Page 10 of Ride the Wave

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 isfine. 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 befreezing.

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.

4

I check my phone again. Yes, I’m definitely in the right place at the right time. It says it right here in the email from the editorial assistant atStudio: I will find Leo Silva by Marina’s Bar on Praia do Burgau beach at 7.45 a.m. today. I’ve got the date correct and I’m standing next to Marina’s Bar, where I’ve been waiting on my own for ten minutes.

No one is here.

I’ll give him five more minutes and then I’ll call his mobile number that was included in the same email. Normally, I’d have phoned my interview subject in advance or at least made contact with them over email, but he didn’t offer an email address and since I haven’t had long to prepare myself for the trip, I figured there wouldn’t be much point in introducing myself before I met him in person today.

I smooth out non-existent creases from my black jumpsuit, adjusting the high-waisted belt. The quaint and charming cobbles threatened to fuck up my outfit choice again, but I decided to meet them in battle head on, donning a pair of black, open-toe, ankle-strap heels. These shoes have never let me down and they are surprisingly comfortable. They make me feel powerful and ready for any challenge that comes my way, and on the first day of an interview, I like to have that kind of confidence.

Of course, these shoes are not exactly ideal for the beach, but there’s a path of uneven, wooden slats leading from the road to the front of the beach bar, so I’m able to avoid sinking into the sand. My phone vibrates and I check the screen hopefully, but it’s not him. It’s a message from my mum wishing me luck today.

Before calling Leo, I decide to quickly scope out Marina’s Bar, just to make sure I’m not being stupid. He might have been waiting inside for me all this time. It looks closed, which isn’t surprising this early in the morning, but the sign does say it serves coffee, so maybe it opens its doors earlier for locals like Leo. Careful not to topple over on the rickety, wooden pathway around the front of the bar, I knock on the door before stepping aside to gingerly peer through the windows.

As the door swings open, I jump back from the window, embarrassed to have been caught trying to see in. A woman stands in the doorway watching me with a bemused expression. At a guess I’d say she’s in her thirties with thick, curly, brown hair messily tied back, bright-brown eyes and flawless skin. She’s wearing a white strap top and shorts over a bikini with small, gold, hoop earrings. Her eyes travel briefly down to my heels and back up again, and I feel distinctly overdressed.

‘Hi,’ I begin, offering a warm smile. ‘Olá. Do you—’

‘We’re closed,’ she says in perfect English, but not in a rude way, more just stating the obvious. ‘We don’t open for another hour.’

‘Oh no, that’s not— Thank you, I was actually looking for someone,’ I explain. ‘I’m meant to be meeting him here and I wanted to check he wasn’t inside.’

‘Who are you meeting?’

‘Leo Silva,’ I say, already typing his name into Google so I can show her a picture. ‘I don’t know if you know him, but he said he’d be here at this time. Unless I’ve made a mistake.’

‘Ah. No mistake.’

---