RAW BLUE

by Kirsty Eagar

  But jail? Jesus Christ. What for? That can’t be good. And he’s friends with Shane and that’s not good either. What did he say? You can’t always pick your friends.

  Well, he’s damn right there. I have two friends here: a fifteen year old who sees people in colours and a salsa-mad Dutch woman. I didn’t pick them, they just turned up in my life, and I’m really glad. I think this and I’m suddenly struck down with gratitude for all the things this place has given me. The break, the ever-changing moods of the ocean and the best surfs I’ve ever had. Tonight my world is a bubble. Clear, round, perfect and fragile.

  20

  Sex

  Eight a.m. and the morning is fresh. There is a little nip to the air, a reminder that colder times are coming: wetsuits, blue lips, bloodless feet.

  I’m going down there. I don’t know how I feel about seeing him, exactly, but it’s eight so I’m already late. I swing the bathroom door open and shut a few times, trying to suck some of the steam out of the room before I plug my hairdryer in and dry my hair off. In my bedroom I hunt through the mess on the floor for a pair of clean undies and a bra. Then I pull on my jeans, my lime green Stussy shirt and a white hoodie jumper. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, stop what I’m doing and peer closer, thinking: God, when did that happen? My eyes have changed colour. They’re blue, and they used to be green, I swear it. The skin underneath them is sun stained, far darker than my cheeks, because I always wear sunscreen but don’t like putting it near my eyes. I look like I’m sick with a tropical disease. And I’m thinner. I drink my food now: smoothies, fruit juices, soft drinks and too much coffee. Solid food has become repulsive to me since I started working in that kitchen.

  I sit down on my unmade bed. What will I be going down there for? Is it because I’m bored with being alone? I’m not scared of being alone, that’s different. I’m bored with it, sick to the teeth of it, but not afraid of it. I’m afraid of being with someone. Because the moment they touch my breasts just so, weighing them in the palm of their hands, I’m ripped back through time. Would you look at that?

  I tried to have sex when I was at uni. Just once. He was friends with my flatmate, Matt the pothead, and he seemed so knowing, so sure of himself, I was certain he’d be able to unlock me. Make me like it, make me want it. On the night it happened, Karen, Matt, him and me went to the pub. He and I stayed after the others had gone home, just long enough for him to rest his hand on my thigh so I knew what was on offer. Then we stumbled home after them.

  But when it came down to it, when we were in my bedroom and he was lying on top of me, I couldn’t stand it. I pushed him off, told him I didn’t want to. The worst thing was he stayed anyway, just went to sleep on my bed. And I was sure it was because he didn’t want Matt to know he hadn’t gotten lucky. He snored away and I lay there burning up, hating him and, most of all, hating myself.

  That’s what I’m afraid of. Sex.

  21

  the tasman sea swell

  COASTALWATCH

  Swell size enormous – Swell direction S

  Stay on the beach. Don’t even think about going out unless you’re a professional with a jet ski and a team to make sure you come up again …

  The top car park is three-quarters full. Everybody’s down there to see the monster swell from the Tasman Sea. Twenty-foot wave faces are predicted for some beaches, around midday.

  Yesterday, the lifesavers were on the radio begging people not to go out because they’d only be putting other people’s lives at risk. When I woke up this morning I went out onto my deck and I could hear the noise of it. The rumble was louder than anything I’ve ever heard before, each wave crashing like a baby avalanche.

  I park the Laser and walk across the car park, carrying a travel mug full of coffee. There are maybe forty people along the railing, backlit by the morning sun, staring out at the enormous swell. In its slipstream comes cold Tasman air. I rest my coffee on a post and zip my hoodie up. Then I walk behind the backs of the spectators towards the lookout spot.

  There are three jet skis out there and three surfers. Two of the skis are parked out the back, their drivers twisted around watching for a signal from the surfers in the water. The third jet ski is sweeping in, towing a surfer in its wake. I stop walking to watch the jet ski whip him onto a mound of swell that grows bigger and bigger as it approaches the land shelf.

  The crowd erupts into hoots, hollers and claps. A surprised exclamation – Augh! – booms out like a handclap.

  The surfer tracks left on the wave, backhand for him, trying to stay up near the top of the peaking slope. At the last minute as the wave begins to shut down, he runs into a bottom-hand turn and uses the speed to kick himself out over the top. He’s in the clear. The jet skier zooms in towards him then has to pull out again as another set rolls in. The surfer starts paddling sideways, trying to get out of its path. He gets sucked up a wave face, but he’s close enough to the shoulder to be able to push through in a duck dive.

  I’m blown away. These waves are magnificent, there’s no other word for it. Feeling dazed, I start walking towards the lookout seat. That’s when I see the group of men near the railing beside the showers, surfers all of them – brown skin, faded jeans, T-shirts and old jumpers. I see Ryan in amongst them. The rest of them are staring out at the ocean, but he’s staring at me.

  I glance away, feeling a thudding start up at the base of my throat. Am I supposed to go to him? With them there? I can’t. I don’t know what to do. I climb up onto the lookout seat on the far side of a couple of baby boomers from Newport or somewhere further up the peninsula, by the look of them.

  The husband is explaining to his wife how the jet skis tow the surfers in because the waves are too big for them to paddle into. ‘Also, I suppose, in case one of them injures himself. Much more efficient for attempting rescue, I would imagine.’

  He’s read about it or reasoned it out himself.

  The two of them are shielding me from Ryan. When the husband helps his wife down from the seat I’m left exposed. I look north towards the headland, but really I’m trying to see if he’s still watching me. He is. The weight of his stare is like a rope around my neck, tug, tug, tugging me in his direction. I wonder if he thinks I’m playing games. I’m not. I just can’t go over there while he’s with a group of men.

  I take a sip of coffee, feeling like a tosser with my travel mug, jump off the seat and hurry down the path to the beach, slipping in the sand. Out front I sit on the pine railing fence in front of the lifesavers’ box. The beach is closed this morning so there are no lifesavers in there but instead a father and his kids.

  For a moment I forget all about Ryan. The waves are even more spectacular viewed up close. When they peel it’s like a line of skyscrapers falling down, structural instability in one section creates a domino effect. It’s completely different to the crocodile snap of smaller waves when they close out on the banks. In between sets there’s a lot of water moving about, giant rivers pushing and pulling in different directions. I’m reminded of the arrows drawn on weather maps to illustrate the flight paths of cold and warm air, the different fronts passing each other. The whole foreground of the ocean is a sea of white foam, like ploughed snow.

  Another surfer is up behind his jet ski, the pointed nose of his board carving his path through the water. He enters the wave too far inside and is forced to link a series of turns, trying to build enough speed to make it across before he’s buried by tonnes of water. He reaches the shoulder and executes a slow graceful turn. With his legs so far apart and strapped into position on his board he looks like a toy soldier, feet mounted to a plastic stand.

  ‘How’re you goin’?’

  I jump. Ryan sits down on the rail without looking at me.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Massive, eh?’

  ‘Yeah it’s huge.’ My voice sounds glassy.

  ‘See you’ve got your coffee.’

  ‘I felt like it was an event. Going to see the circus.�
��

  ‘It is a circus. Waterworks.’

  A prickly pause.

  ‘I was going to come over …’ I have to squeeze the words out of my throat.

  ‘Yeah, I was waiting for you to.’

  ‘… to say hello. I just … You were talking to those guys.’

  ‘You were put off by them?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  I glance at him, which is a mistake because I get trapped. I want to tell him to stop looking into me, stop reading me. I wonder why I ever thought his eyes were cold. Or maybe they’ve changed. I thought they were metallic the first time I talked to him, but I can see now they’re softer than that.

  ‘So I’m going to check out Dee Why next,’ he says. He’s talking in a soft, slow voice that I haven’t heard him use before. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

  ‘Just you?’

  He nods. I say yes, and as I say it I’m worried I’m answering a different question.

  As we’re walking back up the path, a group approaches and Ryan stands behind me to let them pass. I don’t know which is more unbearable, him walking beside me or behind me. When we reach the grassed area I keep my head down, but my gaze slides sideways to the group of men. I’m worried they’ll be looking over at us, taking note. They’re not. They’re focused on the water. Ryan’s back beside me now and I notice he doesn’t look at them.

  ‘Do you want to ride with me?’ he asks.

  ‘Rhino!’ A male voice, one of the group calling out.

  Ryan lifts an arm and waves, but doesn’t stop walking. I’ve got the same sense of vertigo I feel when I’m driving my car and I’ve got to fight from scraping against the guard rail. God, if I’m not careful I’ll just unpeel in front of him.

  ‘Carly?’ He stops walking, waiting for me to answer him.

  My forehead wrinkles. ‘Um, I don’t know.’

  They’re watching. You don’t know what he tells them and you don’t want to leave yourself open to that. Next time you’re out there, what will you cop? What’ll they think they can get away with?

  ‘I could just follow you in my car,’ I say, and once again there’s that glassy quality to my voice.

  He scratches his head. ‘Be a bit of a waste, wouldn’t it? Two cars.’

  ‘No, it’s cool.’

  ‘Parking’s going to be shithouse, mate. They’ll all be out having a look. Be easier with one.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Look it’s no biggie. We can take two cars.’

  ‘Um …’ I tap my teeth with a finger, stare at the ground.

  He watches me trying to make up my mind, not impatient, more amused.

  We’re strangers on first-name terms. We both surf here, but really that equates to meeting in the street. It’s not the common ground you share when you go to uni together, or work with each other, or meet through another friend. Do I trust him enough to get in a car with him? I don’t know anything about him, except he’s been in jail.

  Grinning, he shakes his head. ‘All right then, two cars it is.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. Let’s just … get going.’ He starts walking across the bitumen towards his Commodore.

  I feel like such an idiot. All we’re doing is going to Dee Why, why do I have to make such a big deal out of it? He probably doesn’t even like me. Maybe he just feels sorry for me, especially after the way I lost it in the car park.

  Except, his eyes – sometimes I feel like they’re considering me. Asking me if I want to consider him.

  He looks at me over his shoulder. ‘Aren’t you parked over there?’

  Too busy freaking out, I’ve followed him to his car.

  ‘Listen, okay, well, I’ll come with you. If that’s all right.’

  He moves his hands to show it’s fine, business-like now, playing it low-key. He opens his door, gets in, then leans across and unlocks the passenger-side door. The window’s down anyway, so I don’t know why it’s locked.

  I walk around to that side of the car and I just can’t get in. I look at my watch. Then I poke my head in through the window. He’s staring across at me and I notice the freckles over his nose, and how his chapped lips have got freckles too.

  ‘You know what? I forgot I have to work. So I’ll drive – it’s closer from there –’

  ‘Right-oh, mate. See you there.’

  He starts his engine and idles his way out of the car park. He waits for me just past the roundabout. We drive to Dee Why in a convoy.

  22

  turtlebacks at dee why

  Ryan cuts through Dee Why’s backstreets rather than driving along the café strip, avoiding the traffic. At the top of the hill he turns right onto the road leading to Curl Curl, then almost immediately left into a side street. He waits for me to park and we start walking towards the Point together.

  ‘Do you ever surf here?’ I ask, hurrying to keep pace with him.

  ‘Not much. I usually go to Warriewood if the southerly’s bad.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Is that right?’ There’s no warmth in his eyes now, not even interest.

  He plunges into the crowd at the Point and I follow. Everybody is moving, trying to get a better vantage point, eyes on the surf, not where they’re going.

  Ryan sits down in the shade of a scrubby tree to the side of the stairs leading down to the tidal pool. ‘Out of the sun.’

  I look at the sun spots on the back of his hands. ‘Why don’t you surf earlier if you don’t like the sun?’

  ‘Nine’s early.’

  ‘No, like six or something.’

  ‘I’m not a morning person.’

  There are four guys out, two sitting up on their boards directly in line with the top of the pool and another two paddling out. The two paddling are slowly getting swept north, not making any forward progress against the thick lines of foam.

  ‘Do you reckon they paddled out…’ I ask, pointing to the two in the spot. ‘Or just jumped off?’

  Ryan points to a man in a wet suit with a big wave gun tucked under his arm making his way around the far edge of the pool. The sets pushing through force him to grab onto the pool’s chain railing to stop the white water sweeping him off. There are two boys in board shorts further up from him, on the inside of the chain railing. Every time white water sweeps over the pool ledge they take cover, squatting down and holding onto the chain so that only their rounded backs are visible through the surging foam. When the push and pull has stopped they stand up again, laughing at each other and the thrill of what they’re doing. The pool is churning and boiling.

  ‘Turtlebacks,’ I say, and Ryan glances at me. I point to the boys. ‘I’d love to do that.’

  His voice is flat. ‘So go do it.’

  My face burns red. A line of swell looks to be shaping up nicely for the two guys in the spot. The guy on the inside goes for the wave and in that moment the crowd is still, watching him taking the drop. He’s almost vertical, his gun a slash down the wave face, then he lands it, bottom turns and starts heading across.

  ‘I’m not going to bite, you know.’

  I realise Ryan’s watching me and I feel like I’m in a spotlight, arms out to the sides, attempting to cross a tightrope.

  ‘I know, I just … I’ve got to go to work, like I said – if you mean the car thing.’

  He does a slow nod, sucking air through his teeth. ‘You’ve got to go to work.’

  ‘And I don’t really know you.’

  He shrugs. ‘No, I s’pose you don’t. And I don’t know you either. All I know is that you’ve been turning up to surf where I surf.’

  ‘Well, I love that break. It’s my favourite break in the world.’

  I see the smile I’ve surprised out of him.

  ‘Your favourite break in the world, hey?’ He looks back at the surf, the smile still tugging the corner of his mouth.

  Now he isn’t watching me, I can be bolder. ‘When I first started surfing there, you weren’t there then. You said
you’d been away. Where were you?’

  He raises his sandy eyebrows, answering my question with a question of his own. ‘Do you really have to go to work?’

  I look away from him at the boys making turtlebacks. Another wave smashes towards them and this time one of them turns around and lets the boiling foam sweep him into the baths. He gets sucked under and surfaces about halfway down the pool.

  ‘I do have to work, but not until four-thirty.’

  ‘Thought so.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  He narrows his eyes at me, suddenly appraising. The thing with Ryan is, I never know what he’s thinking but I feel like he can see straight through me.

  ‘I was inside,’ he says. ‘Jail. You want to know what for.’

  I’m not sure if I do or I don’t.

  His voice is flat. ‘Or are you going to say it doesn’t matter?’

  Resting my chin on my forearms, I pick my words carefully. ‘Only if it’s for a bad thing.’

  ‘People don’t usually get put in jail for charity work.’

  ‘No, I mean there’re bad things that don’t matter and there’re some that really matter.’

  His eyebrows twitch. ‘You’re a weird fish, you know that?’

  ‘I’m not a fish.’

  ‘Dunno about that, you spend a lot of time in the water.’

  I start laughing but it turns into a sob. And just like that I start to unpeel. It’s caught me by surprise.

  Straightaway, Ryan’s looking at me and there’s nowhere to hide. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m sorry. This is embarrassing. I’m going.’

  ‘No need to go. You cry if you want. Doesn’t bother me.’

  After a bit, I say, ‘It’s just hard.’

  ‘Crying?’

  I laugh, then sniff. ‘No, this. I’m not very good with people. And I don’t know you.’

  ‘Yeah, you mentioned that. Isn’t that what we’re doing now? Letting you get to know me?’

  ‘Yeah, but …’