The Life

by Malcolm Knox

You went back in the room and here’s Rod, on the nod.

  Next morning, Mecca had switched on. Winds turned offshore overnight and dropped by dawn. Perfect groomed eight-footers rolling into Haleiwa, jacking up straight over the reef, peeling out silky.

  Least that was what Rod told you from the balcony. Going off his head with excitement. Pulling on his boardies even before he got yesterday’s undies off. Smoking a joint. Amped as hell.

  Mecca.

  You, buried under your bedsheets feeling the ground shake and the bed squeak.

  It’s on.

  It’s on.

  Twenty-four hours till they’ll start the first heat of the first conness, your first wave in Hawaii.

  February somethingth, 1975.

  Greatest surfer in the world, buried under his bedsheets.

  You asked Rod he got any of his stash left.

  Yeah Den eh, knew you’d come round, you want some?

  Nothing. Nah.

  Rod went out and free surfed with all the best boardriders in the world: Tink, Nat, Fitzgerald, Simon Anderson, Ian Cairns, Mark Richards, all the mainland Americans. Perfect eight-foot A-frames. Perfecto. He said the walls of the waves were so high and clean that when his board held a turn in them he felt like he was walking in space, zero gravity. You could see him reliving them waves.

  But no Hawaiians out, not a one.

  And the greatest surfer in the world, buried under his bedsheets. Crying. Rod’s stash on the other side of the room, sitting on the study table, last fricken temptation of Christ.

  Don’t do it, DK.

  This is Hawaii.

  Posters on your bedroom wall.

  Mecca. Respects.

  Twelve hours to go.

  Rod come back in, muscles twitching like a Melbourne Cup racehorse getting hosed down. Eyes popping.

  Best session ever, bro. I mean, ever!

  You got any that stash left?

  Eh Den, thought you’d never ask . . .

  You buried yourself deeper.

  Rod told you there’d been no Hawaiians out there. Like they were messing with his head. No Hawaiians on a day like this.

  Lost in Space come on. Will, Penny, Dr Smith, the Robot. Only thing could calm you down.

  You loved the Robot. Rod thought you must of smoked some of his weed, you were cacking so mad.

  When he figured you hadn’t, you were dead straight, he didn’t know to be more worried or less.

  Rod shot up, nodded off. You ate your fifth room-service club sandwich of the day.

  Six hours to go, you woke up from the sleep you weren’t having.

  Boom boom boom.

  Boom boom boom.

  Like there was skyscrapers being demolished, being dynamited.

  Boom boom boom.

  The floor shaking.

  Like a volcano was going off in five or six bursts, every few minutes.

  Boom boom boom boom boom boom.

  A war.

  You woke Rod up and asked he got any of his stash left.

  Yeah Den, let’s have a smoke eh.

  Nah, nothing, nah.

  Two hours to go, you hadn’t slept a wink. Today: your first wave in Hawaii.

  The coconut wireless had sent the word out:

  DK’s coming, git out the way.

  Every surf photographer snapping you, every surf writer writing about you, every surfer watching you. On earth: every surfer on earth. Tomorrow, your Mo reads about you in the papers. The most keenly awaited meeting between man and wave since the ancient days, since the Duke.

  DK, meet Hawaii.

  Hawaii, meet DK.

  This was the winter that’d change surfing forever. The winter that’d kill off the Hawaiian relaxed style and replace it with:

  You.

  All the moves you done on them big waves, they be trying to repeat them for thirty years.

  You’d bust down the door. You, and behind you Tink, Kanga Cairns, Rabbit, MR, the others. Mainly:

  You.

  Feb ’75—

  You stood on the balcony.

  Boom boom boom boom boom.

  Sets of five waves. Feathering mountains, and more mountains behind those mountains.

  The Himalayas in every set. The most massive thing you ever dreamt.

  Stood on the balcony in your sleeping boardies.

  It had took five nights but you worked out that this room had diagonals, some safe, some unsafe. You felt good. You’d found the safe ones. Realised all rooms and all places had diagonals, good and evil, you just had to find the right ones. Was like church. You stretched your arms above your head, knitted your fingers up high.

  The posters on your bedroom wall.

  Hawaii.

  Rod groaned behind you, waking up.

  Eh bro, what the fuck . . . ?

  Rod’d just started hearing it, seeing it. It’s went from eight foot up to twelve, fourteen, eighteen, twenty, overnight.

  Real Hawaii. The real Rock.

  Fark, Rod said, standing beside you. His arm round your shoulder. Trembling. Too big for me, they oughta call it off.

  Just as well you’re not in the comp then eh? you said.

  Rod just shook his head.

  Just hope they don’t call it off, you said.

  Fark, Rod said again.

  Rodney, I’m gunna blitz em.

  Rod just kept shaking his head. Yesterday had been the biggest cleanest waves he’d ever surfed, and now it was twice as big and a bit bumpy. The tiniest lump would be like a chicane in the middle of a 200mph straight.

  I get it now, he said, like he was talking to himself.

  Get what?

  He give a nervous laugh.

  Why there was no Hawaiians out yesterday.

  Yeah right.

  You watched it for a long time. The comp was getting started. The first heats were paddling out in the channel. All four in the first heat, Californians and Australians, got hammered, two of them come in with boards in half, the other two with bits of leg rope dangling from their ankles, no boards.

  Gunna be Hawaiians out today, Rod said.

  Rod sit down the study table and took a shot.

  Just before you went out the door, Rod told you something.

  Bas had died, shop been closed for good.

  You just looked at Rod and saw in his eyes the way Bas looked back at you, like Bas was reincarnated inside Rod and all the hate. You never been so gutted since the day you were born.

  What happened to the shop? you said.

  Lease run out. They locked us out for unpaid bills.

  Where’s the stock?

  Flogged it all.

  For gear?

  Good gear but.

  You scratched your nose. You didn’t care so much about the shop. It had been already dead. Now it was gone, it was a weight off your shoulders. You weren’t a businessman. You were a surfer.

  Like Lisa said.

  How bout Bas?

  He ate me stash, Rod said. Looking at the floor.

  Eh but dope was all right for him, you said. It didn’t kill him, just made him trip. Your blood was starting to boil now. It was like whatever you felt about the shop would of stayed under if it was just the shop, but now it was Bas as well, it was like two things became greater than one plus one and you were getting wild under your skin.

  Rod shook his head. Me stash of this stuff. Nodding at the bag. We found him under the house in the shaping bay. He’d went off there with his sweet dreams.

  He OD’d on that, you said.

  What a way to go. Went out doing what he loved. Fark.

  Rod nodded but he was nodding off.


  You nodded and felt like killing him. Yous were in Hawaii. Land of your fathers.

  Never been so gutted.

  Rod?

  Yeah?

  I’m ready.

  Yeah I bet you are, DK. I bet you are.

  Rod?

  Yeah?

  What’s it like?

  What’s what like?

  That.

  That? Ar, that.

  Yeah. What’s it like?

  It’s like . . . you’re there. You’ve finally arrived.

  Arrived where?

  There. On the other side.

  The other side.

  Like you can put your feet up now.

  Relaxing?

  Den, when I take my first shot you know what I think? I only think one thing.

  What’s that?

  I think: Thank Christ. Thank fucking Christ I’m here.

  Rod?

  Ar Den, I dunno.

  Rod?

  What time’s yer heat?

  Soon.

  Ar Den, you done so good. You got The Life, y’know? Travelling the world, making coin, world number one. This—it’s The Life. What more could you want?

  Rod?

  Nah Den.

  You remember that night?

  Rod remembered. Didn’t need to say nothing.

  You wouldn’t give me none that night, and you done the right thing. Saved me bacon.

  Fuck Den no.

  I’m ready Rodney. This is the time.

  Fuck Den, ya bloody idiot.

  Rod bent over his works. Started cooking. Done it all slow motion, creaking along, hoping this wasn’t happening and the clock’d save him.

  Rod?

  Yeah bro? Ya changed yer dumbfuck mind?

  Couldn’t look up at you. This wasn’t that night at home. This was after that night.

  Better put your skates on Rodney. Me heat’s already started.

  Thank Christ I’m here.

  . . . yeah . . .

  Rod was deadset. Them small Hawaiian days, eight foot, or when it was windblown junk, they called them ‘Aussie Days’. Meaning, those were the days when the frothing Australians would race out and surf on their own and the Hawaiians wouldn’t bother.

  You hadn’t bothered on the Aussie Days. You were in your room. An honorary Hawaiian already.

  February 26, 1975, you fell out your room with your big-wave stick under your arm, stubbed your toe black on the hotel step, paddled out into twelve-foot Haleiwa in a heat with one Australian and two Hawaiians, every surf photographer in the world snapping you, every writer writing about you, every surfer watching you, every judge judging you, and you gone cold turkey on mull for five days and just took your first handshake with Rod’s buddy.

  And thinking,

  Thank Christ.

  You could put your feet up.

  Your work was done.

  DK, meet Hawaii.

  The other Australian in your heat, Brian Giblet from North Narra, got took to hospital after he went over the falls and separated his head from his neck. It went back in but he’d never surf The Rock again. These things were mountains.

  Way they sounded, when you was sitting out there in the line-up, was like nothing you heard before. The big tearing crash of a wave come from behind you as well as in front of you, like the one wave had you covered both sides. You never heard waves surround you with their noise.

  You had two Hawaiians, da boyz, in your heat. They weren’t sitting on the inside like every other heat surfer. They paddled out, and out, and further out, to where the mountains were forming up, to where the sky went dark: blue North Pacific in every wave. Pulses running from Japan with nothing to stop them but a reef on the North Shore of Oahu.

  The posters on your bedroom wall.

  This was it.

  On.

  You followed the Hawaiians. The crowds and judges must of thought you’re nuts, the three of you, go to those outside ones. As a heat strategy it didn’t look smart: less waves, less chances to score. But as a heat strategy, sitting inside and leaving the beach in an ambulance Brian Giblet style wasn’t so smart either. You had no idea what you were doing: you just followed the locals.

  The three of you sit out there. You hear them talking to each other. You hear them spitting the word ‘haole’.

  Foreigner.

  Whitey.

  Blow-in.

  You were no whitey.

  Mountain after mountain these locals let them through. You done what they done. Then you started nodding off a little, sitting on your board. After a while you lay down on your belly and put your head on the side. They look at you like you was taking the mickey. But you were so tired, and thank Christ, you thought, you’re here, you’re here, in the posters on your bedroom wall, you can die happy, you can die now.

  Then it hit you, paranoia, these two Hawaiians are sacrificing themself. Sit out here and sucker you into waiting, waiting, waiting, and miss everything so you end up with a zero score. They end up with zero too but it don’t matter to them. They didn’t care if they didn’t qualify so long as DK didn’t.

  You thought all this in a blinding flash as this outside set lumbered up blocking the horizon like a city. You thought, if you paddle for the first wave and miss it, you’ll have four tsunamis smashing you on the head. Smarter to wait for the last wave in the set. But if you done that, they might do the same. And they were deeper than you, in better position.

  So you paddled.

  Your bucket hands.

  Your flipper feet.

  You paddled like a shark was after you.

  You didn’t breathe.

  Your teeth hard down on your tongue.

  You weren’t gunna make it.

  You’ll be with Brian Giblet in hospital.

  You paddled.

  You leapt up and still thought you wouldn’t make it.

  You threw everything forward: almost threw your board down the wave, your body after it.

  You threw everything . . .

  You were on it.

  You were on it.

  Someone paddling out on the shoulder: you give him the Scream:

  He cleared off . . .

  . . . The posters on your bedroom wall.

  Thank Christ I’m here.

  Surfer and Surfing both shot it: DK’s first-ever wave in Hawaii.

  You flew down the face and ripped a bottom turn, right-hander scooping you up into the walling section. You tucked in. You rode it. In the pictures, you’re not in the barrel, you’re not cutting back, you’re not doing anything with it: you’re just riding it.

  DK’s first wave in Hawaii.

  The posters on your bedroom wall.

  Thank Christ.

  •

  It didn’t matter that you just rode the wave, didn’t pull any of your zigs and zags.

  They called off the conness for the day after that wave. It was too big.

  You were the only one all day to get into a wave, to ride it all the way through.

  Them two Hawaiians behind you got smashed by that same set. One of them come in with his teeth sticking out a hole in the side of his cheek.

  Hawaii, meet DK.

  You didn’t hang round the comp area.

  You ran as hard as you paddled:

  Ran back to the hotel room.

  To Rod and his little haole mate.

  To Rod and your mate.

  No more Bas.

  And what Rod had also said, quieter, but sure as if he knew it for sure, finality, just slipped inside wrapped up in the greasy paper that was the end of the shop, the end of the dog, all that stuff wrapping rou
nd the thing you hadn’t tried to think about, what made you say yes to the white man:

  No more Lisa.

  One day you’ll quiz her.

  One day you’ll sit down and face up, face to face with her, your face in her face, and it’ll be the toughest thing yet.

  How sitting and holding your own Mo’s eyes in your eyes is tougher than throwing yourself down a four-storey building on a sliding glass surface with nothing below you but twelve inches of water and a reef with teeth like razors.

  How sitting down and asking your own Mo a simple question is asking more than paddling out at ice-cold ten-foot Bells Beach monsters needing the wave of the day to win an Australian title.

  All that’s nothing compared to sitting. Down. With Mo. At the melamine table. Safe.

  Fifty-eight years old and still not sure if you have the hair.

  Why’s she so fricken scary? Your own Mo?

  Why’s she so angry she could strangle you with her bare hands?

  What did you do to make her so wild?

  What?

  One night when you was about eight, yous were walking along Hill Street. You were carrying the groceries in a wood box. She was carrying prawn heads in a bucket. Yous got bailed up by some drunk. Only wanted money, that’s all. Shaking like a leaf, dumb prick. And this was the

  yeah you couldn’t believe

  Mo picked up on his fear and before he knew it she kicked him in the nuts and dropped him to the ground like a sack of spuds. Then she started ripping into him with her gumboots. Then she poured all her prawn heads on him. No seafood stock for yous tonight. You just stood there and watched your Mo put this so-called mugger in tears. She stood on his chest and when some locals come out to see the ruckus she told them to call the cops. She stood on him till they come.

  Your Mo. That tough.

  And so

  yeah

  Weird thing about Hawaiians in the surf was, when it got big they started shouting each other into the waves. ‘Go, Kenny!’ or ‘Yours, Jeff!’ Helping each other. You couldn’t work it out in a competitive situation why they done that. It confused you. Were they against each other or all against you?

  But then at Haleiwa they started calling you in. ‘Go, DK, GO!!’ And you didn’t even need to look at the wave, if they were calling you in it was yours.

  Too weird, threw you out. When they called you into a wave you fell off. Just fell off for no reason. Weirded out.