Page 6

It’s been a great first evening. I’ve done enough travelling to meet interviewees to have no qualms in eating out on my own; in fact, I enjoy it.

I read or research on my phone while taking in the sounds and sights of a new place.

It was difficult to find any restaurants that were open – obviously, a lot of Burgau closes up during the off-season – but the tapas place I (quite literally) stumbled upon was just what I was after: family-run, nothing fancy, with a small table in the corner by the window.

The staff were so lovely and welcoming, and I spent the evening reading about Leo Silva’s past achievements and antics while feasting on presunto ibérico (ibérico ham) queijo fresco com doce de abóbora (cheese with pumpkin jam) and camar?o cozido (cooked shrimp), washed down with a glass of Alvarinho.

I read through old articles on Leo from Aussie celebrity gossip sites that showed photos of him in his late teens or early twenties with a beer bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other, exiting a club or bar clumsily, his hair slicked back with sweat, his eyes bleary.

I’ve also discovered that Leo was a surf prodigy.

According to the articles I found, he was the ‘surf star of the future’, the ‘one to watch’, a ‘grom with fearless style, making waves in the surf world’ – I have since learnt that ‘grom’ is a term for a young surfer.

One journalist stated that he was honoured to have witnessed Leo surf at eighteen, an athlete who he felt ‘would surely make history with his command of the oceans’.

Talk about pressure.

But Leo’s partying started to take its toll on his professional achievements.

His supporters began to wane, his critics got louder, his achievements deteriorated.

Ethan Anderson suddenly popped up out of nowhere as the surfer on the up, while Leo couldn’t seem to get it together.

‘This star’s light has ebbed and dimmed’ declared a national paper’s headline after Leo lost out on the world championship to Ethan.

The second time Ethan won the title, Leo barely gets a look-in.

Press interest in him has distinctly lessened by that point.

Then it disappears altogether.

I may not know anything about surfing but I’m already excited to hear Leo’s side to his story. Hopefully, my readers will be too. I finished my solo dinner feeling positive about meeting him tomorrow.

As I get nearer to the apartment, I follow the road round the corner and realise that I’ve been concentrating so hard on not face-planting the cobbles that I haven’t been focusing on where I’m going.

The beach is straight ahead of me. The road widens and leads right down onto the sand, with space for cars to park on the cobbles either side of the main path.

There’s one dark truck parked up in the spot nearest the beach: someone who perhaps had one too many in one of the local bars and has left their car overnight.

It’s quiet and tranquil. I should turn back, but something stops me.

I hear the sound of the rolling waves and breathe in the salty air.

Perhaps this is a good time to remind myself how it feels to be near the sea.

I can do a practice round now, when no one is around, before coming back here in a professional capacity over the next couple of weeks.

Making my way down onto the beach, I stand still at the edge of the sand and will myself to take my shoes off so I can make my way towards the water.

It takes me a good minute or so, but eventually, I crouch down to undo the buckle of the strap round one ankle and slip off the shoe before following suit with the other.

I straighten, my heels dangling from my fingers. I step forwards.

It may have been a long time since I’ve walked on sand, but I’ve been on a beach since the incident and I can do it again. Yes, this is fine . I knew it would be. I’m going to have no problem conducting this interview standing here.

Then again, it’s not the sand I’m afraid of.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to take a few more steps, hope growing with every shuffle forwards.

I come to a stop near the water, hitting the limit of my bravery.

I curl my toes into the soft sand beneath my feet, my heart beating faster as the sound of the waves is much nearer now.

Back on the road or the balcony, the sound of the water rolling and crashing is calming, therapeutic even. I know I’m safe there.

But here.

The sound and the overpowering smell of the sea begin to crack through the walls I’ve carefully constructed in my mind to block traumatic memories.

My breathing quickens, coming short and shallow, as I remember the swirling darkness, the salt water hitting the back of my throat, the paralysing feeling of being completely powerless.

I know that I’ll spiral if I don’t get a hold on this quickly. I try to steady and deepen my breathing, shutting my eyes to try to focus solely on remaining calm, but without my sight, the sound of the waves only feels louder. My hand pressing against my chest, I open my eyes wide with panic.

And that’s when I see someone.

A silhouette far out in the ocean. I gasp, fear gripping my heart as I realise they’re alone out there.

I fumble for my phone in my bag to call for help.

As I clutch it in my hands, trying to remember the emergency number here, I glance up to see them still out there, their torso bobbing in roughly the same place above the water.

I slowly lower my phone.

They’re not in danger at all. They’re surfing.

I watch in bewilderment as they lean forwards on their board and begin to paddle. This person must know this area well to surf it in the evening alone, but whoever they are, they’re clearly an idiot. That water must be freezing .

This man – and I can tell it’s a man now from his body shape as he pops up on his board – is, however, a welcome distraction, dredging my mind out from unwanted memories and a place of panic. He’s mesmerising.

I can’t tear my eyes away from him as he glides effortlessly through the water, the wave carrying him along as though it’s working with him to bring him into land.

When he disappears into the water, I wait for him to emerge, that bubble of panic coming up in my throat again as it does any time I see someone go underwater.

But there he is, trudging his way out of the water a way along the beach from me, shaking his hair and pushing it back out of his eyes, bringing his surfboard in with him.

He makes his way up the sand and then stops, looking up to find me staring right at him.

I start. He stands still, peering back at me, a strange figure watching him alone on the beach.

Turning on my heel as quickly as soft sand allows, I rush back to the safety of the road and scamper up it as fast as possible barefoot, back round the corner and onto the straight towards the apartment building, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

When I get back, I hurry up the stairs and into the flat, placing my keys on the counter and lining up my heels on the stand by the door. I move across the room to the balcony, quietly opening the doors and peering down to the waves below.

The beach is deserted. He’s gone.