By eleven in the morming we were absolutely smashed. This is the joy of a Portuguese holiday. The sun lit you up, and weak lager and cheap spirits destroyed your throat and stomach until perfect oblivion.
You have to pace yourself. Falling asleep in the afternoon sun is a potential death sentence. The bar owners knew this too. To avoid dealing with a corpse they organised a belly flop competition. A dive into the ocean breaks up the drinking, provides an opportunity for bravado, and drops your client’s body temperature. Perfection.
We walked onto a diving board like careless pirates. I was shorter than most of the other men, and my left ankle ached from a recent football match. But there were girls watching. I had to give it a go.
Belly flopping is good fun too. I enjoyed the run up, and the cheers when someone jumped. The extra cheer when they hit the water. A man in a red t-shirt commentated on a low quality microphone. He gave everyone nicknames or abuse. When he got to me, my height was the obvious choice.
‘Here he comes, Mr Small! Go on Mr Small!’
Soon the whole crowd was chanting ‘Mr Small, Mr Small’. I breathed in. I will do this. I will get my cheer.
I ran, and flopped forward. My position was bang on, and a wet slap of water assaulted my belly. My head got lost in the freezing and muffled dead zone, but soon I rushed up to the glittering surface for my reward.
Nothing but gasps greeted me. Had I failed? Had I done something wrong? Why was everyone so scared?
The figures with tridents streaked towards me, all of them so ripped and tall. They leapt towards me with perfect grace, weapons all pointing in one direction. There was no way they would fake the landing.
