RAW BLUE

by Kirsty Eagar

  I was standing waist deep in the water, getting buffeted by the lines of foam, watching Dad pushing Keith onto waves on the board. Dad got impatient when I asked him if I could have a go, probably because I was desperate – I was sure I’d be able to stand up with him watching, and I wanted to beat Keith.

  Being pushy won’t do you any favours, Carla. He stared just past me, not at me, when he said this, which is what he did when he got annoyed. It happened when I tried too hard or wanted too much, which was most of the time. Why wouldn’t he look at me? I was just like any other kid: back swayed by the forward thrust of my tummy, freckles, plump lips slightly parted, pushed apart by teeth that were a little too big – I looked like I was always about to question him, even when I wasn’t, so that probably didn’t help matters. But did he see a bad girl? Did he know something?

  He turned back to Keith, dragging him out to the unbroken water, steadying him on Maddog while they waited for another mound of swell. I considered staring at the sun and blinding myself – Then they’ll be sorry! – but got distracted because a wave was coming. Keith was up on his elbows, gripping the rails tightly, legs slipping sideways off the board because he kept looking back over his shoulder. He was shit scared, I realised, which cheered me up a bit. Dad shoved him into the wave too late. It was already starting to curl, clenching like a fist. Keith was off balance and he nosedived, Maddog shooting straight up into the air a moment later like a rocket launched from his arse.

  That was enough for Keith. He got the shits and went in, marching through the white water as rigidly as a soldier. He reached the beach and threw himself down on the sand near Mum, Auntie Yvonne and Auntie Patricia, who were reclining on their special beach chairs, watching over our younger cousins playing in the sand. The three women asked him questions which he didn’t answer.

  Frantic, I went after Maddog, hauling myself through the water. I knew I had to be quick because if I didn’t … But I was already too late. Dad was going in, too.

  Later, Carla. You can have a turn later.

  It stung. He wasn’t going to watch me. I would have done anything to have him watch me, because things were only ever really good if he was watching. Burning, I high-stepped like a fancy horse through the whitewash, dragging Maddog with me, going deeper and deeper. I was waiting for the call from Mum: Not too deep, Carly. Carla! Get back in here now! But it didn’t come, which meant I had to keep going.

  So I kept going, out the back, where the waves hadn’t broken and the water was green and clear. Out the back, where Dad had taken Keith. My jaw was clenched and I was shaking. I wanted to show them so badly. Once there, I pulled myself up on the board and paddled around awkwardly. I spent a bit of time talking to Maddog, too, because by now the board had taken on some real personality and, right then, was the only friend I had.

  For the first couple of waves I was too far back on the board and I didn’t even come close to catching any of them, dropping off the back of the peak each time. Then I was too far forward and got boiled in sand and white water.

  I was so mad. I charged back out again, paddling wildly, furious with myself for not getting it, with Maddog for letting me down, with the shithead ocean and the dickhead waves and my stupid family up there on the beach ignoring me.

  Gasping for breath, I saw the next mound of swell coming, somehow managed to turn around in time and paddled like a maniac. I felt the suck of the wave behind me and then the surge, which meant I was on. This new momentum held the board steady while I raised myself up on one knee. I rode the fall like that, the wave collapsed into whitewash, and I clambered to my feet. And suddenly I was standing, knees locked, arms straight, bum poking out, toes trying to dig into the deck. I rode the foam all the way in. Even now I can remember the magic of it: the sensation of movement, the way time slowed, and that one moment lasted forever – the roiling foam, the bright sunshine, the offshore wind drying my salty face into a stiff-skinned frown of concentration, the humbling surprise of being handed such a gift. There was just that. At the water’s edge I tumbled into a heap and looked up at them. As I’d expected the feat had gone ignored, but it didn’t matter. The gift was mine. I didn’t need them any more. I had that.

  I stand on the deck, wrapped in my doona, remembering that day at Wamberal, and I feel like somebody’s shoved a stone down my throat.

  ‘Who’s going to know?’

  The words come out in a croak because they’ve had to squeeze past the stone. And I’m not surprised I’ve said them out loud because, let’s face it, I’ve been cracking up for some time now.

  ‘Who’s going to know? Who’s going to know? Who? Who is going to know?’ I get louder and louder, trying to push that stone out, but instead it swells.

  Who’s going to know? Who? Who are you doing this for? God? Your father? Those three guys from the Gold Coast? What? You really think this is going to matter to somebody? This will get you out of it? You’ll be let off? She’s being good, she’s given up, she’s stopped trying so hard, so we’ll let her be now. We’ll leave her alone.

  You really think that’s the way it works?

  The first tears hurt like shit, warning drops before a full-on storm. I feel like the stone’s going to explode, blast through my skin. I swallow and the pain is intense. And then I’m bawling, my mouth open in a silent howl, shaking with big, snotty sobs that work towards melting that lump. Eventually it’s gone, leaving me feeling like the inside of my throat’s been scraped out. But I can’t stop crying.

  My first time back is not brilliant. I go to Cook Terrace because I can’t deal with the break – all that hassling and macho bullshit – not when I’m all over the place like this. I want to go somewhere where I don’t have to worry about people. I haven’t surfed for almost six weeks, so it would be good to have something like a two-foot easterly swell, no wind, easy predictable waves to help me find my rhythm again. What I get is a decent-sized, choppy southeasterly swell and strong southerly winds, making for messy conditions.

  I park on top of the headland near Mona Vale hospital and walk across an expanse of green grass, which sweeps away down the slope like a runway leading to the golf course nestled in the belly of the basin. Behind the golf course I can see yachts on a sliver of the Pittwater. The sky is full of sullen, bruised storm clouds. At the edge of the cliff I check out the options on offer, the cold bite of the southerly raising goose bumps on my arms. There are quite a few surfers down at Warriewood, taking shelter from the wind. North of me, directly in line with the set of steps down to the beach, are three younger guys who seem to want to hurt themselves very badly. They’re throwing themselves into bone-crunching close-outs, surfing like bodyboarders. The waves are like wolves’ jaws, sucking up to show dirty lace and sand, then snapping shut.

  Down from them I see my spot. There’s a bank halfway along the cliff face separating Cook’s from Warriewood. Most of the lines hitting it are just ending in close-outs, but on every other set, it pumps out a workable right. Anyway, there’s nobody on it, which is the main thing.

  Six weeks is the longest break I’ve ever had from surfing. Even when I was at Surry Hills going to uni I used to go at least three or four times a week. But if you think I want to weep with the joy of coming home or something, forget it. The southerly is giving me the shits already, making me edgy. It’s a discontented wind and does nothing but stir everything up. I just want to get this thing over with.

  Down the bottom of the cliffs, at the water’s edge, I rub my hands with sand even though I haven’t put any sunscreen on so they’re not going to be slippery. It’s just something I do, part of the ritual of it all. The water’s colder, I notice that straightaway. I’ve only got a spring suit on and the three boys further up are in steamers, but it shouldn’t matter because I don’t plan on being out for long anyway.

  And then into it. Getting through the impact zone is a pain in the arse. I get smacked by a set of close-outs and end up boiling in white water for what seems like ages. The wh
ole place is a washing machine. I’ve lost condition and I’m puffing hard by the time I finally pull through it and make it out the back. The water’s chopped up and dark grey. When it’s murky like that you think of sharks and stare too hard at clumps of seaweed and sand clouds under the surface.

  When the next set comes through I go for the first one and then pull back off it. That’s the difference six weeks makes. My confidence has dropped and my timing’s off. I’m stuck between wanting the first one out of the way and the knowledge I’m probably going to eat it. It’s actually bigger than I thought: at least four foot with an occasional five-foot face seeming to rear up from nowhere. A wave like that makes you feel choked. You paddle forward to meet it, pulling each stroke with everything you’ve got to spend, while your brain’s rapidly calculating your chances of making it before it breaks and telling you you’ve got no hope. If you get to the face in time, you’ve got to bury the nose of your board as deep as you can, so that by the time the surge starts to pull you’ve started the swoop up, deck angled towards the crest behind you, so it can’t pull that volume of board through the water.

  Where the hell is the right? Now I’m out here everything coming through is a close-out and the right’s disappeared like some mythical beast. It’s a freaking nightmare. A smaller set comes through and I paddle for my next one, knowing it doesn’t constitute a workable wave but wanting the first drop out of the way. I’m slow getting to my feet but it holds up for longer than I think it will. I make the bottom turn and see the wall stretching away in front of me, all of it the same height. I straighten up, the lip comes crashing down behind me and I jump backwards off my board, abandoning ship, landing feet first into the white water. Excellent. This is just shit.

  I’ve just got out the back again and I finally see a shoulder. The right. I’m undecided and hating myself for it, thinking I’m too far inside and it’s too close, sucking up into the pocket. I let it go and hear it thudda-thudda-thudda down the line. Should have gone. Next time.

  So I wait. No point riding close-outs. All I want is just one right then I’ll go in. Sitting out there in the murky water by myself, I’m not exactly comfortable. Put it this way: I don’t pee. From time to time I have to paddle down to hold my position, trying to stay in front of a large boulder at the base of the cliff, because there’s a rip swirl that’s pushing me northwards all the time.

  After a while the wind drops off and the water surface smooths. Weak golden sunlight has broken through the storm clouds, turning the ocean a deep radioactive green. The world seems hushed, waiting for something to happen. High above me on the cliff’s edge I can see three men silhouetted. They’re checking the surf, I bet – it’s something about their stance.

  Then I forget about them because there’s another right coming through. It’s big, sucking up into the pocket like the last one. Once again, I’m too far inside, and I paddle across as hard as I’ve ever paddled in my life, trying to make the shoulder but knowing I’ve got to take this wave no matter what.

  But when it comes down to it, getting up is easy. I’ve left it late but sometimes the more critical part of a wave is better; you use the wave’s own energy, a quick suck-push that picks you up and throws you on the board. There’s a frozen moment, a snapshot in time, where I realise I’m standing, about to take the drop, and the drop’s steep but that’s good because I can already feel the surge and swoop of it in my belly. I make my bottom turn and see the wall stretching away in front of me, the muscle of the wave, steepening up sharply with the promise of speed.

  I don’t do anything more than race down the line. The wave is too fast to try for a top turn, but in an odd way it seems to go forever. It’s a freight train and it’s taking me for a ride. All I had to do was stand up.

  As it drops away at the end, curling in on itself to collapse on the shore break, I kick out. I’m grinning like an idiot, a hoot stuck in my throat. I remember the three watchers and glance back over my shoulder at the cliff top, worried that they saw the wave and might be down to share my spot. But there’s no one there.

  I start paddling out again, every bit of me singing, my skin, my teeth, my hair, my ears, my eyes. I want another one.

  For the next three days conditions get worse and worse. The southerly swings around to the southeast, which means everywhere is chopped up and shitty. The water is a churning mess of sand and foam and grey water; ‘desperates-only’ conditions. I must be desperate because I’m out there every day at Cook’s or Warriewood for two to three hours at a time. I come in from these sessions feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck, hardly able to move, the muscles in my back and neck seized up like solid concrete. I don’t know what’s going on with me and I don’t care much, either. I’m just totally obsessed with the surf. Before, I used to want to live out there. Now, I’m wave hungry. I want every single rideable wave coming through.

  By Thursday, the southerly blows itself out. The world is completely unrecognisable as the angry howling place it was the day before and looks brand new, as though it’s just been made. I go back to the break. The swell is now coming from the east and the run of southerly swell should mean that the banks have cleaned up and will be working well. Really, I don’t think about it much. I just want some good waves. I park in the back car park and don’t bother going to check it: the lagoon’s smooth, there’s no wind around and I can hear waves breaking – what’s to know? I pull on my steamer and wax my board. When I come over the top of the dune I see the ocean and I feel like I’m seeing it for the first time.

  Today it’s blue, straight and simple. Raw blue.

  I paddle out and sit on the inside at Alley Rights. The usual crew are out; the crows making a racket. I don’t talk to anybody and I don’t go into the arrowhead. I keep myself to myself and watch the horizon carefully.

  I haven’t been there for long when I realise there’s someone bobbing not far away from me. It’s that old guy, the one who looks to be about eighty and wears a crash helmet. He’s lying down on his malibu, resting on his elbows, and he’s been waiting for me to look across at him because when I do he gives me a nod and grins, showing me he hasn’t got all his teeth.

  ‘You’re back, sweetheart. I thought you were dead.’

  Friday night. It’s only when I drop Danny home after work that I finally work up the guts to ask him, and even then I wait until I’ve pulled up in the courtyard at his place. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but for some reason it’s become a big deal.

  I open my mouth to speak, looking across at him, and find he hasn’t moved, not even to undo his seatbelt.

  He’s studying me, a look of concentration on his face, hands talking to each other, and I get the feeling he’s been staring at me for a while. It occurs to me, then, that apart from Ryan, Danny’s the only person I know who’s ever really looked at me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve changed.’ Danny sounds thoughtful, but also surprised.

  I don’t ask. Instead I ask the thing I’ve been putting off. Even though I clear my throat, my voice is strained. ‘Hey, do you want to go for an early tomorrow?’

  Funny how when you think too much about what you’re doing everything feels frozen and wrong; I’m trying to come across as casual but I’m sure I’ve got freaky desperation all over my face.

  I’m scared Danny will smirk, maybe say something like, Wouldn’t you like to know?

  But of course he’s not like that. He just nods, looking totally serious. ‘All right.’

  35

  every right

  COASTALWATCH

  Swell size 1 metre – Swell direction E

  There were some excellent waves around yesterday and today the swell looks set to peak …

  I’m down there by six. The sky is blocked by dense, dark cotton-wool clouds and it showers lightly from time to time. There’s no wind so it’s perfectly glassy and the waves are good. I wash my hands with sand down at the Alley rip, looking for Danny in the line-up. He’s nowhere t
o be seen, so I get a small kick out of knowing I was first.

  Even though the world looks grey and gloomy, the water’s warmer than you’d think. I paddle out and sit in Alley Rights. The way the swell’s hitting it there are a couple of peaks working: Alley Rights, the usual left, and then another left breaking further over, directly in front of the lifesavers’ building. It strikes me, then, that I always pick Alley Rights. I know how to work it and I usually get a lot of waves there. I’m thinking I should probably mix things up more, move over now and try for a couple of lefts while there aren’t too many people here. But then I see my first line coming through, rising up out of the glass like a ripple in a blanket. It’s maybe three foot and I get overexcited when I see it, my mind racing through all sorts of calculations: how good the wave is going to be, what I’ll do on it, the fact that there’s nobody around me so it’s all mine and I can probably jam in a heap of these if I work hard this morning. Instead of just turning and going, I get fancy, paddling across so I’m further inside, thinking I’ll take off from behind the peak and try for a sharper top turn, which is interesting considering it’s my first wave out and you’d think I’d just want to get on the thing.

  Anyway, by the time I’m in position it’s really rearing up behind me. I’m off balance as it starts to push and I definitely should be paddling faster and more sideways for such a late take off. Just as I’m getting to my feet, my left hand slips off my deck – should have waxed this morning instead of racing to beat Danny out – and I face plant.