The Wave by Kristen Crusoe (smallest ebook reader txt) 📕

Clair had looked at him for a long time, into his eyes, clearer now than before.

‘It’s OK, for now,’ she had said, feeling the warmth of his hands, the heat radiating from his body. Smiling, she stood, one fluid motion. ‘I’m starving. Let’s eat.’

And the days, weeks, and months passed. They found a larger house to rent, on a monthly basis. Clair played and taught music. Adam worked long, physically demanding days on the mussel boats, finding peace in the labor and community. Becoming part of the fabric of the place, their presence known to local markets, cafés, and events. They learned about the history of Galicia, it’s Celtic roots, and pride. Both being without strong family ties, except for Ben and Jodie, this ancient belonging captured their hearts and spirits. Spring brought rebirth, music festivals, protests against ruling Spain, and Clair felt the need to move.

‘Where to? And how far?’ he asked, sipping his strong black coffee.

‘Costa da Morte,’ she said dramatically. ‘Death Coast. To Muxía. It’s around twenty kilometers. A good day’s walk.’

‘OK, let me tell Joachim I’ll be gone for a few days and we can head out. You do want to stay overnight, yes?’

‘Yes, but let’s not plan on anything. We might want to continue on to the Camariñas. And who knows, we might just keep walking. We both have our pensions. And our jobs are, well, dispensable. My kids enjoy our music together but they can certainly take a break for a while. And I’m sure your mussels would enjoy a break too. So, let’s be pilgrims again and take it day by day.’

Adam stared at his wife, so different from the Clair he had known before. That Clair would have each step of the way planned, down to where they would stop to eat, have coffee breaks, sleep. This Clair, with her hair, now long, streaks of sunlight creating sparks of fire in the deep brown waves, was transformed.

‘So, let’s begin this new path,’ he said, standing. ‘I’ll run down to the boat to tell Joachim. Maybe you can load our packs?’

She was an expert at packing now. Just the bare essentials. Dry socks, a few toiletries, light sandals for after the walk, one change of clothing, and for her, a light dress and shawl, for evening and to sleep in, in case they did stay in an albergue. At the last moment, she took the red toy truck from its place on her bedside table, and tucked it into the inside pocket of her pack.

Their walk began at the north end of Finisterre, by the Baixar Cross, looking over and beyond the long Langosteira beach. For most of their walk, the Atlantic Ocean was visible. Long known to sailors as the Death Coast due to the number of shipwrecks throughout history. But the scenery dispelled any sense of dread or remorse for what had been lost before.

When they left the curtain of ocean to their left, they encountered gentle forest paths and rural country roads, walking through farms and villages. At the Lires estuary, they walked along the waterline, laughing and splashing each other. They discovered a rhythm to their walking, their steps synchronizing. Thinking back to their first walk together, returning to her house from the party, she remembered this about them. Time, distance, and regret had severed that connection until their steps had diverged, bifurcating their lives and leaving Devon alone, on the beach, vulnerable and defenseless. Inwardly shuddering at the recollection, she faltered. Adam felt it, reached out and took her hand. She held his, feeling the warmth and strength.

The path narrowed and he eased behind her, giving her hand a last squeeze before letting go. They stopped often, marveling at the waterfall as they crossed the Castro river. During a sudden shower, they stopped in the lee of one of the ancient hórreos, paying silent homage to both the Christian and Pagan practices that they embodied. A wayside offering water, fruit, sundry snacks and juices welcomed them. A sign, Help Yourself carried the message that they had both found representative of the Camino. They walked on until, coming out of a forested area, the ocean was once again in their sights.

Muxía, the westernmost point on the European mainland, was quiet when they arrived. Locals were enjoying a long siesta time, and the flood of pilgrims had not yet reached its maximum flow. They walked through town, out towards the zero-kilometer marking, to Land’s End. The monument to the Prestige Tanker, known as the Split, stood sentinel over all. The large flat smooth rocks invited sitting. They found a spot, down close to the water’s edge. The ocean was quiet, waves rolling in, unfurling below them. This place, long a landing for endings, and a haven for the broken. Clair felt a connection with all the troubled souls who had sat here before her, and was grateful for Adam’s solid warmth. She leaned into him.

‘Are you cold?’ he asked, wrapping his arm around her, pulling her into him.

‘Yes, but it’s OK. I like the feeling. It reminds me I’m alive.’

They watched the waves for a while longer until a fog, so dense they felt each drop of moisture on their faces, rolled in.

‘I’m hungry,’ Adam said. ‘Thirsty, tired, stinking, and happier than I have been in a long time. How about you?’

Clair looked up at him, his eyes shining with joy.

‘Yes, to all of it,’ she answered, taking his arm as they walked towards the village. A cluster of young women stood talking, several small children gathered at their feet. A boy, around two years old, was playing with pebbles, lining them up in a circle around himself. He was dressed in a pair of blue shorts, and a red top. His hair was light brown, with wispy curls falling in front of his eyes. When he looked up, he smiled, two teeth showing through rosebud