Jardim do Mar Madeira. Photo: Adriano Longueira
Sometimes she’s cold and ugly, hiding in the high tide. A few years ago, she was diagnosed with autism and has been living in her own world since then. She feels trapped beneath the scarf of stones that shroud her feet. She who doesn’t even like warm clothes, preferring to slide naked through the stones of its headland. Another of her passions is to feel surfers enjoying the same feeling . Sometimes she makes fun of me and sometimes I make trips to visit her in vain, arriving in the night and waking up to find her still asleep. Other times I’ll fall back asleep in the morning too, only to lose her during the low tide while I’m resting.
The wave of my borrowed garden knows by heart all the men who have given her and keep giving her pleasure, and who enjoy her with with wild smiles. She promises to appear from time to time and they promise that they will stay with her until her final burst of energy. They promise that every muscle in their body will be in tune with the speed of the ocean. This wave also knows by heart the men who have made it less perfect. She knows those who live in the illusion of pleasure, those who think they are happy and important, exploiting a valuable natural resource and imported shitty seafood for money. In some moments of anger she takes advantage of the stormy days to splash them with tears of salt, wanting to swallow them, but even so, she does not hate these men.
The village here did not witness the birth of its wave, but did almost watch its death. Likewise, the wave has watched the village grow. She knows the generations of families, knows the order in which all the village’s houses were built, all the trees planted here, and all the cobbled streets that were built. She knows exactly how much water descends from the mountains every second. She knows by heart the local young people who will return from Lisbon and other university cities for Christmas. The wave here embodies all the feelings of the people of the Garden by the Sea. If I had never found the wave of my borrowed garden, I probably would not have Pedro and Adriano on my short list of good friends. One is a citizen of Funchal and the other is a true “Gardener.” We are far but yet so close. I’m a short flight away, Pedro a few kilometers drive through tunnels and mountains. Adriano, well, this lucky boy only has to walk down the street he’s known since childhood and there she is. Perfect and imperfect, depending on her autistic moods. So today, after feeling that I rode one of the most perfect waves of my surfing life, I begin to believe that the wave of my borrowed garden is still a child, and it is again innocent.
