The Surf Camp – Part 1: White Water

Tomás had been afraid of the sea since he was nine years old, and he was twenty-seven now, so he decided it was time to do something about it.

The surf camp at Peniche was a low whitewashed house on a cliff, surrounded by boards and wetsuits drying on lines. The waves boomed below, enormous and grey-green.

"First lesson," said the instructor, on the beach. "Fear."

Tomás blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're afraid. Good." Rafael was thirty, sun-browned, with bleached hair and a gap-toothed grin. "Fear is useful. It keeps you alert. Too many beginners aren't scared enough and go home in an ambulance."

"That's not reassuring."

"It's not meant to be. It's meant to be true."

For two days, Tomás got hurled around in the white water like a sock in a washing machine. On the third, he stayed under so long that Rafael dived in after him, hauled him to the surface by the leash and held him, coughing and furious, until the panic passed.

"I can't do this," said Tomás, shivering.

"You can."

"I nearly drowned."

"You nearly stood up," said Rafael. "I saw. Your feet were right. You just didn't believe it."

His hand was warm round Tomás's arm, firm and kind. Tomás looked up into brown eyes, salt-spiked lashes, and forgot to be afraid.

"Can I ask you something?" said Tomás.

"Yes."

"Why do you care whether I stay?"

"Because you came here scared and you keep coming back," said Rafael. "That's the bravest thing I see all week."

Tomás felt his face heat. "Green?" he said, tentatively.

"Green," said Rafael, delighted. "Very green. Tomorrow. Dawn."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Set.