by Kate McMahon
‘How about we practise those grab-rail tail slides?’ Jaspa suggests as she steps out of her shoes and pulls off her socks.
‘Yew! Sounds like a plan to me.’
They smear on sunscreen and bolt down the driveway to the beach, their leg-ropes tapping the sides of their boards with every stride.
‘Damn, the swell has dropped,’ Mel says as they reach the sand.
‘And it’s turned nor-east.’ Jaspa looks towards the bay, noting the wind-affected ripples lapping the shore. ‘We’ll have to surf Northies.’ They jog up Bonita Beach, passing old Mrs Wilson and her ancient bitsa dog out on their late afternoon stroll. The girls smile and wave, but stick to higher ground, keen to avoid any conversation that will eat into their ocean time.
Their street, Ocean View Avenue, runs the entire length of the beachfront, which they share with just ten other houses and the Shady Palm cafe, home to the scrummo Mango Magic smoothie.
‘Must be cackle o’clock,’ Mel says, pointing further up the beach towards the Bonita Shores Surf Life Saving Club. They can hear the chatter of middle-aged mums coming from the ocean deck, watching their children play on the grass below while debriefing on the town’s goings-on. With a population of only 1800 people, everyone gets a turn at being gossip fodder.
‘Promise me that’s not us in thirty years,’ Jaspa pleads, slowing to a walk and forming her hands into a prayer sign.
‘Only if you promise me we’ll never do that again.’
A trail of smoke drifts from the paddleboard racks underneath the club.
‘Yuck. I will divorce you as a friend if you ever smoke again,’ Jaspa says, screwing up her nose. Their brief stint as smokers ended when Mel’s cousin Kevin caught them swiping from his pack. He promised not to snitch on the condition that they’d never spark up again. After all, he pointed out, how many world champion surfers are on the smokes?
As they near the northern headland, 900 metres from their homes, they see a light breeze blowing from the land onto the ocean, making the surface of the shoulder-high waves flawlessly smooth.
‘Yes! Awesome!’ Mel pumps her fist in the air. ‘It’s offshore and fun as!’
As weird as it may sound – except to a surfer – Northies actually faces south, meaning the ocean is calmest on a north wind. Mel and Jaspa have spent as much time learning about surfing while out of the water as they have in it: how weather patterns can affect the wave formations, the difference between rips and currents and how to get out of them safely, or use them to your advantage, and how swell and wind direction can determine the best spot to surf.
‘Hey, there’s Tyler.’ Jaspa points towards the ocean with a forced smile.
They watch Tyler take off on his forehand on a right-hander. He wastes no time making the most of every inch the wave has to offer, jumping to his feet, driving hard into a bottom turn to face the wave, soaring fast and vertical into the top pocket of broken foam then thrusting his fins to come back down before racing to the inside section to launch sky-high, twist in mid-air and land a frontside air reverse.
‘Are you kidding me? Did you see that?’ Mel shoves Jaspa playfully.
‘It was amazing! He’s going to do seriously well tomorrow.’ Jaspa’s sure her brother’s just antsy because of the competition. His moodiness probably has nothing to do with her at all.
Mel puts her board on the sand and clasps her hands behind her back in a stretch. ‘How about we get out there and show him what these so-called chick kooks are made of?’
The identical 10-centimetre-thick tan lines around Jaspa and Mel’s right ankles might make them look like a couple of weirdo one-socked tennis players to passersby. But any surfer knows this is the mark of someone who wears their leg-rope on their right foot, standing with their left foot forward, à la natural footers.
They strap on their leggies and wade through the shallows just as Tyler rides right up to them on his final wave, spraying them with a shore break re-entry.
‘Cheers, Tyler, a shower’s just what I needed,’ smirks Mel. ‘Nice waves, by the way.’
‘Yeah, Tyler you’re surfing incredible – you’re definitely in form. Imagine if we all get on the tour together!’ Jaspa babbles excitedly – too excitedly, judging by the look on Mel’s face.
‘Thanks guys, appreciate it,’ he responds genuinely. ‘Not qualifying is not even an option for me. It’s happening. But you chicks better not get your hopes up, eh?’ he belittles over his shoulder as he heads in. ‘There are gonna be a lot of better surfers out there than you.’
#3
‘Do you think it’s true, what Tyler said?’ Jaspa asks Mel as they paddle out beyond the breakers and sit upright, straddling their boards.
Mel suctions water up into her fist and squirts it towards Jaspa’s face. ‘Wash your mouth out, chica,’ she demands playfully.
Jaspa’s shoulders slump. She makes a whirlpool with her finger, eyes downcast. ‘He’s right, though. There’ll be so many incredible surfers there tomorrow—’
‘Who gives a crap, Jaspa?’ Mel interrupts. ‘We got to the final round. We deserve to be there as much as anyone else. Anyway, don’t be ridic, you’re more of a ripper than a pair of cut-offs.’
‘Oh yeah, right.’
A wave crumbles towards them. Mel grabs the nose of her board, turning it away from Jaspa. ‘Who are you, and what have you done with my eternally optimistic best friend?’ she huffs, lying down and kicking furiously into the foam.
Her words ring in Jaspa’s ears. Mel’s right, Jaspa is always the glass-half-full girl. Or, more to the point, who cares if it’s half-full or half-empty – I know where the tap is, so why stress about it? Jaspa remembers her tenth birthday party at Splashland water park. A black storm cloud rolled in, threatening to ruin the day, and one by one each of her friends’ parents pulled the pin. Despite this, Jaspa convinced her mum to take her and Mel. How could rain possibly ruin a water park party? After hiding from the hail in the change rooms for an hour, the sky cleared, the sun shone and they practically had the place to themselves – something they didn’t let the party poopers forget in a hurry.
Jaspa swooshes her legs underneath her, twirling her board in a circle. The headland looks particularly beautiful at this time of day, the setting sun casting a haze behind its smothering of trees. Savouring the slapping sound of water against fibreglass, Jaspa realises that it’s these moments, not a competition vest, that make her want to be a surfer.
She glances up to see Mel paddling back in her direction. ‘Jaspa! This one’s yours!’ Mel shouts, pointing to the set wave rolling in from the rocks.
Placing both hands on her surfboard rails, Jaspa grips tightly and swings her board around to face the shore. Lying down with her legs together and her back strong, she begins paddling into the breaking wave. She rises with the ocean as it picks her up and pitches her into a left-hander, her stomach churning with excitement. Looking over her left shoulder, she jumps to her feet, her back to the sea, and immediately carves her rail deep into the bottom of the wave and soars up, up, up, pointing the board’s nose to the sky before smoothly snapping it around, leaving a 2-metre-high rooster tail of spray behind her. Lowering her centre of gravity and placing her weight on her front foot, she races the next section, ending the ride with a graceful floater, dropping tail-first and landing perfectly in the ball of foam.
Jaspa tries to mask her stoked grin as she paddles back out. It’s not that she surfed it any better than usual, it’s just that she’s never really thought about it much before. She surfs because it’s the closest thing to true love she’s ever experienced, something that’s always on her mind, something she can’t go a day without. Up until now she’s never really thought about if she’s good at it or not. Even in competitions, it’s more of a chance to fool around with friends, have the occasional day off school and perve on hot guys. Scoring prizes is the proverbial cherry. Jaspa doesn’t relate to the concept of having her surfing judged and measured. What’s it ba
sed on? To her, the winner is the one who’s having the most fun. This weekend she’ll be looking at surfing from a very different angle. Maybe it will lead to one of the biggest adventures of her life. Perhaps she does deserve to be among the best of them on the junior tour.
She sees Mel cupping her hands in front of her mouth, hooting enthusiastically. What she doesn’t see is Tyler, standing 300 metres down the beach, watching her every move … with a gulp.
Swallowing his words, perhaps.
#4
Ellen Ryder has her mobile nestled between her cheek and shoulder to allow for some serious multitasking. ‘Yes, of course, Tanya, it’s no problem at all,’ she says, pressing a herb crust onto the salmon and popping it into the oven to bake. ‘Don’t be silly, don’t feel bad, we’ll pick up Carolyn in the morning at five,’ she confirms as she shuts the oven door.
Yum. The waft of roasting rosemary and sea salted sweet potato chips is far too tempting to resist. Ellen ends the call, then sneakily pinches one between her fingers, blows on it and pops it into her mouth.
‘I saw that, Mum. Swipe me one too and your secret’s safe with me.’ Tyler enters the kitchen freshly showered and eager to relieve his post-surf starvation, willing to use bribery if necessary.
‘Oh, Tyler, you scared me!’ Ellen gasps, placing a hand on her chest. ‘Here. Tell no one,’ she whispers dramatically as she opens the oven door. ‘But be careful, they’re h–’
Tyler swears through clenched teeth as the chip sizzles against his fingers, then gives his mum a playful hug before she has a chance to frown at his choice of words.
The Ryder household is pretty relaxed when it comes to the smaller, more trivial things that would raise eyebrows under a stricter watch. But respect and honesty are vital. Last year, when Tyler and two of his mates broke into the Australian Surf Museum to use their vintage mals, he demonstrated neither of these qualities, and boy did he cop the consequences. He was sentenced to cleaning the entire house, including the garden flat and the shed, banned from surfing and skateboarding for two weeks, and allowed no electronics for ten days except for the purpose of homework. But seeing the glint of disgust in his mother’s eyes was the worst punishment.
‘Ma, these are a-mazing. When’s dinner gonna be ready?’ Tyler hovers, hoping to sneak another chip.
‘In about twenty minutes. Scram – go and pack for tomorrow and I’ll call you when it’s ready.’ Ellen shoos him away with the back of her hand. ‘Where’s Jaspa?’ she calls after him.
‘Being a gumby with Mel up at Northies.’
Tyler strides upstairs to his bedroom, bitterness swirling in his stomach. Whenever he thinks about Jaspa’s surfing he is overwhelmed with irritation. It’s not hate – he loves his sister. When he thinks about some of the things he says to her, imagining her friendly, carefree face staring at him, it’s unbearable. How can he rile on someone so kind and nonjudgmental? Someone who unconditionally supports his surfing dreams? But that’s exactly the problem. She’s blessed with smack-into-a-pole-if-you-see-her-on-the-street beauty. She’s school smart, but adorably ditsy when it comes to everyday tasks, like making toast without burning it, or not losing your phone every second day. She can have all that. But surfing’s mine, he thinks. I’ve always been the surfer. She’s meant to be the tag-along.
He slumps on the bed and stares at the walls covered in posters of surfing and bikini-clad girls from Salt Action magazine. Some show empty waves that he imagines himself on, deep in the blue-green barrels, or zooming down the face of a 30-foot monster, but most are of his top three heroes: John John Florence, Mick Fanning, and Tyler’s main inspiration, newly-crowned 21-year-old hot shot Kazumi Hall. Kazumi is a fellow north-coast surfer who claimed the world championship during his first year on the pro tour. He’s now living the life of a surfing rock star – cashed up, surfing the best waves in the world, hot chicks dripping off him … Tyler wants that so bad it hurts. And he’ll do whatever it takes to get it.
#5
Jaspa says goodbye to Mel and dawdles up the beach towards her house. She spots Tyler on the balcony outside his bedroom packing surfboards into his four-board Pro Series cover. Through the window, she can see her mother setting plates on the dining table. Perfect timing, she thinks, giving her a wave.
All the homes dotted along Ocean View Avenue have one thing in common – they’re all designed with a beach holiday vibe. But Jaspa’s is by far her favourite. Planked with a dark wood exterior and finished with an olive green tin roof and railings, it blends in perfectly with the surrounding tropical trees and plants that serve as their makeshift fence. The front of the home is panelled top to bottom in windows, a film of salt crust permanently coating them. Jaspa’s ever thankful she doesn’t have to live like her friend Carolyn, sardined into a two-bedroom suburban unit with her mother.
‘Oh, Mum, please tell me that’s salmon I can smell,’ Jaspa drools as she stands dripping at the front door.
‘Yes it is. It’ll be ready in ten minutes, so hop upstairs for a shower and tell Dad and Tyler dinner’s nearly ready.’
Jaspa patters across the open plan lounge and dining room, trying not to wet the floorboards. Her friends always rave about the stylish quirk of her house. Her dad is naturally creative, so everything he does – from presenting dinner on a plate to arranging the backyard succulents – takes on an artsy flair. Their home is decorated with unusual rustic ornaments, like an old watering can painted in a scratchy white and antique green that serves as a plant pot, or the five wooden crates that Anthony sanded back, nailed together at different angles and mounted on the wall as a bookshelf. The mountain of home decorator magazines her parents own call this style shabby chic, but Anthony labels his taste as surfside vibe.
Ellen raises an eyebrow, so Jaspa flashes her a cheeky grin. Usually she would oblige the loosely implied ‘no boards in the house’ rule, but tonight Jaspa needs to unscrew her fins and get prepped for the morning. Maybe.
‘Hi Dad, dinner’s almost ready,’ she calls through the spare room/study door before bounding up the stairs.
Eww, that’s putrid. A gag heaves from Jaspa’s throat as she walks into the bathroom to see the toilet seat up and the rim decorated with a few stray pubes, undies on the floor and a wet towel growing a new breed of bacteria in the bath. Urgh. Sharing a bathroom with your feral, disgusting brother seriously sucks. She turns on the shower and pokes her head around the door while waiting for the water to warm up.
‘Tyler! You’re such a messy pig! And Mum says dinner’s ready.’ Not bothering to wait for a reply, Jaspa steps into the shower and cranes her neck so the water runs over her face. She lathers her skyscraper legs and glides a razor over them, then pauses to think. When’s she going to tell Mel – and, more importantly, what’s she going to tell her?
***
‘Ellen, this looks amazing. You’re a keeper, all right.’ Anthony gives his wife a kiss before sitting down at the table.
‘Dad, are you coming to the juniors, too?’ Jaspa asks, devouring some crispy salmon skin.
‘Of course, button, I made sure I had the weekend off. No way I would miss seeing my two surfer stars tear it up.’
Jaspa smiles. She’s thrilled both her parents are coming. Not only because she could use the moral support, and because Tyler will probably be less horrible to her with them there, but also because they’re actually kinda fun. Both surf. Anthony is way better, doing top turns and getting barrels and stuff, but Ellen can ride along the wave and do little flicks that Jaspa is sure probably feel like massive carves to her mum.
Anthony works as an industrial designer for a car company. Ellen is a writer and sub-editor – Jaspa’s still not quite sure what that entails exactly. Both of their offices are in Pacific Grove, the closest town, about 40 kilometres north of Bonita Shores.
Swooping in for more sweet potato chips, Jaspa slaps her forehead. ‘Oops! I forgot to ring Carolyn to tell her when to be here in the morning.’ She springs up to find her p
hone.
‘Oh, don’t worry, love. Tanya rang, she’s been called in to work so I said we’ll pick Carolyn up on the way,’ Ellen replies, patting Jaspa’s arm.
‘Aww, thanks Mum, you’re the best.’
Tyler mutters something about Pacific Grove hardly being ‘on the way’, then group texts his mates to see who else he can catch a ride with.
***
A light onshore wind squeezes in around the sliding door. Jaspa pulls the bed sheet up to her waist, doing a mental check to make sure she’s packed everything she needs. Making decisions is not Jaspa’s forte. Her bag is jammed with outfits to cater for all surf conditions. If it’s a bigger swell she’ll need more material and support to hold in her bits, so she had to pack her all-in-one tank top shorts from the retro-inspired Gidget range. But if the waves are smaller but super sucky then she’ll bust out her cross-back and boy-leg bottom bikini to prevent anything popping out, up or down during freefall take-offs.
That’s if she even decides to go tomorrow.
Her tummy is abuzz. Jaspa can’t work out if the butterflies are dive-bombing in her stomach because she’s nervous, excited, or because she’s realising that maybe she doesn’t actually care that much about making it through the competition. There’s so much at stake for this win – a lot more than a trophy and a surf shop voucher. But is joining the tour really what she wants?
Jaspa leans over and disconnects her phone from her charger. Time to get this over with. As the butterflies grow bigger, she texts Mel.
Mel, are you awake? I’ve got something to tell you …
Yep, just doing a bit of ceiling staring. What’s up? Don’t like the sound of this.