Fernando. Picture a plump man in swimming trunks, staggering towards the sea with terrifying uncertainty, waving a walking stick around as a balancing aid like a high-wire acrobat. We watched in dry-mouthed fascination as he wobbled sideways, backwards and occasionally forwards in fits and starts, approaching the water mostly by luck and grim determination.'Shall I go and help?' But no, even as I spoke I realised this guy knew what he was doing and would resent interference.
He didn't fall over until, reaching the breakers, he advanced a few more paces then allowed himself to topple forwards like a felled tree. He hit the waves face-first in a spectacular whoosh of white water then set off towards Tenerife in a purposeful arms-only crawl, legs trailing like tentacles.
'You're not eating your sandwich.' Picnic on the beach. I took a bite. It was like trying to eat while watching an imminent disaster laid on as cabaret. Ten minutes later the swimmer arrived back in the ripples at the water's edge and we had to watch as he raised himself on arms and legs, wobbling like a newborn calf, before crawling forward to retrieve his walking stick and somehow hauling himself upright.
There was something terrible and wonderful about this performance, humbling in its bravery, inspiring in its success. It was like watching the Dawn of Mankind, the first triumphant steps on two limbs instead of four.
That was the first time we noticed Fernando, many years ago. We soon got used to seeing him, worried less about him, because he was always around. He had suffered some kind of cerebral catastrophe many years ago which had ruined his coordination, and although he could just about walk with the help of crutches he normally propelled himself through the streets on a silla de ruedas, a wheelchair. Later he bought a fancy motorised one with joystick control, chromium spring suspension and flashing indicators, in which he hummed around town at alarming speed to do his shopping.
But he still climbed out of it regularly to take some exercise. A favourite routine was to make his way to and fro on the bridge across the riverbed, clinging to the railings hand over hand.He used to earn a few euros by selling lottery tickets for the ONCE charity, until he reached retirement age a few years ago. Then he spent his days working through his fitness programme or sitting with friends to argue about football. We got to know him better after the town council installed bright yellow exercise machines on the beach promenade, where we became fellow regulars.
Last Wednesday we greeted him there as usual as he sat twiddling his legs on the static cycle. Then for the next couple of days we didn't see him. People like Fernando are very noticeable when they're not there, they leave an empty space like the clock missing from the sideboard.
He had gone for a swim in the afternoon, Blasina told us, and suffered a heart attack. Other swimmers dragged him from the water, an ambulance rushed him to the local hospital then a helicopter flew him to an intensive-care unit in Tenerife, but they couldn't save him.
We hadn't heard this, we didn't know. As always, such a sudden extinction is hard to accept. 'He looked fine the last time we saw him,' I objected. 'He always looked after himself, kept himself fit.'
'True,' agreed Blasina, 'but really he was lucky to have had so many years. He could have gone long ago, when he first had the brain thing, the attack.'
Well, yes. That's the philosophical viewpoint, I suppose. And the rest of us will carry on until our time comes. But the fact remains, there is now just an empty space where Fernando ought to be.
