Red Scare

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

 

“Being at one with nature.”

He answers the question simply, quickly, with the confidence that comes naturally to someone of his youth and his tanned, lean physique. He leans slightly on the edge of his surfboard with his left hand whilst, with his right, he runs his fingers through his bleached, damp hair, a move no doubt practised in the mirror and honed before every camera that he ever stood in front of. Roughly what you’d expect from a local-boy-made-good surf champ. He’s easy-going and easy on the eye. His faded yellow tee reads “Party Wave”, with a picture of a stylised wave, a palm tree and a generic cocktail icon. He smiles at me again, pearly white teeth standing out against a deep brown tan; beyond that, white sand and endless blue skies.

“It’s the calmness of the ocean. Nothing like it. Nothing can prepare you for that.” A second, taller, figure walks up to us on the beach, stepping effortlessly from the sea foam as if she were Venus herself. Her sleeveless vest reads “Gnarly Break” in black, outlined in a deep aquamarine on a sky-blue base. Another sponsor, presumably. I look over to her, wondering whether to say anything: I’m wondering how a sport that thrives on the lack of calm brought by big breaker waves can reconcile that with a zen-like worship of calm.

I’m interrupted, though, by a third figure pacing up the shore behind Venus, this time in a wetsuit emblazoned with the logo ‘J’adore le surf’. Younger than the others, only by a couple of years I think, but if I’ve learned anything from the last couple of days, he’ll be giving them a run for their money pretty soon. Youth has a distinctive advantage which can often trump experience. It’s a young peoples’ sport and there has recently been some harsh name-calling toward some of the older participants, where ‘older’ means ‘late twenties’.

“Yeah, it’s like no other feeling in the world. You gotta step into that sea and own it. Own your power. Fearless.” He nods an acquaintance to the other two surfers, and they nod back.

“That’s it. He gets it.” Venus lays a hand on her colleague’s shoulder. “But it’s more than that. Surfing is a community. Even when we’re competing against each other for a trophy, we know what we’re really competing against, and it isn’t each other, it’s not even against the ocean. It’s triumphing over your own will.” She casts her eyes back to the curve of the bay. “It’s about an intimate connection with each other and with the sea.” She smiles for the camera.

“That’s a wrap.” I lower the mike and thank them all profusely. There’s one more interview I need to do before I’m done, then I can relax for a while and dear lord this is a great place to relax. It may well be the most picture-postcard beach in the world, sun and sea and sand and surf in perfect paradise.

“Is that old guy out there on the point who I think it is?” It can’t hurt to ask, even if I know the answer. Only our third surfer needs to turn round, hand over his eyes to shield himself from the glaring midday sun. The others already know.

“Yeah, that’s Guy.” Venus is the first to reply. She looks over at surfer one, nudging him in the ribs. “No need to be shy, Bradley. Let Madeline know.”

“He’s my dad.” If possible, his smile is now wider, whiter, the pride evident in that winning grin, the tone of his voice. “But I think you already knew that!” He’s teasing me, but I let him. An interview with ‘the godfather of surf’ will boost my article’s reach a hundredfold. “You wanna talk to him?”

He already knows my answer, but I nod anyway. I’m trying to keep my cool.

“I’ll walk you over. I’m done for the day anyway.” Turning to the other two, he offers a boyish smirk. “I’ll leave you two to tango with the afternoon tides.” The others grin and wave us off. He offers an arm, and I take it, walking with him hand-in-hand. Now the beach really is picture perfect. It takes us five minutes to walk along that beach, a slow and amicable amble, and we make that journey in silence, just the gentle splash of waves along the shoreline. I’m pretty sure everyone left on the beach after the morning’s competition - everyone that hasn’t retired to the hotel in the noon heat - is watching us at that moment. It’s not just the sun that’s giving a warm red glow to my cheeks.

“Dad, this is, er, Madeline. She’s been quizzing us on why we surf. Figured you might have a few stories for her?” He phrases it as a question, which I find unusual, because he obviously does. You don’t get the moniker ‘godfather of surf’ without having a story or two to tell. I detect a certain hesitation in his voice and wonder if something might have soured their relationship, but I’m a sports reporter not a gossip columnist. I’m here to understand what makes people brave the waves, not dive into their personal lives.

On first impression, if you didn’t know any better, you’d think Guy was a retired cowboy. He’s sporting a faded leather waistcoat over bare skin criss-crossed with little white scars and speckled with liver spots. His face is stretched leather barely distinguishable in its deep brown hues from his waistcoat, except for the scratchy white beard and shock of white hair set in a permanent wave. The familial resemblance is clear except around the eyes, which are a little sadder, a little wiser perhaps. He’s sitting - actually, squatting is more like it - on the edge of a tall chair, like he was some ancient ascetic ensconced upon the top of a pole and dispensing hallowed phrases to all who approach his pulpit.

He turns his head slowly toward us, away from the ocean horizon, and regards us both with a gaze hungrier than a basking shark, grey and silent. It’s then I realise that Bradley and I are still hand in hand. I shake myself loose, which seems to mollify him a little.

“Tomorrow good enough for ya?” His voice is sing-song, a lilting melody that sounds like it came from a mouth thirty years younger. My eyes open wide in surprise.

“Actually, Madeline has to…”

I cut Bradley off, sharpish.

“Tomorrow will be just fine. It would be an honour.” He nods in response, his mind clearly elsewhere as he swivels back, this time picking up a pair of binoculars which had been perched over an arm of the chair. I wonder what he’s looking at and try to follow his gaze. There’s something out there, for sure, something glinting over where the coral reefs used to be before things got so hot. Whatever it is that’s captivated him, it’s clear that I’m not going to get anything from him today. I just hope he remembers about tomorrow.

Of course, we didn’t know then what a different day tomorrow would be.

 

***

 

It’s the darkest of summer nights, with the faintest sliver of a moon. In the local folklore of the island, it represents a period of lightlessness in the otherwise long and glorious summer, a time when demons arise from the underworld. Part of me wants to believe that old tale, to take comfort in the folklore of a proud people, rather than admit that humanity was ultimately responsible for what happened next. Until then, I am caught up in the splendour of the local festival - being chased by giggling, enthusiastic children dressed as demons - a celebration I didn't know about but that I am picked up by and carried along with, before it deposits me back on the empty beach where I’d conducted the interviews that morning.

It’s easier to see it in the silvery moonlight than in the harsh light of day. I don’t doubt this is what Guy saw too, what had spooked him. A thin red line, bobbing in the distant waters beyond the cove, but being carried inexorably closer, closer, on every wave and the incoming nighttime tide, inching its way from the far reaches of the ocean to break with the surf against the rocky shoreline. There’s a word for that; a word my dad taught me long ago: moonglade. A line of moonlight reflected on a body of water. Except this moonglade only starts with a sliver of silver. With every passing roll of the waves, it becomes redder and redder, hues of scarlet and crimson churned by the grey-white of the surf. Bradley and I, exhausted from the festival but not tired enough to retire for the night, stare out at it, minds lost in the wonder of the spectacle.

“Just beautiful.” I half murmur, turning my head to where Bradley sits next to me. He smiles, unsure if I’m talking about him or the red tide.

“Dangerous is what it is.” A voice behind us. It's Venus. For a moment I resent the intrusion. Then I can see the seriousness writ large over her face in what is a frown, not a scowl. She couldn’t care less about what we’re doing together on the beach. She’s come to look at the sea.

Bradley turns his head, but he turns it to me, not her.

“What is it?” He’s looking at me but talking to her.

“HAB49.” We both turn our heads to her now, we have no idea what she’s just said. The puzzlement must be clear on our faces.

“My bad. I sometimes forget to switch back to layman. It’s a harmful algal bloom, a red tide. Not a phenomenon that’s been seen in these parts before, but they’re common enough in the world, worse luck.” She takes a slug from a personalised reusable bottle patterned with clam shells and a cartoon crab, then adds an explanation. “I’m the resident marine biologist. I only took up surfing as a hobby. Came here fresh out of the research lab to catalogue what was left of the reef, then stuck around for the waves.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realise.” I’d taken her for just another thrill-seeker, someone with just a love of adventure and the ocean but it seemed I’d underestimated.

“No reason you should!” She smiled back, the comment crashing gently against the towering cliff of her ego. “It’s all surf and no reef these days. We wouldn’t have these breakers if the reef was still there. Probably wouldn’t be seeing a red tide either.” She scratches the back of her neck with her left hand and takes another slug. “So, basically, here’s the lowdown. Don’t eat any fresh fish that have come from that.” She jerks her thumb over at the sea. “Which, admittedly, limits our diet considerably. I’ll alert the hotel; they shouldn’t be serving any surf with their turf for a week at least. Also, stay away from dead sea life until it clears. I wouldn’t recommend eating that either. Man, the chef’s gonna be pissed. That’s probably half his stock he’ll need to throw out, and there are no good options as to where to dispose of it...” She scratches her neck again, mentally ticking off all the things she’ll have to tell people and who needs to know what.  “Oh, and keep out of the water. Obviously. Otherwise, you may end up with severe respiratory problems. Capice?”

“Wow. Like, that’s a big ask.” Bradley doesn’t hold back, saying the first thing on his mind. And I get it. It’s the reason they’re all here, and therefore the reason I’m here too. The surf here has become legendary since the reef broke up, but there’s still a fresh, unspoilt vibe to the place, as if it’s resisting the encroachment of all the bustle its new fame entails.

“Yeah, I get it. There’s gonna be a whole load of pissed off surfers stuck in a hotel with little to eat or drink except bananas and sports drinks. Look, I know it’s disappointing. Hell, I’m disappointed too. Look, these things can fade out in a couple of weeks once the algae have eaten all the available nutrients and run out of food. There will need to be one hell of a clean-up, but we’ll be back on track for next season.” She shrugs apologetically rather than having to say the word ‘sorry’ out loud.

Bradley stands up, sliding his hand out of mine. “Two weeks? That’s the whole championship blown out of the water. Man, that sucks.” I try to sympathise, but he’s just flipped from lover boy to obsessed surfer jock in a matter of moments without even looking back at me.

“Two weeks. Minimum. Look, I’m not here to explain the whole eutrophication cycle -” The relief on Bradley’s face is palpable - “but I will if I need to. We fucked up the reef real good, now we’ve fucked up the surf. Deal with it.” Venus turns her back and strides off, evidently in a snit herself at what she thought might be an easy audience to convince. Bradley just stares after her, then back at the cove, head lowered like a little lost puppy. I want to offer a shoulder to cry on, but I stare instead back out into the bay, assuming he’ll make the first move. That shoulder goes untouched, just getting colder and colder until I realise he’s paced off up the beach back to the hotel and I have to cover it with my woollen shawl to keep warm. I sit alone for another hour, taking some video footage of the slow creep of the scarlet tide. Then, stifling a yawn, I make my own way back up the rickety wooden stairs from the beach to my balcony.

 

***

 

The next day, the dawn is a soft, muffled pink, brought on not by the rising sun or the wispy clouds but by the suffused glow from what remains of the red tide, tangled seaweed dotted with algae washed up on the beach along with hundreds of tiny dead fish. Gulls and mollymawks begin to peck at them, keen to enjoy a free feast, but immediately realise their mistake. Living tendrils of vibrant red weeds lash out at the flocks as soon as they land, and, while many take off in time, the remainder are soon pulled under by the swarming masses of fronds which litter the sand where it touches the sea, They unfurl like long, thin scarlet snakes, wrapping their coils around whatever comes close. Once they cease struggling to take flight and succumb to the pestilential vegetation, they’re consumed and then released, not singly but in a weird, erratic mass of beaks and wings that resembles something from our worst nightmares. The sight is horrific, but the sound is nearly as bad: the cacophonic shrieking of a hundred seabirds trying in vain to wrestle their beaks and wings free before they succumb. As one, we turn our heads in terror and revulsion; all except for Guy, who maintains a grim fascination. He takes several steps forward, gingerly at first, and then with something resembling a stride, oblivious to the calls from his son Bradley and my own hoarse yells to return to some semblance of safety above the high tide mark.

“We have to get a sample! I’ll be careful!” His voice promises he’ll take care, the spring in his quick step allowing him to hop over any strands that float past as he tries to get closer to a protruding mass of the stuff clinging to a rock in the intertidal zone. Bradley and I both stare on in shock, but occasionally our heads turn away as the waves crash over his bare legs and he inches closer and closer to the seething growths.                                                           

The churn of the morning surf now causes a secondary sensation from the bloody blooms. They give off what can only be described as a red mist, rising gently from the growths and moving - mindlessly, malevolently - towards the beach where we stand and watch, dumbfounded and awestruck. We both shout out to Guy to return, but he must not be able to hear us over the crashing of the waves. He’s waist deep now and getting closer, but the red mist is beginning to close all around him, cutting him off from sight. Bradley wants to follow his old man, drag him back, but I manage to stay his hand, despite the anguish on his face. It won’t do to lose him, too.

What emerges from the surf a minute later can no longer be called human. Sure, it resembles Guy, but in a way a shadow resembles a person: it’s distorted, twisted, out of shape. What we can see of his tanned legs and torso are covered in a thousand cuts, red welts on his skin that bleed continuously onto the white sands as he shuffles and struggles towards us, as if unused to walking. What humanity he retains remains only in those deep, grey eyes which I can make out when I zoom in with the cam, just close enough to see before all hell breaks loose.

People start to run. They run towards Guy to help him, they run away from the red mist now being ushered further upshore by a slight change in the breeze. They run inexplicably into the bay toward the algae, which welcomes their sacrifice with open arms as tendrils shoot out and grab them, carrying them underwater and away, away from the beach and out into the sea. Some of them briefly manage to surface and scream, their arms flailing uselessly as they’re dragged under the water. Those that have the good sense to run away from the danger don’t have the good sense not to trample each other on the way. It’s hysteria like I’ve never seen it before and I’m torn between trying to help Bradley deal with what’s left of his old man, swinging the camera round to record the phenomenon and joining in the obvious flight reaction that so many of the others are preoccupied with. I remember nothing of the next hour except for people shouting at me, past me, around me, instructions and directions that seem to elude everyone. Whatever is happening, it’s no mere algal bloom. I walk past rows of stretchers somewhere, I think it’s the hotel lobby, each occupied by a surfer I’d met only a day earlier, a day which now seems like a lifetime ago.

The next thing I know that happens, amid the madness and the screaming and the agony, is being offered coffee while sitting on the edge of a makeshift hospital bed in a hotel conference room with just Venus and Bradley for company. Bradley looks devastated. Venus looks cool and competent, a veneer of bravery clearly masking the confusion that lurks just beneath. Her manner is that of someone who is clearly used to working with whatever information is at hand but just as clearly wants to know more as soon as its humanly possible. For the first time, she looks like somebody you actually want to be in a scrape with, both her former hippy vibes and angry ecologist persona now washed away in torrents of anguish. Zen-like calm, just as she said to camera yesterday.

She puts my camera back in my shaky hand - I’ve no idea how I got here - and points me at the window with words that are intended to reassure, though they are tinged with just a degree of exasperation.

“We’ve got to get the news out. We’ve got to warn others, show them what’s happening. Madeline?” She snaps her fingers at me. It seems to work. “Are you with us?”

I look out the first-floor window across the beach. The red mass has slowly crept its way along the shoreline. There is no longer any white sand, just a slick, red, wound oozing and writhing in the light of the morning sun, basking in its light. Beneath it, among it, I can just make out the remains of people who were too slow to run. Dear God, some of them are still alive, clearly crawling toward us through the hellscape, their arms outstretched, and faces contorted into silent screams, hands raised in supplication but relentlessly, repeatedly, being pulled back to the ground by sticky red tendrils until they’re too enveloped to move. I steady my hand and try not to retch. Try not to cry. Try not to panic. Then I recognise a shape, head and shoulders above the tide of red surf crashing onto the rocks. It’s Guy! How can he still be alive?

“Bradley! Bradley, look!”

I can hear him behind me, padding up to the window. If circumstances were different, he’d be putting his tanned arm around my waist right about now, kissing the rear of my neck perhaps, telling me everything was going to be OK.  Instead, his bloodshot eyes stare wide at the spectacle of his father making his way up the sand, faster now, seemingly undeterred by all the bodies or parts of bodies, just emerging from the sea as he must have done a thousand times before.

“Control of your body. Being fearless.”

I divert my gaze, and the camera with it. Bradley is standing there, his arms limp at his sides, his eyes still wide open, but now swelling with pride.

“That’s what he would have told you. That’s what he used to tell me. What attracted him to surfing. He’s a survivor.”

I admit to a certain scepticism, given what we’d seen of him before the chaos, but I couldn’t deny my eyes.

“Let’s bring him in. He won’t know where we are.”

“Go. I’ll take care of things here.” Venus reappears, this time with an armful of clean hotel sheets and a pair of scissors. “I can play nurse for a bit. You go be heroes.”

 

***