You Again?

by Spalding, Nick

  Can’t say I blame her. This is the first period of peace and relaxation we’ve really had since arriving here. All the fun and games with Amy have kept things a lot more tense than they would have been otherwise. We’ve finally hit a nice, sweet spot, and moving away from it probably doesn’t appeal in the slightest.

  Cara would probably just like to lie here and sunbathe, the same as the sensible part of me. I should have kept my mouth shut.

  But then she surprises me by saying, ‘Yeah, okay. I wouldn’t mind doing something a bit active after all that breakfast. You really shouldn’t have let me eat that third pancake.’

  Third pancakes are not something Cara has to worry about yet. Not at her age.

  ‘You sure you want to?’ she asks. ‘I didn’t think water sports were your cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh, you know. We’re on holiday. I like to try new things out.’

  ‘Are you up to it after what happened with the massage?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I reply, ‘I’m perfectly alright.’

  Which probably isn’t all that honest – I still ache like mad, but my alpha male brain is overriding any pain centres around my body that might put up an objection.

  ‘I’m fine to jump in a kayak, no worries.’

  I make a massive point not to look over in Ray and Amy’s direction at all as I’m saying this. The last I did see of them, Ray was manfully propelling them out into deeper water.

  I need to manfully propel out into deeper water as well. The alpha male inside me demands it.

  The alpha male inside me also demanded that I once drink the contents of a used ashtray full of water to win a fifty-pound bet, so it’s clearly a complete fucking idiot – but Ray Holland’s glistening muscles and tiny white shorts have woken it up, and it won’t go back to sleep again until it has made my life immeasurably worse.

  Cara nods and sits up, looking over at the rack of kayaks standing next to the small hut where the guy who monitors the water sports activities spends his day.

  ‘There’s plenty left. Can’t be that many people out,’ she remarks.

  ‘No. Probably only one or two.’ In tiny white shorts.

  ‘Okay, then. Let’s have a go. I feel up for it.’ Cara then swings her legs over the side of the sun bed and stretches. Cara stretching in a bikini is something I’d have tattooed on my arse if I could get away with it.

  She really should be with a guy who can wear tiny white shorts.

  But, for the moment, she’s with a guy in baggy black board shorts, and that’ll just have to do.

  After we’ve both applied a liberal amount of sun cream and thrown on t-shirts, we wander over to the hut and have a quick word with the water-sports guy – an ultra-cool dude in sunglasses called Jarvis – who is more than happy for us to take one of the remaining big yellow kayaks out on to the water. He doesn’t give much of a safety briefing, beyond telling us to stay inside the white buoys that mark the circumference of the shallower water around the island. He also tells us to avoid the section of the sea where the island’s boat plane makes semi-regular landings, which is demarked by the red buoys. All sounds simple enough.

  Of course I attempt to manfully lift the kayak in the same way Ray did, and in doing so nearly put an end to this little jaunt before it’s even begun, by putting my back out.

  ‘Careful!’ Cara says when I wince and stand upright with a disturbed look on my face. ‘We’ll pop the paddles inside it and carry it together.’

  I try not to grate my teeth as we do this. Why can’t I be as strong as Ray?

  Because you don’t like the gym – don’t like hardcore exercise of any kind, for that matter – and would rather order a Dominos and watch Netflix.

  Well, yes. This is true. But it doesn’t mean I can’t feel aggravated that I can’t achieve what Ray Holland can, does it?

  It kind of does, you bell end.

  ‘Water looks lovely!’ Cara remarks, as we approach it.

  She’s not wrong. I’m only doing this because of the alpha male idiot inside me, but to be honest, this seems like a great idea, anyway. The water looks more inviting than the gold embossed letters we received to last night’s meal.

  I lower my end of the kayak into the water and push it gently forward as Cara does the same. The ocean is warm, like a mild bath. So much so, that my testicles – so used to the temperatures of the waters around the UK – don’t know what to do with themselves. Usually at this point they start retreating like what was left of the Light Brigade, but there doesn’t appear to be any need to do that today.

  Now to get into the kayak . . .

  A task I must accomplish without falling into the water. If I don’t manage that, any pretence of being able to copy the man in the tiny white shorts will vanish.

  But I can’t remember how to do it. Do I sit down on to it first and throw my legs over? Or step into it, and slide down?

  At least I’ve got plenty of room to manoeuvre. The kayak has an open . . . what the hell do you call it? Cabin? Cockpit? Seaty bit? Well, whatever you call it, it’s open and large, so I won’t have to do any squeezing. This is just as well, as I really do like pizza and Netflix quite a lot.

  Cara answers the question for me, by throwing one leg into the kayak, and gracefully pulling herself into it, sitting down as soon as her body weight has shifted on to it.

  ‘Come on, then!’ she says enthusiastically.

  Should’ve stopped with the Tom Clancy, you goon.

  I lick my lips with nerves, and try to copy what I just saw Cara do. This is only partially successful, as I have a lot more body weight to shift about than her, with a lot less co-ordination. There’s a hairy moment when the kayak starts to wobble in a distressing fashion as I try to lift my other leg into it, but Cara prevents me from extreme embarrassment by using the paddles to keep it steady.

  ‘Oof!’ I exclaim as my butt hits the hard plastic seat.

  A man who oofs like that when he does anything really should limit himself to reading Tom Clancy under a sun shade. Men in tiny white shorts do not oof like that in a kayak, unless they’re having too much trouble shoving their large penises into them.

  What are you doing, Sinclair?

  Proving I’m worth it!

  To who? Ray? Cara?

  . . .

  . . .

  Amy?

  Are you trying to let her know that you’re still a confident, capable man, even without her?

  Piss off.

  ‘Chuck me a paddle and let’s get going!’ I say to Cara, holding out my hand behind me. She gives the paddle and sits back into her seat.

  ‘Shall we go around the island?’ she suggests.

  ‘Yep! Sounds like a plan!’

  And without waiting for a response, I start to power away from the shore, in a manner that almost feels like I know what I’m doing. It’s all in the wrist, you see. You have to move them back and forth as you stroke, to make sure the paddle hits the water at the right angle.

  Oh yes. I sound like I know what I’m talking about, don’t I?

  You would too, if the horrifying memory of your last kayaking holiday was seared into your brain. I’ll never forget that week in Scottish wet hell. And nor will my inner thighs.

  By stark contrast, kayaking around the Maldives is exceptionally pleasant. Not least because I have someone helping me propel the thing along.

  We reach a point a good fifty or sixty yards out from the island, where the water starts to turn a deeper shade of blue, and slow our progress to a crawl.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Cara remarks, looking around her at the vast open ocean in one direction, and the gorgeous tropical island in the other.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ I reply, feeling my shoulders relax and my face soften. The sound of the gentle waves lapping against the side of the kayak is a perfect counterpoint to the warm breeze caressing my face, and the fresh smell of salt water in the air. It’s absolutely glorious.

  For a moment, I forget all about the reason I w
anted to go kayaking in the first place. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I should just forget about Ray, his tiny white shorts, my ex-wife, and just enjoy this moment of peace and reflec—

  There they fucking are!

  Just heading around the edge of the island, past the water bungalows!

  ‘Let’s head that way!’ I eagerly suggest to Cara, breaking her out of what was no doubt a moment of calm reflection for her.

  ‘Oh. Okay,’ she replies, a little shocked by my change of demeanour.

  I don’t have time to dwell on that, though, I need to get after Ray and Amy to prove that I’m as much of a man as he is.

  Please bear in mind that this is the thought process of someone who once drank several mouthfuls of ashtray water just to prove the same thing.

  I was sick for days afterwards.

  This should give you some inkling of the trouble I’m going to cause myself today.

  I begin to propel us towards where Ray and Amy are with great gusto.

  Tomorrow morning, when I wake up in bed and reflect on what a horrific set of circumstances transpired the day before, I will do it with arms that I am barely able to lift.

  Not to say that it feels all that great to be kayaking so manfully right at this moment. I’m still feeling the aftereffects of the thumbing I received yesterday, and my muscles are already sore.

  I’ll show her, though! I’ll show her that her evil schemes haven’t affected me in the slightest!

  And I’ll do that by kayaking the absolute shit out of this ocean.

  ‘Bloody hell, Joel! Ease up a bit!’ Cara exclaims from behind me. ‘Why do we need to go so fas—’ She grinds to a halt before she’s finished speaking. Something has caught her eye, it seems. ‘Is that . . . is that Ray and Amy over there?’ Cara thrusts out a finger and points it at where Ray is propelling his kayak along with a grace and strength that makes my hair curl.

  ‘Is it?’ I reply, feigning surprise. ‘Oh yes! It is! God damn it!’

  ‘Did you know they were out here?’ Cara says, voice laced with suspicion.

  ‘No! No, I didn’t!’ I lie, like the absolute toad I truly am.

  ‘Do you want to turn back?’

  Oh my. She believes me.

  It’s a good job that I’m facing away from her, otherwise the bloom of red shame that suffuses my face would be obvious for her to see.

  ‘No! No, it’s fine,’ I tell her. ‘I promised I wouldn’t let those two affect what we do, and I don’t intend to start now!’

  Ribbit.

  ‘Okay. Shall we just ignore them then?’

  ‘Yes! Let’s just go where we want, and not worry about what they’re doing!’

  Ribbit.

  The lying toad and his trusting, lovely girlfriend continue to kayak towards the end of the long pier that our water bungalow sits on – paying absolutely no mind to what Mr Tiny White Shorts and the Evil Harridan are up to.

  No mind at all.

  None whatsoever.

  I am not constantly sneaking glances over at what they’re doing, trying to manufacture a way I can get closer to them . . . without making it obvious that I want to get closer to them. I can’t prove that I am as manly as Ray unless he—

  she—

  can see me doing it, can I?

  Luckily, my scheming is made easier when Ray slows the kayak and points a finger down into the water. He’s obviously spotted something he wants Amy to have a look at.

  Hah!

  It’s the perfect opportunity to go past them as fast as possible, thus demonstrating my prowess on the water!

  I redouble my efforts on the paddle, and the kayak lurches forward at a pace that tests the very limits of my endurance and strength.

  So, about three miles an hour, then.

  I feel Cara start to paddle harder behind me as well. She’s obviously just as keen to power past the other two as I am – though her reasons are probably a lot more to do with getting away from them completely, rather than proving how great she is at kayaking and being A REAL MAN.

  Regardless of intent, the plan works, and we cruise past Ray and Amy just as they look up from whatever it was they were studying in the water below.

  Both are quite taken aback when we fly past their field of vision.

  ‘Morning!’ I cry in a voice that I hope is laced with manly triumph. ‘Lovely day for it!’

  I smile at them with a grin that the Cheshire Cat would be fucking ashamed of.

  Cara says nothing. I can’t say I blame her.

  But I am happy. Truly happy.

  I have shown Ray just how fast and cool I can look in a kayak. Surely his enormous penis will shrivel in those tiny white shorts now. Surely he will feel incredibly inadequate alongside Amy’s powerful ex-husband.

  I am basking in the glow of my own pridefulness when out of the corner of my left eye, I see a long yellow shape appear in my peripheral vision.

  My head snaps around to see Ray and Amy catching up with us.

  He’s racing me. The bastard is actually racing me!

  No! No! You’re supposed to stay back there with a shrivelled penis! You’re not supposed to be trying to get past me!

  Ray doesn’t appear to be making any effort whatsoever to keep up. By the serene expression on his face, he could be sat in his favourite armchair, stroking a cat.

  As their kayak comes alongside ours, Amy throws me a very quick but deliberate smile that would make the Cheshire Cat give it all up and retire to a small place in the country to raise mice.

  I redouble my efforts.

  Sadly this does not redouble my speed. I have reached the upper limit of my physical prowess, and no matter how much my ego wants to see my muscles provide it with more power, it’s not going to happen.

  In fact, about the only change this increase in effort does achieve is to make strange and repetitive noises come out of my mouth at every stroke of the oar.

  ‘Erng, erng, erng, erng, erng.’

  ‘Joel? Can we slow down a bit? My arms are hurting.’

  ‘Erng . . . erng . . . erng . . . erng . . . erng . . .’

  ‘A bit slower, please!’

  ‘Erng . . . Oh, Jesus . . . Erng . . . Fuck me . . . Erng . . . How is he still going? . . . Erng . . .’

  We slow right down to a crawl, and watch as Ray powers Amy and the kayak over to a small but perfectly formed sand cay, lying a good hundred yards off the edge of Wimbufushi.

  I have two options at this point.

  I can suggest to Cara that we go another way, and leave Ray to bask in the glory of victory in his tiny white shorts. This would no doubt please her and lead to a much more relaxed and easy rest of the day. Okay, my ego would have taken a battering, but at least I would have got out of this situation with my body more or less intact.

  Or . . . I can continue this farcical game of one-upmanship by following them over to the sand cay, and suggesting a friendly race around the island.

  Yes. That’s right.

  I’m actually considering a race with Ray and Amy around the island, despite the fact that he is clearly much, much fitter than I am. It is a race that the sensible part of my brain knows I have no chance of winning, but if watching years of Formula One has taught me anything, it’s that anything can happen in a race. Someone with seemingly no hope of winning at all can come through and take the chequered flag ahead of the much better and faster competition.

  I could be the Johnny Herbert of this race around Wimbufushi.

  With this incredibly stupid thought process filling my incredibly stupid brain, I point the kayak in the direction of the sand cay.

  ‘What are we doing?’ Cara asks, slightly aghast that I’m actively heading in the direction of the last person on this island I’m supposed to want to be anywhere near.

  ‘I want to see that sand cay!’ I tell her. ‘There’s no reason to let them stop us going over there, is there?’

  ‘Well, I guess not . . .’

  ‘No! Like you said befor
e, we can’t let them ruin our holiday!’

  It’s deeply unfair of me to bring up an off-hand comment Cara made a few days ago in defence of my idiocy, but if I can drink ashtray water, I can sure as hell rationalise my decisions here in the most unsatisfactory of ways.

  I see that Ray and Amy have made it to the cay, and are walking around it slowly. Ray has produced a phone from somewhere and is taking photos of the incredible scenery on offer. Amy is lagging behind a little, and doesn’t appear to be paying much attention to what he’s doing.

  She does pay attention, however, when she sees me and Cara coming closer.

  There’s a sickly look on her face as I spear our kayak towards the cay, aiming for a spot right next to theirs.

  I realise slightly too late that I’m coming in too fast, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  ‘Hi, there!’ I say in the fakest cheery voice I can manage as we get within a few feet of the sand. ‘We just thought we’d come and take a— Ooooft!’ The kayak hits the sand, and our forward progress is immediately arrested. I am instantly flung forward, the wind knocked out of me as I double over with the impact. At the same time, my arse comes off the plastic seat a little, allowing one errant testicle to slide under my thigh, so that when I sit back down again, it gets jammed.

  ‘ . . . take a lovely look at this sand cay!’ I finish, my voice several octaves higher.

  I must not let her see that I’m hurt. I must make it appear that I meant to park the kayak at that speed. Everything must seem deliberate.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ Cara exclaims from behind me, but unfortunately I don’t have time to check on how she is. I must jump out of the kayak to show Amy and Ray that I am absolutely fine.

  With my testicle throbbing to such a degree that I’m slightly concerned I might require medical attention at some point, I throw my paddle up on to the sand, and start to hoist myself out of the kayak. Instead of just swivelling myself around slowly, and standing up beside the damn thing, I instead elect to try something akin to a pole vault dismount by throwing my legs over the plastic rim. Sadly, my trailing left foot gets caught on the edge of the kayak, and instead of jumping out in one smooth motion, I tip out of the kayak in one incredibly unsmooth motion, and go headfirst into the drink.