Chapter Twenty-five

Thursday, 7th November

The alarm need not have bothered, Caitlin had been awake for hours, simultaneously dreading and looking forward to the dawn, and wondering how many people would turn up. She hoped for more than a handful. But when she arrived, she saw she needn’t have worried, at least about the numbers. Hundreds gathered in the pre-dawn gloom on Tallows Beach at Cosy Corner, under the lea of the cape and its lighthouse. So many people had turned out to honour her father. Hopefully, she wouldn’t find it too overwhelming, and wouldn’t let her emotions spoil the moment.

Caitlin felt the chill of the water as she led them out, Zoe paddling by her side. Beyond the breakers, they formed a large circle. Most of the surfboards were covered with flowers or tied with ribbons, and some of the riders held red roses in their mouths. She felt Zoe take her hand. Then she noticed everybody had their hands linked, waiting silently for the first rays of the sun. Her throat and chest tightened, and she felt like shrivelling into her misery, to bow her head and gaze into the black depths, and yet, at the same time, wanted to experience the moment, of all these people paying respect to her father.

She forced herself to scan the profusion of faces – sun-battered, acned, wizened, pockmarked, pallid, grey hair, no hair, even the zinc-painted faces of young children – all staring at her, and she drew strength. There were familiar faces – some of them non-surfers on borrowed boards, like their neighbours Bill and Lynette. Old school friends. Her parents’ friends. Even that policeman Kowalski perched wobbling on a mal.

Jack was nearby, wearing his boxers, and holding hands with two men. He sat deep in the water on a small pink board, Caitlin recognised it as one of Zoe’s. He smiled at her and she nodded back – he could at least have put on some boardies out of respect.

When the sun rose and its first rays warmed the surfers, they each took a turn to call out ‘Patrick O’Shaughnessy’ and throw flowers into the water. A board adorned with handwritten messages was washed in the water, leaving the words to float away – ‘Surf in peace, Patrick’ and ‘We love you’. Even some of the toughest old men had red-rimmed eyes, or wiped at their cheeks.

The surfer beside Jack raised a wrinkled, sun-speckled hand and said, ‘Patrick was one of the kindest men I ever met, couldn’t do enough for you. When some slime bag stole my board, Patrick turned up the next day and gave me one of his.’

Bill from next door raised his arm. A small wave almost capsized him as he told one of Patrick’s favourite jokes. ‘How can you spot a surfer at a wedding? He’s the one not there.’ More anecdotes followed, many of them funny. By the end, it was generally agreed that Patrick preferred to surf in the dark because he was such a shit surfer, which was only to be expected – he was Irish, after all.

With the stories and tributes done, there was a minute’s silence. When Caitlin felt her resolve breaking and the first tear forming, she pinched her thigh until it hurt, and raised her chin.

After the silence, they all splashed water into the centre of the circle.

The non-surfers among them then headed back to shore. Caitlin patted cool water on her face, then paddled off to join the others, to catch a wave in memory of her father.