The Life

by Malcolm Knox

  You didn’t win Haleiwa, deserved to but. You won your second heat after you run late. You and Rod been picking mushies in some cow paddock, scarf them as you went, when you realised your heat was on. You raced down to eight-foot rights and the mushies come on last ten minutes of your heat, but you got enough waves before the water begin turning purple on you.

  You won your third heat after you spent the morning at the cop shop. Rod been bailed up for whaling into yank tanks parked outside the Turtle Bay Hilton with a yellow-and-white roadblock marker as a cricket bat. You been bombed at the hotel and hadn’t known. Next morning he’s bailed up again at the post office, this time for trying to send some Hawaiian buds home to himself.

  Anyway the postal workers seen it all before and shook their heads. You got him out of that mess when the cops recognised you and asked for an autograph.

  Chief postal officer nodded at Rod who was weaving round the place in budgie smugglers and a puka shell necklace.

  What you done to him, brah?

  Dunno mate but he don’t look real good does he?

  You get down to Haleiwa in time for the second half of your quarter-final and get hit on the head by a four-wave set paddling out, but one of the other guys lost his fin, you didn’t know how, and another had to change his board after a big chunk got bitten out of it by something or other, and so your two decent left-handers was enough to qualify you for the semis.

  There was a weird vibe round the comp venue. Aussies were doing this ‘Bronzed Aussie’ gimmick where they made themselves look like models out of an ad. Mark Warren, Simon Anderson, Michael Peterson, Peter Townend, these guys thought they were in a swimwear advert. They give you and Rod a real wide berth and pretend they don’t know you. They never wanted to share your joint or mushie omelette with you. So much for surfing as an alternative lifestyle. These guys were gone corporate. And the organisers, the Hawaiians, were itching to rub you out, but now they had objective judging they couldn’t steal this one from you. They couldn’t pretend your waves hadn’t happened.

  So even though you was late for your heats and high on mushies or dope or acid or smack, even though Rod was in the lock-up half the time, even though you were not one of the Bronzed Aussies, you were still winning cos DK was the best surfer in the world and this was Hawaii, land of the legends. Which nobody could deny. Which nobody could deny.

  The coconut wireless. The posters on your bedroom wall.

  You lost the semis but. Got wiped out by a no-show.

  Story had it you were passed out in front of Lost in Space with Rod.

  Not true.

  You were clear as a bell that morning. Straight as a die. Sober as a judge. Only thing was, you couldn’t find your aviators.

  The aviators.

  Ones you’d had since . . . you couldn’t remember . . .

  . . . yeah, the aviators.

  Couldn’t find them.

  They was always by your bedside, last thing you did at night was take them off and lay them down safe by your side.

  First thing you did in the morning was put them back on.

  Now this morning they wasn’t there.

  You turned your room upside down.

  Piled up the bedclothes.

  Unloaded the mattress.

  Emptied the pillows.

  Moved the furniture.

  Searched the bags.

  Through all the drawers.

  All the cupboards.

  Moved the TV.

  Moved the boards.

  Moved the gear.

  Smoked a joint.

  Took a shot.

  Sat in the corner watched some TV.

  Went through the whole room again.

  And again.

  Rod, from the couch: Den, your heat’s about to start.

  You went through the whole room again.

  Everything on hold while you found your aviators.

  You went through the drawers, the cupboards, everything. You kept scratching the top of your head, like you must of left them there.

  Rod: Den, your heat’s starting!

  Piled up the bedclothes.

  Unloaded the mattress.

  Emptied the pillows.

  Moved the furniture.

  Searched the bags.

  Through all the drawers.

  All the cupboards.

  Moved the TV.

  Moved the boards.

  Moved the gear.

  Rod: Fuck, man, your heat’s already started!

  Through all the drawers.

  All the cupboards.

  Moved the TV.

  Moved the boards.

  Moved the gear.

  Rod: Oi, shitforbrains, your heat’s about to finish!

  The drawers.

  The cupboards.

  The TV.

  The boards.

  The gear.

  Rod: Den, take another shot. Your heat’s finished.

  You took another shot.

  You found the aviators. On the balcony. Sitting happy on the chair on the balcony. You hadn’t looked on the balcony. You’d forgot you had a balcony.

  You took another shot.

  Thank Christ I’m here.

  Even though you hadn’t made the final of Haleiwa you were that far ahead on the points table you only had to show up at Sunset and Pipe, probably not even that, to be world champion of surfing. Which you deserved. Which they couldn’t steal off you. Even though you had so many odds stacked against you. You were gunna be world champ and you were the new world tour’s worst nightmare. A world champion who was DK. And everything that brought with it.

  There was a few days to kill at Sunset before the conness. The hammer, Rod’s buddy, was good for your surfing. Like mull: others get wiped out by it, but with you it slowed you down enough to make you clear about things for once. You got a little tired but you never been one for long surfs. An hour max then take a break—that was your rule. So if smack made you a little tired after your hour, that was natural, that was a signal to come in.

  Free surfing Sunset.

  The posters on your bedroom wall.

  World champion in waiting.

  Nice day, eight foot, offshore, barrelling.

  You paddled into a line-up that included most of the pro surfers in the world and half the population of the North Shore. Coconut wireless had put the word out—

  DK is here. Be prepared to—

  You couldn’t get a wave. So much pressure. So many swarming.

  They were paddling away from you, the Aussies. Didn’t want to be seen with you. Jealousy.

  The Hawaiians closed in. Not the pros, but da boyz. The locals who didn’t stoop to surfing in comps.

  The owners of this wave.

  They closed in.

  You couldn’t get a wave.

  They snake you, drop in on you, shut down your paddling line.

  Closed in.

  All vibing you.

  Eight foot, offshore, barrelling and you couldn’t get a wave.

  Heavy scene.

  Vibing you out.

  They didn’t go much on your Scream in Blue.

  Ancient Hawaiian curses muttered under their breath.

  Big boys: Polynesians.

  Big boards.

  Heavy.

  Haole!

  Someone shouting at you. Others laughing. Or growling. Vibing you out. They wasn’t shouting to attract your attention. They was shouting to tell you to piss off.

  Haole!

  They was doing what you’d of done to them at Kirra. They was hassling, dropping in, snaking.

  You had one card to play:

  Yo
u hassled back.

  You faded, you dropped in, you snaked, you cut them off. You took the initiative. You attacked.

  Haole!

  You hassled, you faded, you dropped in, you snaked, you cut them off.

  You still couldn’t get a wave.

  Haole!

  You went right inside, way deeper than anybody, where the sea collected into a vertical pitch on top of the reef. A set come, and you paddled. But your arms were tired from all the hassling, all the no-waves, all the snaking, all the smack. You weren’t fast enough and you pulled out of it. It come down on the bare reef like a ton of bricks. But then you look round and the next wave’s onto you. You paddled out to the right, to the shoulder, but now there were local guys blocking.

  You were tired and your arms were heavy and you just wanted to get one in, and so you turned and paddled into the wave anyway, even though there was this bloke, Barry Kalahu, built like a block of flats, biggest of the big men on the North Shore, already on it, and you went down the face and your board punched a hole in his and yous both come off and you lost your board and Barry Kalahu come in on it, and you bodysurfed in and saw him waiting on the beach.

  Block of flats.

  Half your board in his hand.

  His board floating in the shorie.

  The other half of your board in his other hand.

  You walked up.

  Peace brother.

  Held out your hand.

  Barry Kalahu’s fists like soccer balls.

  Yeah bruddah, my fault, you went. Aloha.

  Kept your hand out there.

  One of Barry Kalahu’s soccer balls unfolded. Like it was coming out to accept your apology.

  Never apologised in your life.

  First time for everything.

  Didn’t mean to start nothing eh, you said. Sorry brah.

  Shitting your boardies.

  Barry Kalahu’s soccer-ball hand come in slow mo. You saw it from the outside: its line through the air, like a charger on a good wave, accelerating as it got to the critical zone.

  Your head warped sideways.

  You went down.

  Your head the shape of a banana.

  Barry Kalahu said:

  We don’t like you here.

  You mumbled through your broken head:

  Peace, brah.

  Barry Kalahu said:

  Not your brah.

  He didn’t walk off. Having clobbered you into next week he just stood there, both halves of your DK board in the sand beside him. His soccer-ball hands hanging by his hips.

  A tourist bus pulls up and they start taking pictures—

  The only reason Barry Kalahu didn’t finish you off—

  DK, saved by a Japanese tourist bus.

  The posters on your bedroom wall.

  You stumbled off with your head in your armpit. Wanting Rod.

  Feb ’75—

  Whole of the line-up saw you. Stumbling off Sunset.

  Shamed.

  Sheepish.

  Paper tiger.

  The best surfer in the world.

  Done.

  A passing hippie tour guide took pity on you.

  Put you on his pony help you up the hell

  —the hill.

  You was slumped across the pony’s back. As you were crossing the road the pony reared at something and threw you off.

  On the tar.

  You heard someone laugh.

  A Japanese tourist.

  Pointing.

  Laughing at you.

  Taking a photo.

  Two nights, I’m done. I’m hungry, I can’t find no coin, I got no food or nothing in the house, I’m afraid to go out, The Thing staring at me from its corner. An untouched surfboard has a bad vibe: malignant.

  The Thing. Yellow, white and black. Colours of pain looking at me.

  And then she’s back:

  The BFO.

  She who was formerly known as the BFO.

  ‘Mo’s at the hospital,’ I go, like she’s come here to visit Mo and I’m not wanting her to stay a minute longer than she has to. Be wasting her time with me whichever way.

  She just shakes her head. Hands on hips in the doorway of the living room. Evil security grille behind her, framing her. I get my feet off the ground. Curl up like a Buddha on the armchair.

  ‘How many years has she been going to the hospital, Dennis?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Like, what’s it to her?

  ‘Does she always go to the hospital for two nights, Dennis?’

  I keep my feet off the ground.

  ‘Does she go once every four months, Dennis? Is it a regular thing, Dennis?’

  Push the aviators up the bridge of my nose (still there).

  ‘Does she ever have anything wrong with her, Dennis? Health-wise? I mean, does she ever seem sick before she goes to the hospital?’

  The BFO’s standing there interrogating me, like she’s angry with me, like I’ve disappointed her, like she has a right to be disappointed with me. With DK. I don’t know about this. I don’t know about this.

  ‘You don’t have a clue, do you, Dennis? Don’t have a clue. Just another woman in your life you haven’t bothered to ask.’

  All too heavy for me. Get up and make a run for me bedroom. But the BFO’s quicker than DK, faster on the draw, and she’s got a claw round me upper arm and she’s stopped me there, right there, and she’s making another grab at me, at the face, at the aviators, she’s wanting to swipe them off and I’m freaking and back away so sudden I bang my head against the doorframe and I’m rubbing it and almost crying it hurts so much, and she sees how I’m hurting and she lets go.

  Taking pity on The Great Man.

  ‘You don’t know where she goes, do you?’ she says.

  I don’t say nothing.

  ‘Well yeah,’ she says. ‘But no!’ Putting on the DK stink-eye. Enigmatic. Mysto man in the shadows.

  But when she’s doing it she knows how stupid she’s making it look: the DK stink-eye. The favourite line.

  Stupid stupid idiot. Don’t know a thing. Yeah, but no, but don’t know a fricken thing.

  She nods. Full of piss and triumph. Got me now.

  ‘She goes to the Road, Dennis. She goes to the Road for visits.’

  I shake my head, or not really, my head shakes itself, like it’s got Parko’s, that type of thing. I back into me bedroom and slam the door on her. I jump in me bed and she’s outside the door still.

  Like she does think she’s my girl.

  Like she reckons she has rights.

  Like she’s entitled to be disappointed in me.

  ‘She goes to the Road, Dennis! Not the hospital!’

  The Road/The Rod/The God/The FUCKHEAD!/FUCKHEAD!!!!!

  I turn my radio up so I can’t hear her ranting and raving, but:

  ‘And Dennis! When are you gunna ride this fucken thing? Eh? When are you gunna have the hair to ride a surfboard you can ride?’

  Radio, right up to tops.

  ‘Ar, fuckya, Dennis!’

  An envelope like a snake under my bedroom door.

  The security grille slamming behind her.

  Must be some coin in it. Direct to me.

  For my story.

  I’ll go for that.

  Just me and her envelope and me radio now.

  Two days after Barry Kalahu, Rod figured if they turned on DK he lost his protection. He’d got this idea of saving energy by burying his boards down the beach, in a hole he dug in the sand. Save him carrying his two big-wave sticks to and from. Great idea, Rod. Next morning the sand-grooming tractor come along and minced up both his boards. Rod didn’t take i
t as a sign of his own stupidity. Took it as a sign that Hawaii was angry with him and he had to get out.

  He wasn’t in your room.

  His gear gone.

  His clothes gone.

  DK, alone again.

  Hawaii against the paper tiger.

  The coconut wireless: how Barry Kalahu had ironed you out. The way you drug yourself away. Saved by a Japanese tourist bus. Fallen off a pony.

  Your coin gone.

  Your name.

  DK was sick and didn’t front for Sunset. Jeff Hakman, king of Sunset, Mr Sunset, won it. In your absence.

  Lying awake thinking they’re gunna come and burn your hotel down—

  In your dreams there was ten times Barry Kalahu and he or they got you in the water, shoved your face under your board and pounded you against the fins—

  Drowning—

  Then you got washed inshore and another ten times Barry Kalahu was on the beach with soccer-ball fists—

  •

  The last comp was Pipeline, the third one, the big one, but your Hawaiian trip had went from triumph into defeat, echo round the world. Sure you got barrelled at Haleiwa better than anyone had ever surfed it in a thousand years, sure you was definitely gunna be world champ, sure you stayed out of jail but

  but you been ironed out at Sunset and hadn’t shown your face since.

  The disappearing man.

  The ghost who surfs.

  Ghost who don’t surf.

  Your insides tearing you apart.

  You phoned Mo and asked for money.

  She sent you an air ticket home.

  You always loved her when you needed something (she said).

  You go and cash in the air ticket and score some dope. Not smack, just grass to even you out. You didn’t want to shoot smack with Rod not here.

  You spent the week of Sunset stoned on Hawaiian grass.

  Wondering what they were saying about you.

  The world champion elect.

  When you had to get something to eat, starving to death, you snuck out and ran across Kammie’s Market in a crouch hoping none of the heavies seen you. You was like a commando. You pinched fruit from a stall and made a run for it.

  When you come back you heard the hotel desk staff talking about you.

  Saying they’d have to ask you to leave your room cos there was people threatening to burn the whole place down.