The day was as clear as a bell, it was a cooler morning and the cycling was easy. The sun was getting to its highest point when I pulled up in Las Casitas, dumped the bike as the usual point and began the hike up the hill to the station. Half an hour later I was right back at the CB. I turned it on and sat down outside to smoke. I wasn’t transmitting, there was no need. My friend knew I would be there (I hoped) and so I just set Channel 19 to open and waited for incoming contact.
An hour later nobody had arrived and the channel had remained resolutely silent. I didn’t know what I was expecting. The one thing that bothered me about the transmission the day before was how abruptly her line had gone dead. It was impossible to tell whether her power had cut off or she had willfully decided to cut contact, although the excited tone in her voice suggested it was almost certainly the former.
My next worry was that she hadn’t understood, or had failed to hear, my responses. My mind went back over the conversation. She hadn’t answered any question from the point I had ceased my broadcast to the point the parlay itself stopped. She had just repeated ‘I receive’ over and over again, and then the strange message about someone or something called Fredo Sun.
Something clicked in my brain.
Fredo Sun?
Could she have been referring to a hotel name? Many of the establishments I had encountered so far had some reference to ‘sun’ in their titles – Sun Royal, Cay Beach Sun, Sun Tropical… Could she be staying somewhere called the Fredo Sun Hotel?
Damn, I realised I had left my map in the bike pannier at the foot of the climb. I was pretty certain most of the major hotels were listed on it.
I grabbed my stuff and headed back down the hill with a renewed sense of purpose. It took me only 15 minutes or so as I picked up the pace. Rooting out the map I began to scrutinise each resort. Sure enough, the Sun Royal and Cay Beach Sun were pointed out on the map. I scanned each resort looking for a Fredo Sun Hotel. There were Jardine Del Sols, Blue Seas, Sands Beaches and the usual THB chains, but I couldn’t see any that were even close to having Fredo in the title.
If she was at a hotel called Fredo Sun why wouldn’t she pick a more visible or well-known chain? Or a landmark in a big town? Or the airport? She must realise that trying to find a specific small hotel on an island with over a thousand was stretching the boundaries of human capability.
Unless it didn’t refer to a hotel at all. Could it have been a street name? It was an unusual name. Fredo. It kept putting me in mind of The Godfather’s Fredo Corleone.
The heat had picked up to its usual early afternoon strength. I wasn’t getting anywhere and I needed to find some shade. I had a long afternoon of searching to do.
The eight miles to Puerto Del Carmen were mostly downhill and I made it back to the Flora in just over 20 minutes. I needed to refuel in the restaurant before I began again, so grabbed a plate of beans, chilies and a couple of bread rolls and headed to the reception area.
I’d had another idea on the cycle back.
Most hotels have an area in reception dedicated to tourist leaflets and such, advertising local attractions, tours and hire car companies and so forth. I made a big pile of every leaflet I could find and began scanning through them as I munched on my lunch (no beer or wine, as I wanted to be alert for the afternoon and not have to take a nap in the heat.)
I read literature on aquariums, beaches, water caves, ten pin bowling and cactus gardens. I scrutinised each one looking for anything that resembled Fredo and Sun. I knew it was pretty unlikely I would find a hotel advertising another hotel, but what if there was a unique tourist attraction at the Fredo Sun that simply could not be missed?
I was getting bored and coming to the end of my search when it caught my eye. A leaflet for a restaurant called Gambrinas offering the best paella on the island. It was standard fair: bring the leaflet for a 10% discount, and hot foot along to our air-conditioned premises for a delightful meal in beautiful surroundings on your way back to the airport. Located at… Avenida Fred Olsen.
Jesus.
I nearly dropped the leaflet as it sank in. It was her oriental accent that had confused me! She hadn’t been screaming Fredo Sun at all.
It was FRED OLSEN!
Feverishly I checked the rest of the address. Suddenly it all became as clear as crystal. She hadn’t been saying ‘I receive’ either. It all made perfect sense now.
Avenida Fred Olsen was situated right on the beach in Lanzarote’s capital city.
I receive!
Arrecife.
PART TWO
The beach was never-ending; the horizon a mere blur in the distance above a sea so blue my eyes could barely focus on it. I was naked as the day I was born, suspended above a bed of perfect pearls, all moving apart and together to support my weight like a slippery shoal of silver fish parting to tease a predator. The sun was blazing, but I didn’t feel burned, just welcome and warmed. My body was covered in sand, but I could see how taught and tanned the muscles were underneath. I felt invincible, like a Nubian God. If I wanted, I could have risen my arms and soared into that flawless sky like the most graceful bird that ever flew.
There was no pain, only understanding. I was here because. That was all I needed to know. I felt drunk with life; power coursed through my veins. Some unknown elixir was my blood.
The horizon shifted slightly, an infinitesimal shake like a rip in time. In the centre, a blot of light was born. It was so small at first that it could have been the reflection from a sunbeam, but it began to grow and grow. Then to flash. The flashes were searingly bright but I didn’t feel the need to divert my eyes. In fact it was almost as if I couldn’t. They were hypnotising.
A stone canyon wall rose around me, carved with images of angels and demons. It shot skyward, unscalable, not even worth trying. The pearls began to roll around and over me, and all the while in the distance that white light grew stronger.
It was so consuming I didn’t even realise that everything else around me had gone black. Like a black sky, not a night sky that is actually just really dark blue, but pure black. Ink-coloured. I wondered where the buildings and people and roads were. I tasted a chemical in my mouth. Sick-making and disgusting.
At the same time I felt a mixture of terrible guilt, abandonment, then hilarity. Then I was on a boat. A boat ride. Someone was ferrying me out into the sea. The waves began to grow and smash against the side as I realised it wasn’t even a boat, but a train. I ordered some food from a machine that stood in the middle of the aisle. It beeped and instead of food produced an endless run of paper like an old book-keeping machine.
Then I was back on the beach, lying on the sand, and somebody was narrating, no commentating, on what was going on.
He’s on the beach. He’s rolling over and brushing sand from his body. He’s desperate for water…
I noticed a line of angry looking birds, they looked like vultures, standing sedately and staring at me. They were standing in an actual line, as if queuing, waiting for me to die!
I tried to scream at them to go away but my open mouth made absolutely no sound. I was mute. The vultures just blinked and continued their beady vigil.
I was no longer lying on pearls but a nest of seaweed that began to twitch and mould itself around my legs. It grew in volume and was suddenly all over me in a matter of seconds. I felt greasy tendrils slide into my mouth and wrap around my tongue, and still I was unable to scream. I was almost embalmed in seaweed, amazingly heavy, crushing my lungs and cutting off the breath to my body. How was this seaweed so heavy? I tried to rip it off but it was like a web, gripping me tighter and tighter. I had gone from immortality to the verge of death within a matter of seconds.