RAW BLUE

by Kirsty Eagar

  When I surface, pissed off because I’ve just wasted what would have been a great wave, I see Danny paddling out towards me, looking as sleek as a seal in his wetsuit. Shaking my head at my own stupidity, I paddle back into position. A moment later he joins me, sitting up on his board, a smirk on his face.

  ‘You ate it on the last one.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  He laughs, going floppy weak in that way of his. ‘You were like this.’ He planes his hand through the air and then slaps the water. ‘Here, I’ll do it in slow-mo.’ He planes his hand through the air and then slaps the water, slowly.

  I press my lips together and choke off a laugh so it comes out like a snort.

  ‘Hey, this is good today.’

  I nod, agreeing with him. It’s started raining again, the raindrops making a fizzing sound as they hit the warm ocean. It’s like sitting in soft drink.

  Another line of swell mounds up and we both go for it, hassling each other for fun. I’m on the inside, but Danny gets up anyway. Grinning, I tell him to piss off. He just laughs and keeps going. I jam my back foot down and turn off the wave, cutting up over the crest. I’m back in position in time for the third wave of the set: up, pump across the top, swoop, bottom turn, trim, into a cut back, steady in the foam, wait for the wall, pump along the line, top turn, slide down, top turn, race the close-out, kick out.

  Nice.

  We get maybe another four waves or so each, pretty much straight away. I love it when it’s like this. Each wave gives you so much time. You can fit so much in. But hordes of people are arriving all the while and soon the water is clogged with them. Most have paddled over to the lefts, but there’re a couple on our inside, all of them antsy because they haven’t got their first wave yet.

  At least one wave every other set still breaks out wide, though, sectioning so these other surfers can’t get across, and we take these rights. They’re much more hollow and sucky, but it’s better than having to bother with people.

  We’ve been talking, both of us in the water, holding our boards crossways in front of our chests, when Danny spots a big one that looks like it’s going to break wide. He goes for it, but a guy’s coming across – and he’s charging like a train, I can track his progress from the back of the wave by the spray shooting up. He makes it around the section and shouts Danny off with an angry ‘Beat it!’, when a whistle or a quiet ‘Yep’ would have done it.

  ‘What a tosser,’ I say when Danny paddles back to our spot. I’ve seen the guy out before. He’s middle-aged and barrel-chested, talks to his mates in a really loud voice when they’re around because he wants everybody to know that he has mates. When his mates aren’t around he bristles with aggro because this is his break and we’re all out trespassing. He’s prone to glaring at people in the water for no apparent reason, shooting dirty looks around like arrows. I’ve seen him have a go at other guys – the ones who aren’t his mates, don’t know his mates and don’t have mates of their own. He paddles right next to them, getting right in their space, dishing it out in a big loud voice and splashing water into their face with an angry flick of his hand.

  There are a few different tribes at the break, but he’s not from any of the weekday ones. He descends on the weekends at different times. If I had to put money on it, I’d say he doesn’t live around here any more. He might have once, back in his glory days, but now I reckon he just drives back to beat his chest and mark out his territory.

  He’s sort of ridiculous, but the truth is, guys like him make me nervous.

  Danny sits up and narrows his eyes. ‘Yeah, I made it around the section, boy. And do you know why, boy? It ain’t ’cause I ride a big thick board because I’m too lazy to paddle a proper shortboard any more. It’s ’cause I’ve been surfing here for forty years, and that’s forty years before you even got off the boat, you chink-eyed little shit.’

  He says all this in an imitation Australian drawl: eyes narrowed, hardly moving his lips, voice loud and hoarse.

  I frown. ‘Did he say that to you?’

  Danny’s face relaxes, not seeming overly worried. ‘Yeah, one time. I dropped in on him. I didn’t mean to, like, I said sorry and stuff.’ He frowns. ‘I think it was thirty years, but.’

  ‘Oh yeah, they’ve all been here for thirty years. Or forty years. Never an odd number. They’re all on some freakin’ anniversary or another.’ But my voice is tight as I say the words because the guy is paddling back out and he seems to be heading our way. In that moment, seeing him set a collision course for the two of us, something happens. I give up. I won’t come back again, I tell myself. There’s no point. They always win in the end.

  Danny doesn’t seem to notice. He’s lying down on his board, ankles crossed, elbows propped on the deck. His hands are talking to each other and it reminds me of the first time I saw him.

  The guy paddles past us so closely that my board rocks from his wake and he snarls, ‘The trouble with this break these days is that it’s full of friggin’ women and children.’

  My face is frozen. There’s the taste of metal in my mouth: fear. But Danny blinks as though his line of thought has been interrupted and he looks over at the guy, shrugs, and says, ‘So what? It’s our break, too.’

  ‘Your break, too,’ the guy mutters, hissing the words like a threat, shaking his head over them. But he keeps going.

  Like nothing has happened at all, Danny slides off his board into the water. ‘Hey, you know that movie, Trilogy? I got it the other day. You can borrow it if you want. It’s okay. But one thing I didn’t get …’

  He keeps talking, but I’m not listening. I want to ask him how he did that. I want to know how he can be so open. I want to know why he isn’t scared. And most of all, I want to know how come he doesn’t let them get to him. He’s just done one of the best and bravest things I’ve ever seen. I want to tell him that with those couple of words – So what? It’s our break, too – he’s changed my whole way of looking at the world. I don’t know what just happened, but I think he’s written me a permission slip.

  ‘… like, most of the whole movie is just them telling you about how great the movie is going to be. But then you’re, like, so where’s the great bit? That’s it? And when they’re playing poker and stuff, you can tell it’s just a set up –’

  ‘Have you got a colour, Danny?’ I interrupt. I can’t believe I haven’t asked him this before.

  He frowns at the interruption, but when he registers the question his eyes spark as he realises we’re on to possibly his favourite subject, his ‘gift’. Then he scowls.

  ‘No. I’ve checked. In the mirror and in photographs. It sucks. Everybody else gets one, but me.’

  I’m silent for a bit, then I say, ‘I think you’ve got a colour.’

  Well, he doesn’t like that. He gives me a hoity-toity look and says, ‘You don’t have synaesthesia. Only I get colours from people.’

  ‘Okay then.’

  After about thirty seconds he says, ‘Okay, what is it?’

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘What’s my colour?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

  He splashes me. ‘Tell me.’

  I smile, then smooth my face out. ‘Your colour is shiny.’

  ‘Shiny? That’s not a colour.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘No, it’s not. What colour’s shiny?’

  ‘The colour the sun makes when it hits the water.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He likes that. I can tell.

  36

  the glitter skin,

  Saturday night. Work is a major slamfest. There are customers queued up out the door from five onwards. I have six or seven food orders lined up on the strip constantly, and even at ten-thirty they’re still trickling through.

  Normally when it’s crazy like this I try and race it. I flog myself to clear those orders and I feel overwhelmed when I can’t. I get stressed about the fact I won’t have time to do everything on the p
rep list, as though I’ve failed something. Tonight I have a change of mindset. I suddenly realise that no matter what I do, how fast I work, how hard I try, how prepared I am, there will always be another drunken idiot wanting a bowl of wedges. So I take it one order at a time. I don’t stress about trying to meet the franchise manual’s impossible standards. I just do my best. And instead of working overtime for an hour to do everything on the prep list, I work an extra half an hour and do just the basics they’ll need for the morning. Because. Well, because no matter what I do the place will still be a mess when I come in next time. And there will always be hungry people in Manly. Sometimes crowds of them. That’s just the way things are.

  I finish up at twelve-thirty, take off my apron and trudge through to the office to sign off and get my bag. There’s a man in there talking to Emilio. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, maybe fifty or so. I wait outside because there’s not enough room for all three of us in there.

  ‘Sorry you had to wait for so long. If I’d known you were there I would have said to come through,’ Emilio says to the man. ‘You should have yelled out.’

  ‘No, I could see you were busy. I went to a movie.’

  ‘See anything good?’ Emilio is scribbling out a cheque.

  ‘No,’ the man says. I like how he doesn’t bother going into details.

  ‘I’ll send the payslip through to you when it’s done. And the group certificate. I’ve got your address. But that’s everything owing on the wages.’ Emilio rips the cheque off and seals it in an envelope.

  The man takes the envelope from him and tucks it into the pocket of his shirt, his movements slow and deliberate, the way big people move in small spaces.

  ‘Tell him we all say hello,’ Emilio says.

  ‘Yeah, will do, mate.’

  ‘And if he ever needs anything, tell him to just give me a call.’

  The man nods slowly. ‘That’s appreciated. I will tell him that.’

  They shake hands.

  ‘Thanks once again, Evan,’ the man says.

  Emilio doesn’t correct him. ‘Good luck with it all.’

  As the man ducks out of the office he spots me hovering outside and gives me a nod. He’s got brown curly hair, shot through with grey, and green eyes in a well-worn face. He looks vaguely familiar. He goes out the back way.

  I join Emilio at the desk.

  ‘Carly.’

  ‘Evan.’

  The takings are still in the register drawer on the desk in front of him. He consults the till readout.

  ‘How’d we do?’ I ask, pulling the roster across to me.

  ‘We did a shitload.’

  He pulls a pile of fifty-dollar notes out of the register and starts counting. As he’s securing the first pile with an elastic band, he says, ‘Do you know who that was?’

  I finish signing the roster and straighten up. ‘Who?’

  ‘Marty’s dad.’

  I blink. ‘Oh.’

  ‘He’s moved back into home. His mum rang and asked if they could pick up his wages. She seems nice. Worried sick about him, of course.’

  I nod. ‘I’m glad someone’s looking after him.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too. Marty’s all right. Just messed up.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’

  Emilio flashes me a smile, his brown eyes tired but warm. ‘Go home, Carly. See you Tuesday. Thanks for tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, you too. Survive tomorrow.’ I grab my apron off the desk.

  I’m through the door when I stop and turn back. ‘Emilio?’

  He’s frowning with concentration, caught up in his counting. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thanks for letting me know.’

  I take Pittwater Road home, and as I drive I’m not thinking about anything. Maybe that’s why it sneaks up on me. Or maybe it’s time and I’m ready for it or something. I don’t know. Who’d want to know how these things work? The universe is too big and weird for me to want to go picking at its seams. I’ve seen the rough end of it already.

  Anyway.

  I pass through Dee Why stretching out my neck and circling my shoulders. My muscles are so tight and sore. It’s from surfing so much after having had that break away from it. And it’s from standing up for eight hours straight at work. On the hill near Long Reef, I think about Danny as I look across to the gap in the vegetation where you can just catch a glimpse of the surf as you drive by. Except I can’t see anything now, obviously. Not at nearly one in the morning.

  I get green lights through Collaroy and then hit the long straight stretch into Narrabeen, the streetlights ahead of me haloed in the chilly, moist air. It’s the end of my week. I’ve got two days off. And it feels extra good knowing this after working so hard tonight. I take a deep breath and feel all those tight muscles release as I breathe out.

  And I slowly realise that I feel good. Warmth is swelling inside me like a bubble of sunshine. My scalp and skin are tingling. The energy crackling through me is like the singing I get after a really good wave. And it makes me want to smile.

  There’s nothing behind it. No reason for it. I used to get this feeling all the time when I was a kid.

  I reach for the window and start to wind it down, thinking this could only be better with cold, clean night air hitting my face, and then I hesitate.

  Because that might be enjoying things too much. And they’ll get you if you do that. That’s how I feel, right then.

  If you looked at it from the outside, you’d just see a girl in a car driving home. If you took the satellite view then you’d see the yellow roof of a car driving along a main road at night. If you went higher, you probably wouldn’t be able to pick out the yellow roof, but you’d see that there were quite a few cars travelling on that same road, and you might notice it had six lanes, three each way. Further up, you wouldn’t even see the cars. You’d see a necklace of bright lights strung along the coast beside a body of black water. And if you went higher than that and kept on going, you might eventually find the place in the universe where they decide what happens to people in their lives and they could tell you why.

  But I can’t do that. All I can do is decide whether or not to wind the window down.

  I wind it down. And I lean back in my seat. And the air feels good. And I will take that. Because I am not what happened to me.

  I let myself feel good for no reason. I let joy happen right there and then, and it’s inside me and around me, it’s the lights on the road ahead, the clean black of the night, the cold air coming through the window. It’s like hearing a song for the first time and being struck by it, haunted by it, wanting to hunt it down and catch it, because the song sums up something you didn’t know you wanted to say, giving you chills and goose bumps. But even as you find out what it’s called, and you’re thinking you’ll download it, you’ve already lost. Because the feeling was right then and there and it’s already fading like a dream.

  You just have to see those times for what they are: a chance to look down at your life. And when you do, you see it’s a skin made up of shiny little moments.

  I could keep driving, keep going all the way up to Palm Beach, or go to the break and listen to the surf. But in the end I just go home. I’m tired.

  Hannah’s Barina is missing from the carport so I guess she’s out doing her thing. I park up on the footpath, switch the motor off and dig around in the glove box for my mobile phone. It’s not there so I check through my bag, even though I don’t usually take my mobile in to work in case it gets nicked. But it’s not there, either. I clomp my way down the side of the house and the sensor light comes on, highlighting the bamboo that’s growing up near the side of the deck. When I unlock the sliding door to my place, I walk inside without bothering to take my boots off like I normally do. I want to find that phone.

  Things inside are the usual mess and I start with the table, moving newspapers and cups and plates around but seeing no phone. Then I go into the bedroom, chucking the clothes on the bed onto the floor, and patting down the side
table. It’s not there, either.

  I look around, frustrated, rubbing my forehead which feels greasy from work. Don’t tell me I’ve lost the bloody thing. Then I clomp back out to the deck, which apart from the shaft of light spilling out of the sliding door is in darkness because the sensor light has switched off.

  The wet tub. Maybe I left it there after my surf. I bend down and scrabble around in the tub. Sure enough, there it is, hidden under the damp towel I forgot to hang out, keeping company with the bits of old wax, forgotten hair bands and the sand that lines the bottom.

  I turn it on and when I see the message on the screen I feel a lurch of hope that slams my heart into my rib cage. I honestly wasn’t expecting him to call, even though for some reason finding that phone seemed really important. He hasn’t called for so long.

  I slide down so I’m sitting beside the tub and I listen to his message hunched over, legs pulled up to my chest, elbows resting on my knees.

  Carly, it’s me. I wasn’t gonna hassle you any more but there’s this one thing I want to say then I’ll leave you alone. Mate, you gotta know – I just want to say this because then it’s all, you know, been said. So bear with me, all right? I want you to know that it’s not too hard, okay? Or whatever it was that I said. I never meant that, all right? I dunno why I said that ’cause I don’t think it. Nothing’s too hard. I mean, that’s if you want it, too. So … yeah. I’ll be back on Monday night. Same bat time, same bat place. And I would really, really like to see you. If you want to catch up you know where to find me. Okay, then. I’ll leave it with you, eh? It’s Ry – well, you know who it is.

  Ryan’s eyes are grey, but there are bits of gold in them, too. Sometimes when he looks at me the warmth coming from them takes me by surprise. I miss him so much.

  After a long time I realise I’m still holding the phone to my ear, pressing it there hard enough to hurt, listening to what is now silence. My eyes are burning and my throat is so tight that at first it hurts to swallow. When I can breathe, I pull air into my chest like I’m drowning. And when I exhale I get the most incredible sense of relief.