Hank swung into a squatting position and paddled slowly out for a few more yards. Here the skin of the ocean was flat and smooth and the waves looked harmless. Hank swung the board around and looked toward the shore.
Mike and Georgia were almost at the end of the path. Mike was wearing swimming shorts and was barefooted. They were standing still, watching him. Hank waved his hand and they came the rest of the way to the beach. They stood for a moment talking. They looked out to sea and then at the surfboard. Georgia spoke once, looked again at the waves and then, it seemed to Hank, she became silent. She put her hands in the pockets of her coat and leaned against a rock.
Mike walked to the edge of the water and put a foot in the next wave. He hopped back, pounding his hands across his chest and shouting something to Georgia. She did not reply. Mike picked up the surfboard and walked into the water. With the same skillful, swinging motion that Hank had used, he swung the board down and forward and while it was still moving he slid onto it. Then he disappeared as he entered the surf. Hank saw the tip of the board occasionally as it went up over a wave. Once he saw Mike clinging to the board as it whiplashed over a wave. Then as another hump of water gathered itself, heaved into the sky and narrowed out, its powerful green impeccable back was shattered as if a boulder had been thrown through it. It was Mike and his board. They shot through the body of the wave. They came like a sailfish, sharp and flashing, spray flying, cleanly slicing the wave. They slid past the surf line and out into the smooth water beyond.
Hank watched quietly, not moving from his squatting position except to straighten his board occasionally by putting his hand in the water. He felt withered, dried out. His mind was empty and blank. He was aware of the thin warmth of the sun, the swelling of the waves, the sound.of the surf and unconsciously he counted the waves and waited for a ninth wave.
Mike's board slid across the water.
"You sure picked a day for surfing," Mike said. "You don't go surfing for ten years and then you pick a day like this."
"You didn't have to come. I just told them at your office that I was going and if you wanted to come I'd have a board for you," Hank said.
"Don't get touchy. I wanted to come. Haven't been surfing for ten years. But this is some surf. I never remember it like this. There must be some hell of a storm somewhere."
"They're humping all right And they're getting bigger. There'll be a really big one along pretty soon."
"Old Hankus, the medicine man of the sea," Mike said. He brought his board close to Hank's. "Just like old days, eh?"
Hank looked down between his knees. The middle of the board was drying out, leaving a thin film of salt. It was cold. The breeze off the ocean was stronger than the sun. Hank looked up at Mike.
"Just like the old days, only a little bit different," Hank said.
"What's different?" Mike asked. He was grinning; the old, tough, confident, independent, knowing grin. "You're the same. I'm the same. Ocean's just the same; maybe the waves are bigger, but everything else is the same."
"You're not the same. You're different."
Hank did not know where his words came from. He did not think them with his mind or phrase them before he spoke. They seemed to be manufactured by his lungs and lips quite independently. In the withered, brown, desiccated interior of his head, Hank felt nothing; he was blank, waiting for some signal.
"You're wrong," Mike said. "I'm just the same. Hank, I haven't changed a bit since the last day we were out here on the boards. Maybe you have, but I haven't. Not the least little bit."
The boards rose on the swell of a wave, dropped into the trough. Hank saw that Georgia had climbed up onto a rock and was sitting with her hands clasped around her knees.
"I guess you haven't changed, Mike," Hank said. "You're just the same. But I didn't really know you before. And then maybe the world changed around you."
Some old long-forgotten sensitivities came alive in Hank. Because of the depth of the trough and the shape of the waves and impulses that came through the board, he knew a big hump was coming. He turned and looked over his shoulder.
They both saw it at the same time. It was a long dark blue line that blotted out the horizon. It rose so high above the other waves that it caught the wind and was laced with veins of white foam. Because of its bulk it seemed to move slowly, deliberately, reducing the waves in front of it and absorbing the waves that followed.
"My God," Mike whispered. "It's huge. It's the biggest I ever saw."
Hank backed his board toward the wave, sensing that it would break farther out than the other waves. The big hump was only four waves away when Hank stopped and waited. Mike was beside him.
They watched the color of the wave change. The deep blue faded and it became green and translucent. A delicate filigree of kelp was visible in the wave; the nodules black and solid, the strands as distinct as rope. To one side was a sting ray, caught in the wave. It was like a scarab; motionless, its wings spread, its ugly short tail straight out behind it. In the taut amber of the wave, the ray was entombed, harmless.
Then all the other waves were gone and the big hump was all that was left. They lay flat on their boards, looking over their shoulders. Deep in the wave they could see the sea grass trembling, the sharp tips reaching up from the bottom of the ocean and fluttering in the base of the wave. Then they heard the rumbling noise.
They started to paddle. Hank looked over at Mike.
"Don't take it, Mike," Hank called. "Let it go. It's too big for you. You can't ride it."
And Mike grinned. His arms kept pumping. They felt the sea rise beneath them, push against the boards, lift them high. Flecks of foam shot past their boards. Then, just at the tip of the wave, the mass of water gripped them and they started to shoot forward. For a split second they slid forward and upward as the wave continued to gather itself. The roar, the grinding, tearing, rumbling, fundamental sound, grew louder. They could see the tattered surf in front of them, the smaller, minor waves that had gone before and been ruined. They rose still higher and the drop seemed incredible, unbelievable, staggering.
Hank looked down at the beach and he could see Georgia's white face turned toward them. He felt the wave start to break and he looked at Mike.
Mike was getting to his feet. He grinned over at Hank. He was going to ride down the crash.
Numbly, with relief, Hank felt that he had received the signal; been given permission. He started to stand too.
And then the wave broke. The board was hurled forward and in the same instant it slid down the front of the wave. The foam rose around Hank's knees. The board chittered under his feet and his toes worked for a better grip. He looked over his shoulder and saw the mountain of foam and green tossing water behind them.
Hank pressed with his foot and his board angled across the foam, slid toward Mike. Mike saw him coming. Mike did not angle away, he did not look down. He watched Hank's slanting. Hank sensed that Mike knew what it was about; what had to happen; what was coming. And again the relief deepened and Hank felt reassured, decisive.
When his board was a few feet from Mike's he straightened it. Hank stared at Mike for a moment and then he dove at Mike's knees. He felt his ankles slap hard on Mike's board and then they were both in the water.
The broken wave snatched at them eagerly. It was the grip of the entire ocean: ancient, massive, stern. They were swept forward, but were held so tightly they could not move even their fingers. The wave threw them to the bottom and swept them through a patch of sea grass. The tough strands whipped at their bodies. They rolled over and smashed into a great slime-covered rock. The slime was rubbed off instantly and Hank felt the sharp edge of sea rock slice the flesh from his ribs. He was held against the rock and then drawn slowly across the cutting edges.
Then the pressure was gone and they swirled through the green water. Mike reached down and twisted Hank's middle finger loose. He bent it back, almost to the' breaking point. Then, quite deliberately, he let go of the finge
r. Hank tightened his grip.
Hank opened his eyes. Under the wave the world was filled with raging clouds of sand, the black shape of rocks, the twisting blades of sea grass. Closer, just before his eyes, was the solid muscle of Mike's leg. Digging into the flesh were his own fingers.
In the green uneven light he saw Mike's hand come down, grasp his finger and bend it. He threw his head back and there, inches away, was Mike's face. The face was softly distorted by the few inches of water. But Mike's eyes were open and the grin was clean and distinct. Hank closed his eyes.
The finger bent straight back from his hand, a sharp pain came from a great distance, sped down his arm and exploded in his brain. He screamed and bubbles slid from his mouth and floated away. Then, just before the finger broke, Mike let go.
He could have broken my grip, Hank thought. He could have gotten loose.
He made his mind blank, for this was temptation. He dug his fingers into Mike's legs and held more tightly.
They were swirled upward, almost to the surface and then whipped downward. They smashed into rocks again, swept across a layer of sand that quickly, in a few short licks, rubbed the skin from Hank's legs.
Suddenly Mike jerked his legs up and almost tore loose. Hank tightened his grip and with a peculiar distinctness felt the sharp wiry hairs of Mike's leg brush against his cheek.
The wave held them motionless for a moment and then brushed them flat against a shoal of barnacles. Hank felt the sharp, painless slice of the shells as they cut into his back. His lungs were hot and he knew that soon he would open his mouth and the salt water would pour into his throat. He opened his eyes and far away he saw the lively bouncing sunlit surface. Just above him a layer of green water was rushing swiftly past, pierced with beads of foam, flecked white. But, by some oceanic trick, they were held motionless, paralyzed by the great pressures into immobility. The shells sliced his flesh soundlessly.
It's not for you, Hank shouted in his mind. Not for all you stupid cloddish ignorant bastards, walking the face of the earth with plenty of air and sun and clouds. I'm doing it for myself. For selfish reasons. For my own reasons. Not for you.
And then the wave released them. They were lifted up and Mike jerked again, pulling them almost to the green foamy surface. It grew brighter, but at the edge of his vision a black circle was growing, narrowing the light to a contracting circle. Hank knew he was close to unconsciousness. He sobbed and took a mouthful of water down his throat. He clamped his mouth shut. The area of blackness grew.
The wave moved them forward and slammed them against a single rock. There was the sound of a crack, a dull unnatural muted crack. Mike went soft in Hank's arms, collapsed downward upon him. Mike's fingers slid down Hank's back, his head bounced limply from his shoulder. In the center of the tiny circle of vislon still remaining to him, Hank saw Mike's face. The eyes were open and staring.
Hank let go. He ran his hands over Mike's limp body. Hank pushed upward, very weakly.
His head broke through the surface, but only slightly. The surface was covered with leaping fleck and gobbets of foam. Hank gasped and got a mouthful of foam and some air and was pulled under again. He was pushed to his knees and swept forward, He pushed upward again and this time got more air.
He did not believe he could reach the shore and he did not want to, but he could not control his body. It fought toward the shallow water; weakly, grotesquely, without his help. He came to the surface, snatched a breath of air and swallowed it along with bitter foam. Then he was pulled under. He crawled over rough. rocks, patches of sand, the dead sharp bodies of crabs and old shells. Above him the water still rushed and tossed. He sobbed as he crawled and wondered, dully, with a black lassitude, how much his tears would salten the water. The sea rumbled at him; talked of death and oceanic peace and somehow it made him sob more. He got to his feet and found that he was in the shallows. But another wave smashed at him and he went under again, He slid along the bottom, helpless.
Then something caught him by the wrist, held firm, He staggered to his knees. The water was very shallow, He looked up. Georgia was standing in the water and holding him by the wrist. She pulled him to the edge of the water and rolled him on his back.
"Poor Hank," she whispered and her fingers ran over the cuts on his arms and chest, gently touched a long neat slice that was just starting to ooze bright red. "Poor, poor Hank."
Hank tried to speak, but salt water foamed between his lips. He spat. Then he could talk.
"He could have gotten loose," Hank said. "By breaking my fingers he could have gotten loose. But he didn't." He coughed and warm vomit and salt water spilled in a gush on his chest. He whispered, "Why didn't he, Georgia? Why didn't he break my fingers and free himself?"
"Poor, desperate Hank," she said.
His eyes blinked away the salt water. The sun now seemed bright and huge. He could see Georgia. Her face was tight with pity and despair, but also with understanding.
She put her arm around him and pulled him upright. He coughed again. She held him in a sitting position.
They sat there for a long time, waiting for Mike to drift in.
CHAPTER 32
Along the Shore
Hank and Georgia drove to La Jolla in Hank's Ford. They left in the early afternoon, just after Hank came from surgery. He smelled of alcohol and surgical soap. The odor hung about him like something not easily dispelled; tough, penetrating and clean. The odor was dissipated by the gas and oil smells of the Ford, however, by the time they reached Laguna Beach.
They did not talk during the drive. Most of the time Georgia slept. Hank drove very fast and carefully, picking his way in and out of the traffic.
The traffic thickened as they went through the Spanish buildings of Laguna Beach. They drove past the abandoned subdivisions on Dana Point. At San Onofre there was a circle of cars with surfboard racks on their roofs and neither of them looked toward the ocean. They went past the great sweeping emptiness of Camp Pendleton with the long barbed fences broken only by an occasional Marine sentry. On the dunes a few Alligators clawed their way, spewing sand behind in rhythmical spasms. Out to sea a dozen LCVP's circled slowly and helmeted heads showed sharply over the bulwarks. A jet plane slanted down from the sky, and a few hundred feet from the ocean it fired a signal rocket with a fierce sound and then banked sharply away. The LCVP's speeded up, formed a line and moved toward the shore, and the highway turned inland and the sea suddenly vanished.
It was a racing day at Del Mar, and as they swept past the track they could hear the diminutive mechanical cheering of the crowd. They saw the faraway tiny shapes of the horses for just a moment.
They turned off the highway at Torrey Pines and drove toward La Jolla. They went past the neat brushed homes of the retired admirals and colonels and generals and the elaborate Spanish homes of the San Diego rich. The buildings thinned out and then disappeared, and they went past the abandoned subdivisions. The hotel they were looking for was right on the ocean. Behind the hotel was one of the most recently abandoned subdivisions. The elaborate bronze street lamps hung over asphalt strips which had been laid down neatly across the sand. Ice plant, heavy with purple buds, crawled over the asphalt, reached almost to the middle of the road and there it was crushed to death by the passage of an occasional car. Lots were still marked by faded flags and stakes, and in the middle of the unfinished streets was a colorful little office which, on its windward side, had stopped a large heap of browned and dried out papers that reached almost to the roof.
The hotel was much older. Most of it reached out over the water and was supported by pier pilings. Thirty years before, in the warm millennial glow, the minarets had been bold. Now the stucco had peeled away and the laths and chicken wire showed in big ugly splotches. The sea air and salt water had gnawed patiently at the building and the damages had been repaired singly and over long intervals so that the building had a spotted, irregular look. Also the pilings had settled at different rates so that the hotel h
ad a jerky roofline. Clotheslines hung between the minarets and held up bathing suits, yellowish towels, bras and shorts to a gray, flat sky. The clothes looked as if they had hung there for a very long time without drying.
In the lobby of the hotel was a large blackboard with the names of the guests and their room numbers. They found Cromwell's name and saw that his room was 213. They went up the stairs and down a corridor. The carpets in the hotel had once been a bright and vivid green, but they were now faded in the center to a rich yellow. The smell in the corridor was not unpleasant, but it seemed very ancient; as if each passing foot and towel and body had left a tiny fragment of itself behind to blend with other fragments and to form the odor of the corridor.
The Ninth Wave Page 41