Tres Bagos part 1

It was the last full day of our week in Lisbon, a sunny Monday, so we booked a table for lunch at a fish restaurant on an isolated beach.

The train from town took us out to Sintra, where we found a bus for Adraga. Already late for lunch, we walked at a fair clip down to the beach. The further we walked the more resonant the wish for a taxi or hitch back up became, but when I saw the fullness of the car park a ride seemed quite plausible.

The restaurant was in the traditional Portuguese style and had large windows taking in the breadth of their bay. We ordered oysters to start and a sea bream to share with fries and peppers. With the help of the jovial waiter Grace chose a bottle of Tres Bagos from the Duoro region.

This was the first time either of us had holidayed with a significant other for over a decade. We’d had a few blow ups, mostly over where to eat and the importance of an aperitif, but overall the holiday had been a success. It was enjoyable to have someone to go around with instead of being perched anonymously at a bar or café somewhere pretending to write or not.

It was a freebie too. I’d won eleven hundred pounds on One For Arthur in the Grand National, which fell on the same day as Grace’s birthday. I’d forgotten to put the betting slip into the card along with the flowers and, being a well reared Irish girl, she wouldn’t accept it in its then current form, which was admittedly quite crude, so I suggested we put the windfall towards a holiday together, our first in nearly three very turbulent years together, on and off.

At Restaurante Adraga, with lunch settling well, we asked for the bill and found that the wine hadn’t been included. I let the waiter know and he rewarded us with dessert gratis.

Heading onto the beach Grace chose a spot away from the wind at the far right corner, where we set towels down with full bellies. I started to read to Grace a section of The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway. It was the part just after he’d caught the marlin and was desperately trying to get it alongside the skiff to take back to port. After a while I put the book down and Grace said she enjoyed listening with the waves in the background. To her mind I had a good way with narration.

In the sunshine we held hands and played around a bit but there were some children jumping off a largish rock about fifty yards away and an old couple sat in the rock’s shade a little closer had noticed our shenanigans. Righting ourselves, Grace asked if I’d like to have a dip.

I’d asked the waiter if it was ok to swim and he’d said only to the waist by pointing to it but that didn’t deter Grace. Stood in the lap of the shoreline I watched her trudge out to the waves. The first one she allowed to take her and I laughed at her theatrical tumbling. Getting up, she waved with a brief grin and quickly cleared her hair from her eyes and I yearned to be there with her. Turning away with more purpose she waded out further to play, diving into the stomach of the waves again and again.

In an ominous, dipping swell, she swam out even further to wrestle with the sea and that was when I started to feel anxious for her. A horrible knot developed in my gut and there was nothing I could do about it. Shouting out would have been useless so I just stood there waiting for her to reappear after each tumble, vast nightmares flitting through my mind as waves threw her into their abyss.

After a while she turned back to shore with the current and my mind began to relax. The last wave was huge and caught her off guard but she was in safe territory by then. When she popped back up from the wash she reached for her head and I thought she’d hit it on a rock but then I saw her cap had gone. We looked for it along the shoreline, but it had been taken.

Grace had never allowed me to take photos of her but if ever she’d have been happy to see herself it would have been there and then, joyfully crashing through those waves. I had my camera on me, a good one with HD movie mode, but unfortunately the thought hadn’t even entered into my mind.

Back on terra firma we sat around and Grace dried off but the sun was falling fast and the temperature had dropped. I wanted to tell her how I’d worried after her and that she was a naughty girl but she’d have only laughed.

You’ve got to go through them, she said, towel rubbing hair.                                                                               

I know, you can’t go over them, you can’t go under them, you can’t go around them.                                                                                                                                           

You’ve got to go through them!     

These lines were by a children’s writer and I’d revealed them to Grace on a walk only a few weeks before when we were talking about trauma and the like.                        

Four bloody lines and he’s got a hit book, I sulked.                                                       

It’s sweet psychology, she snickered.

Over towards the centre of the bay, a lone teenaged girl glittered onto the beach with a surfboard. A man holding a camera ran after her from behind the rock the children had played on. He was very busy taking shots of her, motioning to her to do this and that.

I said to Grace what a sham it was. She muttered that the girl probably wouldn’t be going into the sea and I agreed. When the girl tied the board’s string to her foot, the man swooped around her in video mode.                                                                          

It’s just for show. Maybe he’s the over-indulgent sugardaddy. They’ve probably rented the damn board just to take photos of the non-surfing surferette. Bloody social media. Vacuous shits. I’d like to smash his head in with a rock. See how doting he is after that, the sad old git.                                                       

It could be a photo shoot, said Grace despairingly.                                                        

What, with that pissy little thing?

Looking at the girl more carefully, she seemed to resemble my oldest daughter and I thought how I’d like to be that man with my daughter, doting on her every single whim, but the thought was fleeting and quickly swept away. Again, that knot in my gut tightened.