour but these were waves of consequence. The sane side of my brain questioned whether I was simply way out of my league.

  Then adrenaline kicked in and the same macho clichés were taunting me again. I couldn’t just sail back to the beach without riding one of these monsters. I gybed onto an immense outside swell and headed back in towards the maelstrom of white water on the point. The closer I got to the rocks the more I was intoxicated by the danger. Only turn round when you hear the Sirens’ song—I thought to myself, cackling manically.

  I selected one of the smaller waves and dropped down the face, swooping into a gut-wrenching bottom turn that took all my commitment and nerve. I looked up at the lip, way above me, and dared myself to hit it. At times like this, you have to be completely focused, living in that precise moment. There’s simply no time or brain space to worry about much else. It’s best not to think, just allow the body to move.

  The moment stretched out in high definition slow motion. Then an edit as I arrived at the top of the wave and everything happened at warp speed. I smashed the lip and was launched several metres into the air. This was new territory for me, like the planing forward loop earlier. I’d seen hotshot professionals do aerials on video but never thought I’d need to know how to land them. For another slow-mo moment I was weightless, eerily calm, suspended above the foaming white water. Then I was plummeting back down towards the impact zone, trying to ignore the panic, trusting my body to make the right movements.

  Touchdown was far from perfect but if passengers had been on board there might have been some relieved applause. We’d survived the crash landing, so things could have been worse ... but they could also have gone better. The equipment and I were still in one piece, but for how long? A beast of a wave was about to unleash its fury on us.

  I had just enough time to submerge the rig, get a firm grip on it and take some deep breaths before I was being tumbled in the classic washing-machine manner. I’ve had plenty of practice at dealing with wipeouts but this was different. Normally I’d just relax and ‘go with the flow’ but this time the flow overwhelmed me. I was simply scared shitless. The only things that relaxed were my sphincter muscles and my grip on the boom.

  After a frighteningly long spell in the rinse cycle trying not to panic I clawed my way to the surface, gasping for air, to see my board surfing its own way towards the rocks. I’ve never been a competitive swimmer but I’m sure I set a personal best over those fifty metres.

  Thankfully, I caught up with my kit before Montaña Roja’s jagged teeth devoured it. Everything seemed intact but I knew from bitter experience that windsurfing equipment is held together by the sum of its parts—and there are plenty of them: nuts, bolts, ropes, webbing, mast, boom, universal joint ... any of them might have sustained catastrophic damage after a rinsing like that. Following this close encounter with the Grim Reaper, I realised I wasn’t ready to meet him just yet, so I decided to quit while I was winning and sail back to the beach.

  It was the first sensible decision I’d made that morning—proof that I did still consider life worth living, despite recent misgivings. Maybe my brush with mortality beneath those blood-red cliffs would be a turning point—literally, I thought to myself, as I turned away from the point and headed back out to sea.

  Unfortunately, this moment of clarity and optimism was short-lived. Seconds after my prudent decision to head home the wind started to drop. I found myself ‘slogging’ out to sea—sailing at a snail’s pace with most of the board underwater, unable to make progress against the current.

  Normally this would be inconvenient rather than life-threatening. A lull didn’t usually last too long and I’d just wait it out. If it persisted I’d drift slowly downwind to the nearest beach. If the wind dropped even more I could usually swim back with the kit and take the Walk of Shame, as we aficionados call it.

  But this was a more serious situation. I was already out of sight behind the mountain, alone, and the current was taking me out to sea. The longer the lull lasted the more anxious I became. Just be patient, I told myself—the wind’s bound to pick up soon. You’ll get back to the beach eventually, even if it means coming in to the next bay and a longer walk home.

  Ten minutes later I was still slogging slowly towards the horizon, trying not to panic as I looked back at the receding coastline. I wasn’t in any immediate danger—I had my board to float me—but my chances of swimming back against the current were disappearing by the minute.

  OK, I thought, time to turn round and try to make some headway towards land. I wobbled carefully into a slow-motion gybe, feeling the knot in my stomach tighten, painf
ully aware that one slip would leave me in the water without enough wind to get back up again.

  The manoeuvre, like the day, started well enough. I turned the board through 180 degrees towards the beach. Now all I had to do was to rotate the rig onto the new tack. This is often the point where a gybe can fail so I focused on not falling, hardly daring to breathe ...

  Splash! I was in the water, still holding the boom, treading water, watching my board disappear into the distance. Shit! I was so angry with myself for blowing this crucial gybe that it took a moment for the awful truth to sink in: I wasn’t responsible for screwing up the turn, it was equipment failure—catastrophic equipment failure. The universal joint had ripped apart. My lifeline had been severed!

  2

  Drifting

  There’s no time to panic. I just put everything I have into swimming after the board. Head down, I don’t take a breath for a dozen strokes. I’m not a strong swimmer but this is a life-or-death situation. Even an Olympic athlete can’t compete with a five knot rip, so either I catch up with the board or I’ll be lost at sea. Sink or swim, in other words.

  I swim, thrashing the water like a maniac, screaming the word: “rip!” with each stroke. My world contracts to the space between me and my board. It’s all that matters. “Rip! Rip! Rip!” rattles around my brain as my breath comes in ever more savage gasps. I’m just about spent, but there are still a few tantalising metres of water between us.

  “This is it, mate” I scream. “Sink or swim?”

  Three more strokes and I’m sinking. I stretch desperately for the board, like someone hanging over a precipice reaching out for a hand … and I manage to grab a foot-strap! I slump on board, coughing and retching.

  A last bitter hysterical shout of “Rip!” resonates in my skull. “R ... I ... P ...” a voice-in-my-head whispers. “How appropriate!”

  For the past six months I’d been on the run and the people I was running from had no intention of letting me Rest In Peace until they were stood over my grave. That’s why I’d been living as a ghost in El Médano. My life had fallen apart …

  No, that’s me in denial again—it was all my own fault. It wasn’t just the drug deal that had gone wrong, all my relationships had turned sour—or, more honestly: I’d soured them with betrayals. My business partner and windsurfing buddy (same bloke), my girlfriend (his wife), friends, family, the cops, and the Mob ... they were all after my blood. I knew one of them would find me eventually and that would be that. I was existing, rather than living, on borrowed time—a debt that would be repaid soon enough. Until then all I wanted was to ride a few more waves.

  It’s a complex web and my backstory will take a while to tell. But I have plenty of time, stuck out here, drifting around the ocean with just my demons for company.

  Now I have my board my chances of survival have improved considerably (from zero) but my situation is still the stuff of nightmares. Every windsurfer fears breaking their UJ a long way from land and I’m in the worst possible place—out of sight behind the mountain, caught in a rip current taking me relentlessly away from land, and nobody knows I’m here.

  Depending on how you look at things it’s either an example of ‘Sod’s Law’ or the inevitable consequence of my unstable state of mind. Either way, the ocean always punishes those who don’t respect her. I hadn’t looked after the UJ; it was ancient and I failed to replace it in time; I forgot to check it before launching; and, crucially, I subjected it to the vicious wipeout that terminated its useful life. But that’s history now—along with my rig. With no way to attach it to the board it’s useless and I abandon it to the waves.

  With hindsight, that’s not a good decision either. The brightly coloured sail would have made me more visible from the air—but I’m not thinking straight. My mind is already muddled, full of voices giving me contradictory advice. By the time I realise my mistake I’ve drifted a few hundred metres further out and the rig is sinking. I try paddling back against the current but it’s obvious I’m making no progress, just exhausting what little strength I have left. So I sit on my board and try to clear my mind.

  My immediate concern is how thirsty I am. “Why the hell didn’t you drink some water when you were rigging up?” one of my voices demands. I nod. He’s right and I’m paying for it now. My tongue is already stuck to the roof of my mouth and the seawater is looking tempting. Of course, I know that drinking salt water will dehydrate me even more, but water is water when you’re as dry as blotting paper. The whingeing voice-in-my-head reminds me that I haven’t eaten either but that’s the least of my worries. There’s every chance I’ll be dead before starvation gets me.

  My other regret is not telling a soul that I was heading out. The coastguard should send a helicopter to search for me once the alarm is raised … but who would miss me?

  “Yep. That’s a problem for a ghost” the voice lectures me. “Nobody notices if you’re there or not.”

  “You’ve been a missing person for the past six months, mate” another voice adds.

  They’re right, of course. I didn’t have a buddy to share my session, but if only I hadn’t been so obsessed with being the first to rig-up there would have been a few of my fellow windsurfers around on such a promising morning. I couldn’t call any of them friends, let alone ‘buddies’, but a few were acquaintances. We nodded polite holas to each other, asked what size sails we were using, compared equipment and talked shop—after all, we belonged to the same tribe. They would have watched me launch—I was the guinea pig testing the wind, and they’d have rushed to join me once they saw how well powered-up I was. Later one of them might have noticed my absence and called the socorristas.

  My best hope is that my boss, the bar owner, will try to track me down when I don’t show up for work this afternoon. He’s a windsurfer too and perhaps he’ll speak to the locals, figure out what’s happened and raise the alarm.

  Until then I’m on my own out here. Just me and my voices. My survival will depend on my strength of will—my will to survive. I have to sit it out and stay alive for however long it takes them to find me. So I sit on my board, stare at the land receding into the distance and simply allow time to pass. Alone.

  For as long as I can remember I’ve relied on nobody but myself. People looked after each other in the community where I grew up, but to fit in you had to conform to their rules, buy into their values. Unfortunately, I didn’t.

  I was born in 1990, the youngest of three brothers, in a tough little cray fishing town in Western Australia. To be precise I should say: the youngest of two-and-a-half brothers. One of the buggers was a half-brother but none of ‘em was a brother to me when it mattered.

  My dad scratched a living as a deckhand—at least when he was sober enough. My mum worked herself into the ground to support us, as a teacher in the local primary school and nights in the fish processing plant. She was outnumbered, isolated in our chaotic male household and she escaped to the sanctity of the church whenever she could. Both of them were, as far as I remember, only ever miserable.

  The whole community was unbalanced, biased, macho. Academic achievement was mocked as being somehow unmanly rather than valued. My dad and my brothers branded me “soft”, a “nerd”, a “poof” because I preferred books to their games. I would have enjoyed school if I hadn’t been bullied every day, but the kids were tribal, feral, and I wasn’t in their gang. They felt threatened by someone who enjoyed learning and they took out their frustration on me.

  Nobody from my town saw education as a way out of poverty. Life revolved around fishing and success meant owning a boat. When I was growing up there was heaps of money to be made from cray. The Japanese loved the bloody things. Half the town were out on the boats looking for ‘em and the other half spent their working lives packing them into crates and shipping ‘em off to Asia. My brothers and I were grabbed out of school as soon as we were old enough to earn a few bob to pay for dad’s grog, while he skived off.

  For a few years t
he town was booming, but the only people who got rich were the skippers. They used to lord it over us with their big houses and million dollar boats. The rest of us were grubbing around for the scraps and blowing ‘em in the Tavern on skimpy night. At least we had enough to eat and a few beers. When we weren’t working or drinking we had the Doctor to keep us occupied—the Fremantle Doctor, that is—the twenty-five knot breeze that blows along the coast every day in the windy season.

  Windsurfing was our escape. There was a thriving scene in the town. Deckhands, factory workers, skippers all sailed together. It was a great leveller—part of the fabric of the community. Tourists came from all over Australia, and even Europe, to surf our wind and waves. They brought tourist dollars and open minds to our insular little town.

  I was lucky. My English teacher was a keen windsurfer and he got me started when I was just twelve. I was the only kid in the class who liked books so we bonded. He lent me his windsurfing kit and taught me the basics. I still remember planing in the foot-straps for the first time—skimming effortlessly over the water, propelled by the invisible force of moving air, at a speed few motor boats can match, let alone other sailing craft. Yeah, that was one of those moments—like your first kiss, your first spliff, your first orgasm.

  I turned out to be a natural, a fast learner, and it didn’t take long before I was better than my teacher. Once someone experiences planing they’re hooked and for many that’s all they ever want, but I soon became jaded with the simple joy of blasting at top speed across the flat water of the lagoon and hankered after something more. For some this could be competitive racing, or freestyle (ever more technical tricks). In my case it was a journey into the third dimension: waves. Once I experienced waves, windsurfing without them became two dimensional.