RAW BLUE

by Kirsty Eagar

  A guy and two girls are standing near me getting prepared to paddle out. Brazilians. One of the girls has a short, powerful body and an aquiline nose. The other girl is a looker. Tall with a thick brown plait hanging down her back, her teeth show white against her deeply tanned skin. The three of them chatter to each other in rapid Portuguese, throwing and catching words and laughs within their triangle. The guy’s beautiful brownness is marked by a swirling black tattoo covering the right side of his chest and his right arm, like half a shirt. He stretches his arms over his head lazily.

  The good-looking girl is pulling on a spring suit. It’s grey and sleeveless and does up at the top of each shoulder. There’s something about it that suggests overalls; it’s daggy. But her board’s girly – nice and glossy, looks new. Pink.

  I hate pink. Almost as much as I hate frangipanis. I look down at my borrowed Hard Cut and wish I had my own board back. Especially now the surf is so big. I don’t know how this board will handle in waves this size.

  I put my leg rope on and wash my hands with sand to get rid of any slippery sunscreen. Then I start wading into the rip. The paddle out has three sections: the shore break, then this weird no-man’s-land where there’s no white water and the rip ripples into a series of humps like speed bumps, then the last stretch where waves are breaking. Today, there is no real ‘out the back’, no safe place to sit and get a breather, because every now and then a green monster looms on the horizon and everybody in the line-up paddles furiously to get through it before it crashes down on them.

  I decide to stay between the arrowhead and the point. The arrowhead is pretty hardcore today: a mass of restless bodies all trying to dethrone the alpha males at the tip. The two Brazilian girls are the only other females out that I can see.

  When I’m there, I sit up on my board and take a look around. The guy paddling past me is a crow and a gentleman, and I see him out almost every day. He’s puffing hard and gives me a nod.

  ‘Gettin’ a few?’ he asks.

  ‘Just got here. How are you going?’

  ‘Buggered already and I’ve only had two.’ He stops paddling and lets his board drift. ‘Watch yourself today, love.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘There’re some serious shenanigans afoot, my word.’

  I see what he means. On every wave coming through at least five guys take off. There’s a lot of whistling going on. The locals are taking most of them. They’re making the drop then bottom turning into the nearest man to push them off. It’s physical argy bargy.

  I wait ages for a wave. Finally one comes that mounds closer to the point than the arrowhead. It seems to loom up out of nowhere. A big one. I get a roaring in my ears as I get to my feet, blinking because the offshore wind is lacing the crest and spraying it in my face. I’m reminding myself to lean forward because the worst thing you can do on a big drop is lean back. But I didn’t reckon on the speed. I’ve got so much speed by the time I start my top turn that for a second I think I’m going to shoot straight over the shoulder. But I make it and I’m back to the trough again and suddenly it’s all over. The wave flattens into nothing in the no-man’s-land before the shore break. I jump up and down trying to rock my board forward but it’s a lost cause. I sink slowly into the water.

  If I want a longer ride, one of the long trundling lefts where the wall seems to defy gravity allowing you to cutback and re-enter over and over, I need to be in the arrowhead fighting for it.

  Another freaky big set pops up while I’m paddling back out. The sheer size of the incoming wave face puts a beat in my throat. I’m ripping my shoulder muscles to paddle hard enough to get over that wall before it crashes down on me, and when I duck dive, I use my foot on the back of the board, not my knee, so I can dig deep enough to avoid being sucked backwards by the wave’s momentum.

  I watch the short Brazilian girl take off on one. She’s good. The good-looking girl is on the fringes of the arrowhead. She paddles for a lot of the waves, but without much conviction. She’s getting nothing. She starts paddling in and I wonder if she’s jacked off because she can’t get a wave or if she’s scared because it’s big.

  A body boarder takes off on one over at the point, his body silhouetted as he drops head first into the pit. He looks like a frog with his flippers and bowlegs. It’s a heavy wave, snarling back from the rocks and sucking up, the lip an unbelievably thick ledge of water. He gets creamed.

  I’m in a bad spot now. The guys closer to the point are on anything coming through this side. I decide to try the arrowhead. First wave I go for I look across to find someone on my inside with someone on his inside. On the next one, I’ve made the drop and I’m looking at the wall stretching away to my left, feeling the thrill of it, when someone whistles in a sharp, screeching blast. Yep, yep, yep! I turn to see an angry face, legs pumping like springs. I kick-out quick smart like I’ve been branded, paddle back out and just drift for a while.

  ‘Gettin’ a few?’ The voice, male, comes from behind me.

  It’s that Shane guy. He’s bare-chested, wearing a pair of footy shorts. His red and green tattoos look like sleeves, the rest of his body unmarked. When I see him I feel drained, like someone’s pulled the plug on hope.

  ‘How are we today?’ he asks, his face blank.

  ‘Good.’ I clear my throat. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  He drifts belly down on his board alongside me. There’s a cold burn in his eyes, a sort of madness. I think of what Danny said, that Shane and I are the same. He can’t be right. People in shops chitchat to me for no reason, old ladies call me love and ask me for directions – they wouldn’t do that if I had that cold burn in my eyes. Shane’s the sort you don’t want noticing you.

  A clean-cut looking man with rosy cheeks and shiny white skin parks his mini-mal next to me. I’ve never seen him before and he doesn’t look like he belongs.

  He notices Shane staring across at him and says, ‘I just got here. What’s it like, mate?’

  Shane gives him a big friendly smile. ‘It’s like, fuck off, mate.’

  The guy blinks as though he’s been slapped, then sets his face as though he never heard that and paddles away. I know how he feels and I feel for him. There’s a metallic taste in my mouth.

  With a start I realise how close Shane is, close enough to reach out and hold the nose of my board.

  ‘Hard Cut, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘New or just a sparey?’

  I’m thrown into confusion then. He mustn’t know Ryan got this board for me. And if he doesn’t know, I don’t want to say anything. I’m relieved too, because it means Ryan hasn’t told him about the car park on Saturday, how I acted. He hasn’t given Shane anything of me.

  Flustered, I try to steer the conversation away from the board. ‘Did they hurt?’

  His eyes flick over me. ‘Did what hurt?’

  ‘Your tattoos.’

  He lets go of my board and stretches both arms out in front of him, considering his tattoos. ‘Nuh. Not as much as some things.’

  I stare at his forearms. I can make out a naked woman with a snake going up her vagina. She’s holding a knife, slitting her own throat. There are three playing cards on the back of his right hand: the Queen of Spades, the Jack of Hearts and the Joker. Red flames lick his elbow.

  There’s a watch tattooed on his left wrist with ‘Fuck Time’ inscribed on its face. Fuck o’clock.

  He’s not that tall, but his body is carefully cut. The lines of his face, his cheekbones and jaw, are sharp and precise. I can see the tufts of his blond underarm hairs and under them the ladder of his ribs. He’s beautiful, in the way that a knife is beautiful.

  He catches me staring at him and grins. My face flames and I look away.

  ‘Why? You thinking of getting one? A tatt?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even a butterfly? Everybody wants a butterfly.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not much fun, are
you?’

  ‘No.’ He says it at the same time that I do.

  He’s got a rapid-fire laugh: Ha-ha-ha-ha. ‘Well, if you’re not fun, dunno what I’m doing talking to you then. See you later, Hard Cut.’

  He paddles lazily away, ankles crossed, whistling to himself. I stare at the horizon, the rest of the world blacking out.

  A rogue set comes through and I don’t make it through the first wave, but neither does anybody else around me. We’re pushed backwards in a line, caught inside. I duck dive three waves and paddle hard to get back out again. I’m almost there when I notice the girl up ahead of me paddling through the arrowhead. I do a double-take because for a second I think she’s naked.

  It’s the good-looking Brazilian girl. She’s wearing this skimpy nude-coloured bikini which, strictly speaking, isn’t more than three bandaids and some string. I’m trying to work this out, sort of shocked: so when she paddled in it was to take off her spring suit and come back out in this. Why? It’s a wonder she made it through the shore break without it being washed off. And I get that it’s the Brazilian way: beautiful beach, beautiful body, let it all hang out. But even so, I think, Holy shit. Anyway, she’s causing a ripple that’s for sure.

  And then I see how she keeps glancing over at Shane. Maybe because he’s the only guy not paying her any attention. And because of his looks. He goes for the next wave coming through, hassling the guy next to him something shocking.

  ‘Oi! Piss off!’ the guy shouts.

  Shane gives him a malevolent clown’s grin that stretches his mouth wide but doesn’t reach his eyes. Everybody’s watching but pretending not to, fascinated sick by it.

  They both take off, Shane dropping in. The guy is blowing his top, whistling and swearing and carrying on, and Shane’s trimming across the face like he hasn’t got a care in the world. I swear to God he’s singing to himself. He does a lazy cutback and the two of them collide.

  I duck dive the next wave, then turn back to see they’re in the water, jostling and shoving each other like water-polo players. I can only see one board, tomb-stoning in the drag. The guy tries to punch Shane in the face and Shane blocks his punch with his forearms. Then he disappears underwater, giving the guy the slip, surfacing further over. He’s up on his board and paddling away in one smooth motion, his left foot up in the air, keeping the drag of his leg rope to a minimum so the other guy can’t grab it.

  The other guy breaks into a thrashing freestyle heading towards shore and I realise he’s lost his board. But how? Shane must have done something to his leg rope. Untied it? Cut it?

  As Shane paddles back out, nobody looks at him, even though they were all watching before. There’s a prickle in the air. It’s on, people. He paddles straight to the Brazilian girl and sits up on his board next to her. I watch the two of them talking with a funny feeling. She keeps adjusting her top, shifting the weight of her breasts in their tiny triangles of material. I can hear the low buzz of their voices. She seems relaxed. I want to know what Shane’s saying, because he’ll be acting all nice with her, I’m sure of it. Beautiful girls are protected from the worst of men’s shit. They have it easy. Men are afraid of them in the same way that I’m afraid of guys like Shane.

  I’ve had enough. I decide to paddle around the top of the arrowhead and head towards the point, try and get one in from there. It takes ages. When I reach the back car park I crouch down under the tap for a long time. The tap’s swivelled around so that water spouts up like a geyser. I let it run over my head, my chest, my legs. I wash Hard Cut off. Two mothers are watching a bunch of kids splashing around in the lagoon. An old couple holding hands walks over the bridge. Things are so quiet on this side of the dune, so very different to the break. It’s another world out there.

  19

  friday’s bubble

  On Friday morning I drag myself out of bed for an early, thinking I’d rather face the pre-work crew than run into Shane or Ryan. I arrive back home full of good intentions, thinking I’ll tidy up. I have crap strewn everywhere: newspapers, wetsuits, dirty towels, my board cover, the pile of clean washing that has been drip-feeding me clothes, my laptop, notepads, pens, glasses.

  I’m truly puzzled by the way I make mess. Every now and then I go into a cleaning frenzy and become insanely pedantic about getting everything just perfect. But this morning is not one of those times. After ten minutes I go outside and lie in a puddle of sunlight on the deck, overwhelmed by it all.

  I keep getting up to look at the ocean, framed by trees and bamboo. Today it’s so blue it makes my eyes ache. Every time I walk out here my head snaps around to see it, like the east has some magnetic effect on me.

  Footsteps. Coming down the side of the house. I get up quietly, thinking I’ll creep inside, slide my glass door closed and pretend I’m not home. I don’t know who it is but I feel hunted. Maybe it’s Jean, my landlady, but she normally rings before she comes over.

  ‘Cookie? Are you there?’

  Hannah appears. Her hair is mussed up and she’s wearing her black dress, holding her boots in one hand, with a newspaper wrapped in plastic tucked under her arm.

  ‘Hey. Where have you been?’ I ask, surprised.

  She leans against the side of the house, giving me a glassy smile. ‘I went to my club last night. Joost rang and he was horrible to me. He makes me feel so guilty, you know? So I thought, too bad, mate, I am going to party.’

  ‘With Victor?’

  A frown crosses her face like shadow from a cloud, taking the smile with it. ‘I went there to see him. But Victor was not enshooshiashtic when he saw me.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘So I danced with another man.’

  ‘Is that a euphemism?’

  Her eyes widen in appreciation of the word. ‘A euphemism, yes. I stayed the night with him, at his house.’

  ‘Who was he?’ I sit back down in the sunlight.

  Hannah sits down beside me, her legs straight out in front of her. ‘His name was Paul. An Aussie guy.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘Pah!’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But I brought you this, Cookie.’ She holds up the newspaper. ‘I stole it from his driveway while I was waiting for my taxi.’

  ‘Thank you very much. Hey, shouldn’t you be at work? It’s nine-thirty.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m not going. I’m throwing a sickie. Like an Aussie.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘I think you mean, go vaginas. But you’re not surfing?’

  ‘Already been.’

  ‘Then you’ll read the paper now, won’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

  ‘I might read it too. Down here with you. I’ll make us some tea.’

  While Hannah goes upstairs to get the tea ready – all my cups are dirty, and anyway, I don’t have a teapot, tea, sugar or milk – I find the Metro section. Turns out Bernard has swung fast and loose and reviewed folk, which I can never remember him doing before. But it’s actually Bruce Springsteen doing folk music, which isn’t quite the same as straight folk. He describes Springsteen as being gruff of voice, which I like. He talks of drinking beers and stomping around a dance floor. He makes me feel like everybody else in the world knows how to have a good time except me.

  I wish I wasn’t so uptight. Then I look over at Hannah and realise I’m not alone like I usually am. And it feels good to have some company.

  She’s sitting cross-legged with the business section of the paper spreadeagled over her lap. She frowns at what she’s reading and her forehead stays creased while she checks my cup and hers and pours us more tea and milk, precisely measuring sugar into mine.

  ‘Hey, Hannah?’

  She looks at me and I shake my head, smiling. ‘Nothing. Doesn’t matter.’

  She nods and goes back to her paper.

  We’re still sitting there when my mobile starts ringing an hour later. I decide to leave it, thinking it must be Emilio.

  ‘But Cookie, your
phone is ringing.’

  So I get up and run inside – leaving a phone ringing is the sort of thing that messes with Hannah’s mind.

  The phone dies as I pick it up and I check the menu for missed calls. It wasn’t Emilio who called, it was Ryan.

  I wait to see if the message icon comes up, but it doesn’t.

  What to do? Maybe my board’s ready. Maybe he wants Hard Cut back. Maybe curiosity is killing me.

  He answers on the first ring, which sort of jolts me.

  ‘Ryan?’

  ‘Carly, how’re you going, mate? Mark’s rung to say the boards are done.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Thanks.’

  There’s a pause long enough to be filled in with static.

  ‘Been getting out much?’ he asks.

  I clear my throat. ‘Yeah, a bit.’

  ‘Haven’t seen you down there for a while.’

  ‘Um, I’ve been going different times. Because of work. Different shifts and stuff.’

  ‘Yeah? What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a chef. Sort of.’

  ‘Like a cook?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Right.’

  Another long pause. The air feels heavy.

  I make myself say it. ‘I’m sorry for being rude to you the other day.’

  ‘No biggie, mate.’

  ‘And thanks for getting me a board to use.’

  ‘How is it, all right?’

  ‘Yeah. Bit harder to duck dive though, and turn.’

  ‘Don’t tell Mark that. He fancies himself as a gun shaper.’

  I laugh.

  ‘So anyway, when you’re ready to pick it up they’re down in Harbord Road,’ he says, sounding like he wants to wind this up. ‘You know it? I’ve forgotten what number, but just drive along slow and you can’t miss it.’

  ‘I can find it.’

  ‘Big Hard Cut sign out the front. I’ve told Mark if you try and give him money not to take it. He did it as a favour.’