Have you got a cigarette, mate?
Sure, and the name’s Ron.
Mine’s Linda.
Well, where are you going, Linda?
Don’t know.
She lights her cigarette and draws in deeply. She still stares out the window at all the dancing, mocking lights.
Wow. Well, I’m going to find a hamburger joint. I’m hungry— how about you?
You must be rich! You picked me up a few minutes ago—and now you offer me a meal.
She takes another furtive puff of her cigarette and hugs the smoke inside her. Then she looks over at him with her washed-out blue eyes. He smiles shyly.
I can only offer you a hamburger. I was hassling crayfish up north, on a cray boat. Good money. Kalbarri. Ever been there?
No. I’ve lived all my life on a farm. Well, you know, the occasional trip to Perth. For the Royal Show and that sort of thing. Twenty-two years that bored me to death,
Said bitterly. Memories of flat-footed farmers’ boys and clumsy attempts at love in a prickly hayshed, or among greasy wool, or in the warm sensuality of a virgin green paddock in spring. Dances in the town hall—same old faces, same old jokes.
The waves at Kalbarri are out of this world, like—they’re something else. Tubes? Wow, you haven’t surfed until you’ve been to Kalbarri.
Ron is happy and brown, with red-brown flowing hair and green eyes that can read an ocean, if nothing else.
One day I’m going to be a famous surfer. Then I’m going to move over to Hawaii. They say that some waves there are over eighty feet high. And there’s a place in Indonesia where you can get a ride for a mile. A mile-long wave. What a magic wave that would be!
His eyes sparkle with joy and the girl smiles.
They pull into a dreary kiosk. All around on the dark dirt lie broken bottles, cans and discarded ice-cream papers. A few surfers stand in a grinning group, eating greasy hamburgers.
The boy gets out of the womb of the car, a new child bom into the universe. Stars litter the black sky above while rubbish lies upon the ground around his bare feet.
Two hamburgers please, and a big bottle of Coke.
The kiosk cannot decide whether it should leap over the crumbling edge of the cliff onto the slimy reef below and end it all, or whether to stay there, selling greasy second-rate food to the used-up dreamers.
The surfers see the surfboard on Ron’s roof rack. They see he is one of the brotherhood of the wandering lost.
Hey, man, where you been at? Haven’t seen you before.
Kalbarri.
Yeah? What’s it like up there?
Kalbarri’s a mean piece of water isn’t it, man?
Ask Colin about that.
Colin: a skinny blue-eyed boy, with a rhythmic swing to his loose body and big feet that could stay glued on any board on any wave. A real surfer.
Man, he came out of that foam crying like a baby.
Well, Jesus, Joe. My board was snapped in half. A two-day-old board.
A gangling youth, with an incessant grin, says to Ron,
What sort of board you got, man?
Swallowtail.
Swallowtail? Christ, man, they’re murder.
Give us a look at it.
OK.
They drift over to the car, staring in at the washed-out girl. But they are more interested in the surfboard reclining on the roof rack. The boy called Colin runs his hand over the smooth green body.
Good board. I bet you get good vibes out of this one.
Well, it sort of grows on you, you know?
Right.
Hey, man, what’s your name, anyway?
Ron. Ron Doorie.
Well, I’m Clancy. That’s Colin and the mountain behind is Joe.
Joe is small and dark with short curly hair, an Italian. The other two are thin and brown with long blonde hair and squinting eyes, from looking at too many sunstruck waves, and coloured shirts with board shorts or jeans torn off at the knees. Feet swathed in thongs or Indian sandals.
They shake hands. A cigarette or a handshake, and you have an instant friend. That’s how frail friendship is for them; all they really care about are the thundering, gliding waves.
Hey, Ron, where you going to now?
Ooh, just wander, Joe. Cruise down south, maybe. I might go to Margaret River.
That place is bad news. The way those waves come into the riverhead, you know. Well, remember Bobby Campbell? He’s dead, man!
No shit?
Ron breathes sharply at this momentous piece of news, awestruck for a second by the ocean’s ever-present violence. You can forget about it and it sneaks up on you like a wave licking the beach.
Yeah, man, about a month back. Wasn’t it, Clancy?
That’s right. It was a hairy wave, anyway, from what I heard and he wiped out, man. You just can’t afford to do that at Margaret River.
He must have been sucked under a rock or been taken out to sea. They never found him again.
There is a silence as the youths remember their comrade, flicked like a speck of dirt from the turquoise suit of the ocean with an arrogant white-nailed finger, then crushed like an offensive bug.
Ron thinks he can remember Bobby Campbell. A tall loose-jointed youth with crooked front teeth and wiry ginger hair that no amount of water could uncurl. His favourite drink had been rum, which he could drink by the bottleful with no ill effects. He had been a good impersonator of Billy McMahon, ears and all. But the great green God—or demon—they all loved had embraced this human in its liquid arms and coral encrusted lips had kissed the pale white face of the youth as he gurgled his last breath.
It happens, man.
Ron murmured gently and forgets about Bobby Campbell quickly. Forever. That is how it has to be.
You watch out for those pigs, man. Bastards’ll bust you, sure as eggs. You got long hair, you got dope.
Yeah, that’s how they think, man.
Over in Queensland it’s worse. If you’ve got a surfboard on your car you get hassled more than if you’ve got a gun.
Colin is speaking again. The surfer, the traveller, the knower of all things wise. Clancy shrugs and grins.
Yeah, man. But you know Queensland.—Give me the west any time,—or Indonesia.
It is time for Ron to go.
Well guys, it was great meeting you. See you around, maybe.
Yeah, cheers, Ron. Hang loose, OK?
Remember about the pigs.
Good surfing, man. They say there’s bulk waves down at Yallingup.
Yeah. Right.
The old station wagon lurches off, while dusty hands reach up to grab it back. They reluctantly slide off the mauled car’s body.
They leave the kiosk and all he has are two hamburgers, a bottle of Coke, going hot, and hot words going cold.
Wow, Linda. Those guys have been over to Queensland—even Indonesia. That’s what I call living.
The girl smiles at him. He seems younger than she. He smiles back at her and hands her a hamburger.
You’re so kind, Ron. Thank you.
Well, when you’ve got money there’s nothing much to do with it except spend it. Right?
They laugh softly. She puts an arm around his shoulders and reaches her thin face up to his brown cheek, kissing him. He wraps a gangling arm around her waist, touching the soft womanness of her breasts. He hugs her to his side and she rests her head in the nape of his neck. Her fingers pull through his long red hair, claiming him as a mermaid from the sea will claim a lovesick sailor.
Can I stay with you, Ron?
Stay with me? I don’t do much though, Linda. Surf here, work there—you know. Mostly I just bum around.
I don’t care. I feel at peace here with you.
Right. Peace is what makes the world go around.
They smile once more into each other’s eyes. Throw out the half-eaten hamburgers to be devoured by the wind.
He pulls up, a little way off the highway in a hidden cove near the mumbl
ing ocean. Just the boy and the girl and the blackness, all vagrants, all ready to slink off when truth and reality burst radiantly over the horizon.
His arms encircle her waist. She is no longer thin and ugly but beautiful to the boy who has searched for beauty all his life and never quite caught it between his eager fingers. The girl tries to bite his full sweet lips with her small white teeth. His tongue flickers in and out of her mouth, which tastes of honeycomb, old lipstick and hamburger. Her fingers scratch down his hard hairless body in ecstasy. They lie down on the faded front seat and tear off their scanty clothes.
There are no words, just laboured breathing and cramped movement. Animal noises. There is something graceful yet ugly about making love. Especially love in a 1963 model Holden.
The girl lets her pale body relax, cool and clinical. The magic has gone out of lovemaking for her. Ever since she was fifteen and tried it out behind the girls’ toilet at school, all interest in it has left her and it has become a mechanical process.
The boy is clumsy, like all the others were, and shy, like some of the others were. He is gentle and kind, like none of the others were. He brushes a big hand over her forehead, whispering, Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. I never hurt anyone.
They share the experience together, rising and rising with their united passions. She arches her back and moans, while her fingers claw all over him. She bites his neck and runs her tongue over his hot, sweating body.
Afterwards, silence. They sleep, tangled nakedly together for warmth.
In the morning, there is a clear blue sky and a hot sun. Birds flutter through the leaves and wake the young couple. Ron wraps a holey brown blanket around himself and steps tentatively out onto the grey sand. He stands and stares with sleep-dulled eyes, uncomprehending, at the morning glory.
Isn’t it a nice day?
He turns around to the naked girl sitting in the lotus position on the car seat.
He grunts, sleepily.
She grins and slides sensually (she thinks) out of the car.
What’s for breakfast, Ron?
She is even skinnier with no clothes on. Her ribcage moves in and out as she breathes and her hipbones stick out. But he likes her, perhaps even loves her.
For you, an entree of fresh boiled octopus. The main course was going to be chicken a ’la supreme—except I might mistake you for the chicken.
They laugh and embrace while the blanket slithers to his feet. It lies crumpled on the dirty ground, like a brown snake waiting to strike or the wrinkled skin of his former empty self.
Ron, I dare you to drive into the next town, like that—with no clothes on.
That would be an easy way for me to go to jail. Then you could pick up your next boyfriend.
He smiles, but she turns away from him swiftly and coldly.
If that’s how you think of me, I’ll go away now.
No! No, Linda, I was only joking. Please, honey.
His hands cover her bony, shivering shoulders and he swings her around. She is crying, so he pulls her to him.
Come on, honey. Hey, don’t cry. I’ve never made anyone cry— please don’t let you be the first. Come on, I was just joking.
He kisses her on the forehead then kisses her tears away. She looks up with wet, hurt eyes and gives a pale smile.
It’s silly to cry on a lovely day like this, but I really have a feeling for you, Ron.
And I for you, Linda.
No, listen. I mean, last night you made me feel like—like—like something else.
They both laugh at her usage of his expression. But she loves and needs him, just as much as he needs the Kalbarri waves.
Come on, honey, let’s go and see what’s what at the beach.
He hugs her briefly and they smile again. The dog romps stupidly after an escaping magpie.
The sea is an indigo blue, throwing arms wide open to welcome its children, and roaring with happiness because it is almost summer and the surf’s up. Laughing because for once it can offer joy instead of cold, mysterious danger.
The part of the beach to which the boy drives is miles from anywhere and almost deserted. A white Kombi van and a battered old yellow panel van, with flowers painted all over it, stand on the cliff edge, sniffing at the salty sea breeze with rusty dented radiator noses.
Ron gets out and waits for the girl. He clasps her to him and they idle over to the panel van. Two youths hulk in the front seat, staring fanatically into the humped back of the blue animal they worship. They hardly glance at Ron and his girl.
Hey, man, how’s the surf?
The closer, younger youth has tried to grow a beard that hangs sparse and brown from his smooth cheeks, but he still looks young and useless. He intones, like a prayer,
Good swell. Left-hand breaks are cool. Bit freaky out there, though. Bit heavy, man.
Right. I’ll still give it a try. You guys know a Sammy Saydlaw? An Abo kid?
The other boy turns to look at Ron and the girl, interest in his coal-black eyes.
Sambo? You wouldn’t think he’d miss a top day like this, do you? He came with Keeley and Charlie Yo-Yo.
Still got his same old board?
Yeah, still as fluky as ever.
The old-young boy grins. He holds up a plastic bag full of green leaf, saying, If you’re going out, man, tell him to come and have his joint before me and Billy smoke it all. You and her can have some too.
He nods at the girl, who is slightly shocked at the casual display of illegal wares, and looks at her with a knowledge that is older than his age.
I’ll hang loose today, man.
Ron lifts his fingers in lazy farewell. The boys have already forgotten about them; they are in a trance again, hypnotised by the rolling ocean. Ron and Linda go back to the car. She squats in the car’s shadow and puffs slowly on a cigarette; watching him wax his board with loving care, then wriggle into a wetsuit. He touches her gently.
You’ll be all right? I won’t stay out for long.
I’m OK. I’ll go for a walk along the beach.
She pauses and stares into his dreamy green eyes and the green board he hugs as closely as he hugged her. Behind him the green-blue ocean crooned a love song to tear him away from her. She feels jealous. Last night had been intended only as a one-night stand, like all the others were. But she likes this warm brown boy with the sea-green eyes.
Do you smoke that stuff?
What? Gunja? It’s good for you, baby. Makes you non-violent and gives you good dreams. You’ll have to try some soon. Not today, but. Another day, another way.
He smiles again and touches her sunny shoulder with a bony lemon-yellow finger.
OK. See you, sweetheart.
He kisses her pale freckled cheek. Then he sets off down the slope with his easy, loping gait: the black knight going out into the towering blue forests with his faithful steed—to win a white-crested castle, all by himself.
For a while she watches him, mesmerised by his graceful movements as he soars through the water. She smokes another cigarette and shades her eyes against the glaring, hurtful sun on the water. This is the true God, pounding the waves into formation with its white heavy fist, turning the half-dozen or so surfers into black shapeless dots on the dancing water. A pack of wolves waiting, and once every while chasing a white or blue or green wave ceaselessly towards the beach, where it crashes in death.
She goes for a walk along the shore. She comes to a lumpy green reef with sand-swirling hollows carved out of it by a bent, scaly, old green-haired man, who only came out at night and wove spells with the stars and created the reef for her to find—only her. It seems to rise and fall above the rushing white foam: overbearing, mysterious, full of magic things for her.
It stretches green fingers out into the blue sea. At high tide, white waves roll over it scornfully, but at low tide the reef emerges like a huge crocodile—or a mouldy rotting log, green and grey and undestructible.
She loves the reef, wedged between the fin
e white sand and the pure blue sea; lonely as she is lonely, and wanting a friend. But only as a friend—not as a conqueror. Several pieces of chewed-up surfboards are scattered on the wet rocky shoreline, to show everyone that no one will tame its waves.
And she is a friend. She stares out over the sun-blotched water that makes her squint her eyes like Ron. She listens to the stories that the waves sliding languidly up the beach tell her. Stories of sunken ships, and huge silent fish and exquisitely coloured shells at the bottom of the sea. Sitting in the warm sun, she can see the black depths where no man had ever been before and thus she is knowledgeable—more so than Ron or anyone else who only skimmed airily across the surface.
The reef lets her slide her body into the swirling blue water of contentment.
Gentle strands of seaweed touch her face, like the boy’s fingers last night. In one deep hole she finds a glorious, orange-green, curly shell like a trumpet. She would like to blow out a sea song so it would explode all over the silent white cliff and shatter into fragments onto the wild, white beach torn into sandstorms by the grey wind’s wily hands, and let everyone know how happy she is.
Before she leaves the reef she wraps a strand of seaweed around her head and interlaces it with yellow and pink beach flowers. The queen of the ocean is going to meet her lover.
The sun reaches down hot lips, kisses the water from her body and reddens her pale skin. Whom to love? The rider of the sky or the rider of the water?
When she arrives he is emerging from the water with another youth.
He smiles over at her, admiring her flowery crown.
You look beautiful, Linda.
I found a fascinating reef about half a mile away. There are so many things to find there.
Ron’s companion speaks, in soft lilting tones.
You look out for those reefs. Plenty of sharks around there. A person could disappear in a wave forever.
He is tall, with huge muscles and a sleek chocolate skin. Orange board shorts cling wetly and lovingly to his broad legs and slim waist.
This is Sammy, Linda. He was the top surfer in the state for junior, and soon he’ll be top surfer in Australia. Maybe even the world!
Sammy looks away shyly and, embarrassed, wriggles his long black toes in the dry white sand. Then he glances at the white girl. His eyes, too, are strange, a brilliant green—white man’s eyes in his dark face. Like Ron, he can read the ocean. Better than Ron, because he grew up practically in it. Now he has achieved what he wants—to be the top Western Australian junior surfer and one day soon he will be the best Australian surfer.
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