by Chris Vick
I didn’t ask any more questions. I just held her. Ready to listen, when she was ready.
“I mean, Jesus,” she said, after a time. “What kind of mum abandons her daughter, Sam?”
I didn’t reply. We stood there a long time.
“You ought to get to school, hadn’t you?” she said, eventually. I lifted her chin, wiped the tears off her cheeks with my thumbs, kissed her lips.
“Nah. Learning’s overrated. Rather go for tea and cakes.”
“Tea and cake?” she said, weakly.
“Not cake. Cakes. Tons of them. Rammed with cream and custard and jam.”
“Okay.”
She kissed my face then. Over and over. It was like being licked by Tess. “You’ll need to pay. I’m skint.” She smiled at the joke she’d made.
“Best get back home. We stick out in uniforms. We can walk Tess.”
She pushed her body into mine. “You sure you want to bunk school?” she whispered, her breath and words like velvet in my ear. A promise.
“Oh yeah. I’m dead certain.”
*
We got the bus home, carrying bags of wrapped up cakes and buns.
Jade got cider from her house. Nicked from her dad.
We walked Tess on the tor.
We came back down the hill, sneaking around, making sure Mum didn’t see us.
We climbed up to the den.
We did it. Like losing my virginity all over again. Tess lay in the corner, watching us. We joked about her being a perv.
We lay in the winter sunlight, under the blankets, drunk and high and naked. Not caring about anything.
We put sunglasses on Tess.
Jade blew raspberries on my tum.
We made lists of stuff to take to the Horns.
We talked about our mums and dads. We talked about how we’d be strong together. We talked about Jade staying with Grandma if her dad got too much. Seriously this time, planning it.
She told me all the places she wanted to surf: Barbados, France, Morocco, Spain.
Me and Jade. Jade and me. Arsing around. Having sex. Being in love.
I TIMED IT CAREFULLY, so I could sneak in about the time I usually got home. Then act normal, like I’d been at school all day. Pretty hard when you’ve spent the day drinking cider, having sex and wondering how the fuck you’re going to surf waves big as houses.
I was too cocky. Mum stood in the hallway, like she’d been waiting there a long time. One look told me I was in the crap. And I smelled cigarettes. Was someone else there?
“You were seen,” she said. “In town. The school have been on the phone too, asking if you were ill.”
“What did you tell them?” I said. Mum sighed, and shook her head.
“Come in the kitchen,” she said.
I went in and sat at the table. Everything had been tidied away. No teacups. No tea being made. No dust, no tea stains. Spotless. There was no sign of Teg, either. I guessed she’d been sent upstairs. There was a pack of fags on the table though. And an ashtray, and a lighter. And a near-empty wine glass. Mum sat down, lit a cigarette.
“You gave up,” I said. She shrugged.
“Where’ve you been, Sam? And if you lie I swear to God I’ll go straight upstairs and start packing for London.”
Lies raced through my mind. But suddenly I couldn’t speak that language any more. The one Jade had taught me.
“In town, then back here…” I said.
“With Jade?”
I nodded.
“Is this how it’s going to be, Sam? The surfing. The friends. Jade. Staying out. Drugs. Police. Going out on your birthday and lying about it. Fighting. Now truancy. Anything you want to add?”
“No,” I said. “That’s pretty much it.” She knew it all. Almost. She had my life on a plate and was serving it to me like it was for tea. Here you are, she was saying. Here’s the mess you made.
“Is this going to get better or worse, Sam?” she said, taking a deep pull on her cigarette. “I’d like to know. Because I’m not going to stop you doing anything any more. Nothing I say or do makes the slightest difference anyway, so I’m not even going to try. But I’d like to know what your plans are and I’d like you to stop lying to me. You owe me that much.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I couldn’t lie. I couldn’t tell the truth.
Jesus, I thought, looking up at the clock. This is worse than after the weed bust.
“Well?” she said. Then, to fill the silence: “I thought it would be easier, here. I know what the kids got up to in London. This is worse. This is so much worse. Is it your friends? Is it you? Is it because you haven’t got a father?”
“No. It’s nothing to do with that.”
“What then …?”
…
…
What?”
“Me bunking school… I was helping Jade. She’s in trouble.”
“I’m not surprised to hear that. What kind of trouble?”
“No, you don’t understand. Nothing she’s done. Nothing her fault. It’s…” I tried to find the words.
“Her dad,” Mum said. Not even a question. She knew. I nodded.
“I’ve seen them arguing,” she said. She’d seen them arguing, not fighting. I wondered how much she really knew. Or if she’d guessed.
“We have to help her,” I said.
I told Mum some of what had been going on. I made her promise not to barge in, said that we had to talk to Jade, take it slow. But that we had to help her.
It was a trade. I’d get back on the rails. But we had to help Jade.
“All right, Sam,” she said, stubbing out her fag. “We will. But no more missing school. No more fights. And no more lies. Right?”
“Right,” I said. And I meant it too. I’d get back on the rails. I’d be around more. There’d be no more lies.
Right after we surfed the Horns.
“Look, Sam. It’s nice that you like Jade. It’s great you want to help, but… don’t try and use it as an excuse for what’s gone on.”
“I wasn’t. I’m not.”
“I still can’t help but feel it would be different if your dad was here. Like, he’d do something I can’t. I’ve been too slack. Too weak. He’d discipline you. Not that he was much better. Bloody irresponsible, most of the time …” Mum downed the rest of her wine. She gazed at the wall, looking at it like there was something there. A memory instead of a photo. She got lost looking at it. I wondered how much wine she’d necked.
“How?” I said.
“What?” she said, like she had no idea what I was talking about.
“How was he irresponsible?”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re here to talk about—”
“It does matter. Tell me. You never talk about him. Why?”
She looked at me. Vacant. Like she’d stared at the wall.
“Why?” I said again.
“Why do you think?” she said, like I was missing something obvious.
“I don’t know, Mum. That’s why I’m asking.”
Mum’s eyes searched my face, looking for understanding. “Because it hurts, Sam… I lost the man I love. The only man I ever really loved or will ever love. Lost him for no good reason. It hurts, still, now. It never goes away. And I’m angry with him for making me feel that. All because he was pig-headed, just like you. I see him in you, you know. Every day. He had his head in a book, or was out there, chasing dreams. Just like you… It’s what killed him.”
“What? Why? He drowned.”
“Yes. He did. Because he was stupid.”
“What happened?”
“You know. He went out on a boat. He never came back.”
“What happened?”
Mum sighed. She went and got the bottle from the fridge. Poured herself another glass. A large one. Gave herself time to think.
“We had an argument. He wanted to take you out on the boat.”
“Me, that day?”
“Yes.”
>
“Where?”
“Oh, nowhere far out. He wasn’t that stupid. He just thought you’d like it. You kept asking, you see. You loved the water. But I said no, not till you were old enough. You were bawling your eyes out, wanting to go. He was dead set on it too. Said he had life jackets, a dinghy. That you wouldn’t go far out. That I could come too. But I said no. He got your hand. I kept a grip on you. You were crying and screaming. Maybe I should have let him take you. Because if I had, he’d still be alive.”
“What? You can’t know that, Mum.”
“Yes, I can. He was only going to take you out for an hour. A safe trip. But when I stood my ground he said, Fine, I’m off. I’ve got to get something from Mum’s, then I’m off. Don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“Where was he going?” I said, ice flooding through my guts.
“I don’t know… He’d been talking about some place with a wreck. Some rocks called the… Demon’s Claws. Something like that.”
It was like I’d been punched.
“Devil’s Horns,” I whispered.
Mum’s face clouded with confusion “Yes. How did…?”
“I read about them,” I said, forcing the words out. “In a book.”
I felt the world spinning round the sun. Eighteen miles a second.
IT WAS QUIET the two days before the storm hit. No wind. Crisp, wintry air. No clouds.
It was hard to believe it was coming.
But it was. The storm was in the news. The storm was the news.
It was a storm that could kill, smash houses, wash away walls. Turn a boat into splinters. Bad news all round. Unless you were a surfer, and you were in the right place, at the right time. Every normal break would be a death trap. But there were places that lay sleeping all the year, never even having a single breaking wave all summer. Bays and reefs, asleep but just waiting for the right storm. Like the Devil’s Horns. The surf websites were full of it. But no one was talking about the Devil’s Horns.
Apart from us. We were more excited than Ken the weatherman.
A frenzy of texts flew between us.
Is this it?
How do we know?
Will it be safe getting there?
Is this it?
How early do we leave?
Is this it?
This is it. Wait for the call.
*
The night before, I went to the den with Jade.
We lay on the makeshift bed of old crates, twisted up in each other.
We kissed. And the rest. We didn’t talk much. We were both thinking about the surf. What it would be like. Hoping it was big; hoping it wasn’t too big. I was thinking about Dad. Trying not to think about Dad.
I was afraid. I was excited. There was no difference between those feelings now.
*
Stealing the boat was easy. We told ourselves we were just borrowing it. But we weren’t. We were stealing it.
A lot of boats had been hauled on to dry land because even the harbours weren’t going to be safe. Down at Cape Kernow, not far from Grandma’s house, the gigs – the big rowboats – had been taken from the slipway to a beach just round the corner. They’d been dragged up the beach and on to a field. Well out the way of any waves.
No one had bothered to chain them up. Who was going to steal a boat in the middle of a storm?
We broke into the boat hut at the Cape and ‘borrowed’ some oars. Then we walked round to the bay and chose our boat – a sturdy fibreglass-hulled thing with two sets of rowlocks, so four of us could row at the same time.
We got the boat down to the shore. Loaded it with the two big wave boards we’d taken from Ned’s garage. Our own boards too, the cameras, cooking gear, sleeping bags, some booze. Coats, hats, towels.
We’d been ready for this for weeks.
It was easy.
There was no one to see us, no one to stop us. We’d left notes and messages, saying to our families we were in places that we weren’t. They’d figure out we were gone. School too. But by that time, we’d be long gone.
It was late morning by the time we set off, in what was still calm water, on a sunny winter’s day. The gig slipped through the water fast. Within minutes we were round the Cape and headed out to sea. Me, Skip, Big G and Rag rowed. Jade sat at the front, like our own ship’s figurehead, staring into the horizon. She turned to face us once in a while.
“Okay?” said Jade.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“All right, guys?” said Jade.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
“Cool.”
There was no hiding the fear in our voices. But there was a buzz of excitement too.
As we rowed, the first sharp wind began to blow, stinging my face, blowing wisps of salt water across the sea. It wouldn’t be calm for long.
And on the horizon, a smudge of clouds. A low, long, hazy bank of grey.
Nothing more. But we knew what it was. And we were headed straight for it.
How many kinds of shit would we be in?
It didn’t matter. Not once we had the footage.
Jade looked into the horizon like there was a pot of gold there, just waiting for us to come and take it.
TWO HOURS LATER we hit the islands. Even on the east side it was beginning to get scary-rough, with the seas coming at us from all directions. There was no pattern; it just heaved up and down, with us riding up and down these huge bumps of water, trying to hold our stomachs in. And every now and then a wave broke over the bow. A slap of the cold Atlantic, just to remind us what we were dealing with.
When we finally got round the islands and hit the pebbles, we leapt out, whooping with joy, with relief, and pulled the boat out of the water, as high as it could go, then lashed it secure to the rocks.
The others began hauling the gear up the beach, but I stopped for a second, and looked at what was left of the old lighthouse. Not much. Most of the tower was long gone, taken by the sea, but even half-collapsed, it was something safe and solid in the boiling, shaking madness around us, and I was glad to see it.
Everything was just like we’d planned. There was the first room, pretty soaked, but a good space for the boards; and through the door, the main room, the base of the tower, mostly dry, with space for a fire and sleeping. The barrels we’d taken were there, with dry blankets and food in cans. We’d need it all.
Skip bunked off, but reappeared a minute later, his eyes bulging.
“Man, you gotta see this!” he said and was gone again. We dropped everything and ran.
On the far edge of the island, right where Jade had said it would break, on the inner reef, sheltered from the winds, were freak waves – a stacked-up army of them marching out of the grey mist and smashing themselves over the reef. Freak waves, sure, but here’s the thing that put a shiver down our spines – these waves looked makeable, totally rideable, with a straightforward take off, long green walls, and…
Tubes. Barrels. The green room.
“Keg time,” said Big G, rubbing his hands together.
We ran back to change. Shot through with adrenaline, we fumbled and tripped, racing each other to get in it, and get on it. Skip was still fiddling and faffing when we were all ready. We waited for him at the shore. Impatient. Then he caught up with us and we paddled out. Less than fifteen minutes after we’d arrived on the island, we were outside the reef, sat on our boards, me and Jade to the side of the reef, the others right on the edge.
No sets came for five minutes. And, Jesus, I needed that time to settle my screwed nerves, just to stop my heart banging in my chest like it was trying to get out. But then they came. Walls of water.
Who’d go? We were spread out, Jade too far on the shoulder, in a safe place, the others further along, nearer the point of the reef where all the waves would break. The first wave was threatening to break right over them, so they paddled out so as not to get mashed.
I was in between them and Jade. The peak was good for me.
> “It’s got your name on it, Kook!” Jade shouted.
I turned. Angled the board. Paddled. Felt the pull. Skipped my hands along the surface. Felt it take me. I pushed down, and – bang – I was up, dropping down the wave, turning, riding, then stalling, digging my hand in the wall. No tricks, I just rode it. Then watched the thing roll over my head.
Time slowed. For a few dragging seconds I rode the barrel; a cylinder of crystal energy, with me plugged into it, lit up by the thing.
Then I shot down the line, out the tube and flipped off the back before it closed. I tried to shout, to swear, but I couldn’t even speak. I was almost crying, struggling to breathe. I headed back out, afraid because a set might come and cream me, but also feeling stupid in the head from what it had done to me. It was joy and fear, focused and crazy, electric and numb. Like feeling everything all at once, but feeling like nothing too, like it – the wave – was everything and I was just this tiny, tiny thing, smaller than an atom, less than nothing. But a piece of nothing that had got lucky. I’d seen inside this tear-shaped cave of green water. A sight no one had ever seen or ever would see. That wave was mine.
In spite of being freaked with fear I got back out fine; all I had to do was go around the reef. The waves were like clockwork, always breaking in the same place, in the same way, every few minutes. In the time it took to paddle out, I saw Big G and Jade both get barrels. Then I got another. And another.
We all did. Everyone scored. Not once or twice. Relentlessly.
Every wave was a hit, a high, an all-time best-ever. We laughed like crazies, ruled the water like heroes. We surfed our brains out. For hours. It was insane.
*
When dark came, it came quick, closing on the island like a fog. So we paddled in, mad dizzy with joy.
“We did it,” Rag screamed as we climbed off the beach and on to the rocks. We helped each other out, carrying our boards over our heads, so as not to ding them.
“We rode the Devil’s Horns!” said Skip, like it was a miracle. “I reckon some were double overhead. Whaddya think?”
“Dunno.” Big G shrugged. “I guess we’ll see when we look at the footage. How was it, Skip. Get much?”
Skip’s face dropped. “I didn’t film it.”