Page 9 of Ride the Wave

He smiles modestly, sliding his hands into his pockets. ‘You’re the journalist.’

I’m grateful to Naomi for organising my accommodation and everything, buthello, she could have given me a heads-up that her client was smoking hot.

‘Yes, that’s me. Thank you so much for letting me stay.’

‘It’s not a problem. If you need anything or have any questions,’ he brings his eyes up to meet mine, his voice sincere and serious, ‘don’t hesitate to contact me.’

‘Will do. And thanks again for saving me from falling.’

‘Any time.’

Blushing, I tuck my hair behind my ear and, with a polite parting smile, carry on down the steps.

When he calls out, ‘Wait’, I turn back to see he hasn’t moved. He’s been watching me go.

‘I… I didn’t ask your name,’ he notes apologetically.

‘Iris.’

‘Iris,’ he repeats. ‘Beautiful.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m José.’

‘Nice to meet you, José,’ I say before calmly carrying on down the stairs. I open the door and step out into the cool, evening air, unable to stop a smile.

I think I really will like it here.

*

I would like to know why the people who built Burgau decided that cobblestones were a good idea. Yes, they’re charming, but wearing heels on these streets is anightmare. Especially as the village is basically one giant slope.

I probably should have gone with a different pair of shoes, but these heels really do work well with this dress. I remind myself of that as I make my way back to the flat after dinner, trying to convince myself it was worth it for the look. I move at a snail’s pace in fear of going over on my ankle.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ I mutter under my breath as I stumble, stopping to regain my balance.

Luckily, the streets are pretty much empty so few people can witness my helpless tottering. I like that it’s quieter at the moment here; I can enjoy Burgau without any crowds.

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 onpresunto ibérico(ibérico ham)queijo fresco com doce de abóbora(cheese with pumpkin jam) andcamarão 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.

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