White Men Can't Swim

A short story about a few stags, a swan pedal boat, and an extremely white man who can't swim.

The taxi driver, the hotel receptionist, the hotel housekeeper, the barman in Western Saloon, the Welsh couple, the homeless lad who looked alarmingly like Brendan O’Carroll, this whole stag group.

Another wave of anger surges through Billy Brady as he maintains a long mental list of those who have vexed him on this holiday thus far. He knows better than anyone to leave his feelings at Ryanair gate 107, but this constant abuse has crossed the line. Sat there in the swan-shaped pedal boat clenching his fists and tapping his feet, he grows tenser by the second. Right now, Cormac Flynn is at the top of that list of enemies. The instigator. The man of the hour. The stag himself, waffling on about his recent promotion at KPMG.

We’re in Benidorm, man. Nobody cares about KPMG.

Cormac is kitted out in all Abercrombie - the top, the shorts, and probably the socks.

Who does he think he is? Wear Penneys like the rest of us, for fuck's sake.

‘Another can, bro?’ he asks, peering over his Dolce and Gabbana shades.

I’m not your bro. Soon-to-be brother-in-law, perhaps, but never bro. Blood is thicker than San Miguel.

The other two buachaillí aboard the big white swan, Ned Crowley and Jason Mullins, are well acquainted with Cormac’s notions. They know the craic. In one ear, out the other.

The September sun pours hot and heavy onto the boat. Understandable then that the laborious peddling ceased long ago. Everyone apart from Cormac has their t-shirts slung over their shoulders and Billy can feel the sweat trickling down his back. He takes a sip of beer, wipes his sweaty blonde fringe from his eyes, and looks out across the shore, the packed Levante Beach, the slow-moving tourists walking up and down the sandy strip, and the high-rise hotels which dominate this crazy city. Maybe, Billy thinks, this isn’t such a bad idea after all. A hectic session has come and gone. The next session is looming eerily on the horizon. He needs to recuperate. He needs to relax. And that’s exactly what he was does until Cormac blatantly takes a picture of him with his phone.

‘What are you playing at?’ asks Billy, giving his unwanted photographer the middle finger.

Cormac smirks into his screen. ‘Putting a poll on my Insta – Is this the whitest man in Europe?’

Billy rolls his eyes. Here we go again. He kindly requests the pointless poll be taken down considering the title of whitest man on the continent likely belongs to some sick Scandinavian.

‘No can do,’ replies Cormac bluntly. ‘Five votes already. A resounding yes!’

Billy finishes his lager and squeezes the can with all his might. A fuse blows. As Cormac stands up, so too does Billy who curls his fist into a tight ball and decks him there and then. Right in the schnoz! Cormac stumbles backwards bumping into the edge of the boat as he staggers. The sunglasses fly off of his face revealing a shocked expression in his wide-open eyes. Dolce and Gabbana clatter across the ground and break in half, going their separate ways.

‘That’s for calling me white!’

Ned and Jay wade fearlessly into the combat zone and stand solidly between the two. 'Whoa! Chill, boys!'

Cormac bends forward, spitting out a mouthful of blood. ‘What’s the matter with you, Tyson!?’

‘Nothing’s the matter! I’m not ill. I feel grand. I’m in great health. I’m just naturally pale!’

Ned chuckles. ‘Relax, kid,’ he says, a cigarette cocked in one corner of his mouth at a jaunty angle. ‘Just relax,’ he whispers again.

‘No. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of all the name-calling and the nicknames – Albino this, Albino that, The Milky Bar Kid, White Walker, Emo, Casper, Tony Casperino, Boo, Mr White, Snow White, Barry White. I mean, Barry White’s not even white!’

His outburst appears to be in vain as Ned and Jay proceed to take the almighty piss out of him.

‘Don’t start!’ says Billy. ‘I’m serious. The next person who calls me white is getting it!’

Cormac still holds his bleeding nose, giving his voice a nasal tone. ‘Didn’t realise it bothered you that much. I’m sorry, bro.’

Billy nods and collapses into a sobbing heap in a seat. His morning has consisted of a rake of pints on an empty stomach. At any moment he could slump over.

‘Maybe I just need some rest. I haven’t slept in twenty-six hours,’ he says with a tear in his eye. His words are so soft the others have to strain to hear them over the ever-increasing noise of the wind and the waves. They reassure him the harassment will be directed towards another member of the stag party going forward, possibly Liam whenever he gets discharged from hospital.

Jay quickly puts an arm around Billy and draws him close. ‘Cry, man,’ Jay insists. ‘Go ahead and cry your eyes out. I did. Last night. In the hotel lobby. Best thing I ever done.’

Ned passes Billy a towel so he can blow his nose and then says, ‘Benidorm takes no prisoners, lad. None of us are getting out of it alive, so don’t take it for granted.’

Billy looks up, no longer ashamed of his tears. ‘Sound, boys. Appreciate it.’

They kiss and make up and are just about to peddle back to the beach when they spot one of the lifeguards heading towards them on a jet ski. Even from that distance, the four men in the pedal boat can see the life guard’s arms frantically waving up and down. Jay, Ned and Cormac return his friendly wave.

‘That’s nice of him, init?’ says Jay. ‘Gracias, amigo!’

‘Boys, I don’t think he’s waving,’ says Billy. ‘It’s more like a signal. He wants us to come back.’

There’s a small splash. The boat rocks back and forth, then up and down. This is neither expected nor welcome. If the boys wanted a thrilling rollercoaster ride, they would have gone to Aqualandia. Billy undoubtedly will need a change of boxers after this episode. The water surrounding them is no longer quiet and calm. The breeze is picking up, and the surface is getting choppy. Ned clutches the rail and projectile vomits the bulk of a Big Mac into the Mediterranean Sea. As he wipes away remnants of a gherkin from his mouth, his trusty lighter slips out of his pocket and falls into the water.

‘That’s me good feckin’ lighter!’ shouts Ned before jumping in to retrieve it.

That isn’t the only item in jeopardy. Two towels, one bloody and one snotty, are tossed off the boat as well as the big bag of cans. Helplessly, the boys look on as the current sweeps the San Miguel and Mahou swiftly out of their grasp. Three sets of jaws drops towards the floor as far as a jaw still attached to someone’s head can drop.

‘Dear God, the cans!’

Immediately, Jay dives in head-first to rescue the endangered cans. That leaves Cormac and Billy. This probably isn’t the best time for Billy to confess he can’t actually swim.

‘You’re jokin' me!?’ Cormac gulps.

Billy wishes he was joking, wishes he was only having a giraffe, but no. He shakes his head and closes his eyes. The sight of the waves swelling up in front of the boat is overwhelming and he is left to rue missed opportunities.

Why did I step foot on this stupid swan? Why didn’t I stay put in the hotel and catch some zzz’s like Big John? Why didn’t I play mini-golf with Harry, Seamus and Tucker? Why didn’t I go to the tattoo parlour and get a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle inked on my arse along with Farrell, Jimmy, and Sparky? Actually, no, this still isn’t as regrettable as that last option.

It's a mistake closing his eyes – somehow seeing the waves lessens their impact. With his eyes shut, the effect on the rest of his senses intensifies. Then the water comes crashing over them, and before he knows it, he's in the deep blue sea, drowning, far from the safety of his inanimate swan. His arms and legs twist from the shock of the waves and cramp from the fright of the situation. He can only keep his head above water for a few moments at a time. The screams of the boys start to fade. Swallowing the water and sinking lower, he loses hope. Then he feels a hand.

But it isn’t Ned’s hand.

It isn’t Jay’s hand.

It isn’t Cormac’s hand.

It's the hand of a beautiful brunette lifeguard. She's utterly enchanting, and her green eyes sparkle.

Is this heaven? It must be heaven.

‘Estúpido. Fucking Irish!’ she curses.

Nope, not heaven. Still Benidorm.

Where Billy was once fighting death below the waves, now he clings to life above them, hanging on to a surfboard.

With an almighty shudder and splutter, he coughs and he coughs and he coughs. The lifeguard stands over him as he lies on the sand. She hauls him onto his side so he can expel the water in his lungs, her hand gently patting his back.

‘Thank you so much,’ says a relieved and grateful Billy. ‘You saved my life.’

He sits up still coughing. A Madness song loudly plays at a nearby pub on the strip. Several hundred beachgoers glare at him from a distance, including Ned and Jay. Thank God they're alive! Although they don't look too Olympic. It’s the shookest he’s ever seen them since yesterday morning. ‘Where’s Cormac?’ he asks.

‘I’m afraid your friend, Cormac, did not make it,’ replies the lifeguard matter-of-factly. Her words hit Billy hard and cold in the face, nothing like the warm sun hitting his face stepping off the stuffy, rotten Ryanair plane two days ago.

‘What?’ he gasps.

‘Lo siento. Uh, how do you say . . . I’m so sorry. Si. I’m so sorry.’

Billy’s heart sinks.

No, no, this can’t be happening. This just cannot be happening. This is a nightmare.

As he covers his mouth with trembling fingers, he asks her, ‘Are-are you serious?’

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘Your friends, how do you say, pay me to tell you terrible lie. Cormac is okay. He’s gone to get a Magnum.’

Billy stares at her, speechless. It takes him a minute to process what an unnecessary, brutal fib that was. She could have given him a heart attack. But relief rushes through his veins. He takes a long, deep breath and slowly lets it out. Another lifeguard comes over and hovers over the two of them. This fella is David Hasselhoff and Aidan O’Shea’s love child. Stick him in full-forward. Beast of a man.

The brunette stands up, and they speak to each other in Spanish. Billy’s ears burn, physically and metaphorically. The male lifeguard has a jutting chin, a huge bulging forehead, massive shoulders and no neck. The specimen of a body skips the neck and goes directly into a head. Massive biceps so large that his vest rips apart at the seam. He takes off his sunglasses and gazes down at Billy.

Shaking his head in disgust, he says, ‘Señor, you’re as white as a ghost.’