The Sea Ain't Mine Alone

by C. L. Beaumont

  “Pull over.”

  The smile freezes on Sydney’s face, and his eyes narrow. “What?”

  James can barely think clearly. The thought that this might be his last ever chance to kiss Sydney hovers dangerously at the back of his mind, and his voice shakes when he repeats himself. “Pull the car over. Stop the car.”

  Sydney looks over his shoulder, then pulls over to the side of the empty highway, lips pursed with worry and something like confused exasperation. “James I didn’t mean . . . look, that’s not a bad thing, you know, I just meant—”

  “Not a bad thing at all, just wait a damn second.”

  James practically flings himself from the passenger seat and jogs around the back of the Jeep. Sydney is already cautiously opening his door by the time James walks up beside him, setting one long leg down into the soft dirt. James feels the sudden urge to drop to his knees and wrap himself around the warm skin of Sydney’s calf and thigh, feel the soft hair under his fingers, the curves of the muscles around his shins, and the bones of his ankle.

  Instead, he opens the door the rest of the way, steps into the V of Sydney’s thighs, and kisses him before Sydney can ask the question hovering on his lips.

  James’ heart clenches when Sydney immediately wraps his arms around him and draws him in. The tension melts—vanishing into the clear, floral air, carried away on the soft breeze ghosting over them from across the surface of the ocean far below.

  Sydney tastes like the breath of life, the fountain of youth, the pulsing power of raw strength. He tastes like the way Keith Hartman’s eyes had lit up when they were chosen for The Mission, and the way Rob Depaul screamed James’ name to the heavens the first time he won a heat, and the way Danny Moore whips the air out of everyone’s lungs when he sets foot on a beach.

  He tastes like Oahu—like home.

  James presses a final kiss to Sydney’s mouth before pulling back, bringing their foreheads together. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I don’t why . . . I just—I had to.” He swallows hard, feeling unbelievably foolish for what he’s about to say. “Just in case.”

  Sydney breathes out a sigh through his nose and holds James closer by his grip around his back. “I know,” he says. James feels Sydney’s body tremble once, and his hands clench around fistfuls of James’ shirt. “Thank you.”

  James has a feeling that that “thank you” was for a hell of a lot more than just walking around the Jeep to give him a good luck kiss. He kisses Sydney one last time, gently breathing in the scent of sunlight from his skin, and then he pulls back, running his hands through Sydney’s curls to smooth them from the wind of the drive.

  “No more driving off a cliff jokes, you fucker,” he says.

  Sydney smiles, gradually lighting up the sadness that had settled in the corner of his eyes. He winks. “Noted, Captain.”

  ~

  James drags his eyes away from the road and glances again at Sydney once they pull up along the sand of Waimea beach. The waves are already crashing towering walls of water onto the shore, building up to the largest swells of the morning in a few short hours. The sea air blows through the open sides of the Jeep, rustling Sydney’s hair, and the swish of palm fronds settles over the silence in the car like a blanket.

  They look at each other after Sydney cuts the engine, and James takes in the slightly nervous clench of Sydney’s fingers around the wheel, the small, eager excitement pulsing in the vein along his neck.

  James wonders what the hell he’s supposed to say in a moment like this—how to tell the man he lives with as of fifteen hours ago that it’s far too fucking soon to say any of the words rumbling around in his mind but he might not get the chance, this might be the last time before Sydney goes and . . .

  But Sydney gives a curt nod, his lips already set into a line, and James just tries to give a reassuring smile in response. They both exhale and reach for their door handles, stepping out into the bright air of the real world for the very first time that morning.

  There’s already a small crowd on the shores of Waimea Bay by the time they get there, gathering to watch the sun rise steadily into the sky, standing on top of station wagons and leaning against the sides of Camaros to point out at the incoming swells and judge the best routes to take. James follows Sydney through the thick green brush running along the edges of the sand, making their way through the rocky green over to the rest of the surfers.

  There aren’t any fans sitting back in the sand with cold drinks in their hands. No judges setting up their table, or announcers booming across the beach, or umbrellas dotting the shoreline in the breeze.

  No, this beach is quiet, almost somber—light-years away from the young people with boomboxes sprawled across the Hermosa Beach shore, waving their beers. It’s in a completely different universe from the packed shoreline of hopeful surfers and cheering Hawaiian locals stretched out along the Banzai Pipeline just a week before.

  It’s like the only living, breathing thing in all of Waimea Bay is the sea herself.

  Every step James takes closer to the sand rattles in his bones like a dirge, the sharp wind against his face like a hissing warning. He can’t even bring himself to look out at the waves rising up twenty, thirty, forty, fifty feet high. A voice in the back of his mind starts praying like hell for the waves to never reach past twenty—for the informal competition to be called off due to the puny swells, or for the weather to be too rough, or for a wrong current to make its way in and dash the hopes of clean, open-faced waves against the rocks lining the shallows like barbed wire.

  Sydney’s head is held effortlessly high in front of him. He pulls down his aviators over his eyes as he approaches the group of surfers already lined up along the sand by their cars, arms crossed and eyes intent as they gaze out over the waves. The group turns to look at Sydney approaching, and James can’t quite stop his surprised frown when he sees their faces light up with warm smiles.

  “What it is, what it is, Moore. Was wondering when you’d show up, you lazy ass.”

  “Here he is. Little bird told me you had your sights on Waimea this year.”

  “Banzai waves too small for you now, huh?”

  “Come on, dude, look out and tell us what we’re all missing.”

  James’ mouth is half open. He doesn’t recognize any of these men from the Billabong, not even the passing memory of a blurry face. These men look slightly older—more worn and weathered in the way their loose limbs casually lean. He stands dumbly in the sand as Sydney accepts their handshakes and pats a few of them on the back, effortlessly moving into their circle.

  The last man in line, the first one to greet him from before, steps forward and gives Sydney an actual hug, slapping him hard on the back before they do a practiced handshake between them.

  “My man,” he says, looking Sydney once up and down. “Look even skinnier than the last time I saw you. These waves gonna pummel your little white ass if you ain’t careful.”

  To James’ surprise, Sydney laughs as another surfer rolls his eyes. “Hank here acting like he wouldn’t be the first one out in the water to save you.”

  James watches, mouth half-open, as Sydney pushes his aviators up into his hair. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and James feels a rush of emotion at the way Sydney ducks his head like an embarrassed, starstruck kid. “Hank,” he says to the man he just hugged, acting overly casual. “It’s been a long time.”

  Hank tilts his head, talking only to Sydney as the rest of the surfers go on talking about the surf. “Got some family shit—why I wasn’t out there in LA the other week.”

  Sydney hums in sympathy. “New York?”

  “Just got back yesterday. Dickie here’s letting me bum his camper ‘til I figure out a place.”

  Their voices fade into a blur as James takes a step back and watches Sydney Moore freely converse with a group of people for the very first time, the sight of it causing an embarrassing lump in his throat.

  James had heard that Big Wave su
rfing was different—little whispers he’d caught here and there back in LA from surfers who’d actually traveled out to surf along the North Shore. They’d all shaken their heads at this tiny, set-apart world full of the craziest surfers with the biggest thirsts for danger. At how they were all mad, too ruined now by the thrill of monster swells to get any enjoyment out of riding the surf off other coastlines. Thrill seekers who hurled themselves from the crests without second thought, riding on the shoulders of the group of boys who first threw down their boards into the infamous surf in ‘57 and swam out into the waves without looking back. Men who chased after the next record, and the next record, and the one after that simply because they could, and they had their boards in their hands, and because the waves were there. How somebody had to try to ride them and live to swim back to shore and tell the sane pro-circuit surfers all about it.

  But now, standing here face to face with this world, James sees that it’s actually an entirely separate universe. One where the rest of surfing—its competitions, and qualifying and pro circuits, and points, and heats, and judges—doesn’t even exist. Where Sydney Moore can walk onto a beach and be welcomed with open arms and handshakes, and where the only spectators who dare to show up and watch are the ones who know they may end up seeing a corpse float back to frothy shore.

  He realizes Sydney is staring back at him, beckoning him closer.

  “You all heard of Jimmy,” Sydney says to the group with a clear voice, drawing all eyes to him. “He just stole my title at the Billabong.”

  The other surfers seem to really notice James for the first time. A few of them frown in confusion, glancing quickly at Sydney and wondering how in hell Danny Moore just showed up to surf with a friend—with his winning competitor—but then they’re beaming towards him, holding out arms to slap his back and shake his hand.

  “So you’re the wild card!”

  “Fuck, man, heard about your 9.8. Fucking primo ride you had there. Out of this world.”

  “And you beat this miserable fucker back in Los Angeles, too!”

  James smiles, embarrassed, and tries not to shrink into the sand under the praise. He can’t even believe what he’s seeing on this empty stretch of foggy shore. It’s like he’s stepped into that Twilight Zone show Lori’s always begging Rob to watch—where the surfers here on this beach say all the same shit James heard the surfers say back at the Banzai, the same exact words, except in this world they say it with warm grins, stepping back easily to welcome James and Sydney into their fold.

  James prickles across the back of his neck at the feeling of being an imposter. These men are about to surf the highest waves on earth, following in the footsteps of the untouchable surfing giants before them like it’s nothing revolutionary at all. And they still somehow profess to give a shit that little Jimmy Campbell from a Los Angeles trailer park came over to their shores a week ago and won a silly competition on a fluke.

  Sydney’s hand is briefly on his elbow, and James blinks out of his thoughts to look at him. The look on Sydney’s face says everything, as if James had been narrating his thoughts out loud. The look says, “It wasn’t just a silly competition, it was the goddamn Billabong Masters,” and it also says, with a tiny shrug, “I know. I can’t believe these guys don’t hate me, either.”

  Sydney shoots him a soft smile, and the other surfers surrounding them vanish as James grins and flutters a quick wink back. Then Sydney clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest, filling the beach with his presence.

  “So, looks like the swells will be high enough today after all,” he says, nodding at the latest incoming monster of a wave.

  “Wicked early in the season for it, but Harry was right. These beauties’ll definitely get over thirty today.”

  Sydney hums. “We got actual judging?”

  A surfer next to him laughs. “Shit, Danny, did you just show up and hope there’d be a competition on?”

  Another one steps forward. “Nah, he fucking knew. We woulda had a nice calm empty beach today, but somebody had to go and open his big mouth about this thing we’re doing over a damn microphone last week at the Billabong. This place’ll be thronging.”

  Sydney’s cheeks turn pink as he looks down at his scuffling feet. He hunches his shoulders. “Well, the people requested an interview. You know how it is.”

  “Oh, and all of a sudden you want a little piece of spotlight?” another surfer laughs, warmly. “Tired of winning shit and then disappearing off into the trees—?”

  “Ah, sit on it, Willis,” Hank cuts in. He slugs the other surfer in the arm. “Just fuckin’ jealous you ain’t got competition wins to be all hot in the press for.”

  Sydney shrugs again, pointedly not looking up at James as he talks softly under the resounding conversation of friendly jeers. “Just seemed important,” he says to his feet.

  James tears his eyes away from Sydney and looks out over the empty stretch of beach, endless pools of soft white sand surrounded by rolling hills of craggy green and fluttering flowers. He frowns, hating the fact he feels nervous to make his voice heard. “Place looks empty enough to me,” he says.

  “Ah, my man, this ain’t Los Angeles, but you’ll see.”

  “They’ll be here, just you wait.”

  “Curious sons of bitches can’t pass up the opportunity to watch someone get reamed,” another says, casually smirking.

  “Anyways,” cuts in the man who seems to be the unofficial leader of the group. “To answer His Highness Mr. Moore’s question here, we got one of the WSL guys to come down and be the judge, make it official and shit. Not like we need him, but if one of us goes for the record . . .”

  The rest of the group nods, suddenly solemn. They all turn to look back out at the waves, snarling against the shore and slamming into the barrier of reef and rocks, hurling up streaming spray into the sky.

  James feels sick to his stomach, vision going hazy as he stares without blinking at the roaring walls of water.

  “You joining us, then, Campbell?”

  He blinks and turns to see that it was Hank who asked him. James takes a good look at him for the first time—just a twenty-something kid, barely older than Sydney, with a drooping black mustache and a faded orange baseball cap from Zion National Park. Realization dawns on James as he looks at him. He sees the haunted darkness hovering just beneath his skin, the careful set of his shoulders, the way he keeps looking over his shoulder and scanning the surrounding shore in a predictable cycle.

  They share a small nod, alone in the group of surfers, and both of them flinch when someone slaps their hand hard on the metal roof of a nearby car. James wonders, fleetingly and with a sad tug in his chest, whether it takes running through a Vietnam jungle for somebody to see the hidden beauty in Danny Moore.

  Then James clears his throat, a bit too late. “Nah, just here to watch the show. Make sure no one does anything too stupid,” he tries to laugh.

  Hank gets a sad grin at the corner of his mouth, then turns to the group. “Y’all know Chris got one of those new jet-ski’s they’re selling at Jack’s shop over in Honolulu, rich son of a bitch.”

  Another frowns. “Heard he can’t make it up here today.” He clicks his tongue and sighs. “Woulda been good to have another set of surfing eyes on the beach.”

  James looks to Sydney, confused, and Sydney leans over to quietly speak. “You’ve seen them in LA, those motorized personal bike things you can ride out on the water.”

  Another surfer jumps in, short and stocky with a giant patriotic bald eagle tattoo buried under a forest of deep black chest hair. “Chris got one and started using it for us along the North Shore. Attach a board to the back of it and you’ve got your own little water ambulance. Figures that the first day in three years the waves off Waimea are ideal enough to surf some record breakers, he’s got a fucking funeral to go to.”

  Another guy rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah, Dickie, blame Chris for having the fucking nerve to go to a funeral instead of sav
ing our sorry asses. Relax, man.”

  “Well, it’s true! Fucker knows what happens around here.”

  “Well don’t go fucking jinxing it! Jesus, you have any concept of superstition?”

  The group goes on half-jokingly arguing, laughing and teasing each other like they’re just sitting around a bonfire with beers in their hands. It almost makes it easy to forget that one of them could drown that day.

  James shivers. He can’t forget. He seeks out Sydney in the group standing next to Hank and sees that his eyes are far away out over the ocean, focused intently on the rises of the swells barreling in towards the shore, growing higher and higher with every set until the entire bay turns into a churning, bubbling caldron of white foam and salt.

  James can sense when his invitation becomes a bit strained—more based on the fact that he’s sweating over having absolutely nothing to say than the way the other surfers are treating him. He seeks out Sydney’s eyes, tilting his head away down the shore, then with one last smile he walks off and leaves the group to their strategy, making his way along the sand to sit down in the shade of one of the palm trees.

  He watches the waves and meditates to the steady thrum of the water, incessantly rubbing the sweat on his palms off on his shorts. He watches people slowly arriving in waves at the beach around him, locals curious to see the first time Waimea’s shown record-breaking surf in years, and fellow surfers come to watch and learn how to master the terrifying swells.

  James isn’t surprised at the voice in the back of his mind that tells him over and over again to grab a board and join them out in the water. That he should be one of the ones racing down the towering faces of the waves. It feels like that hot spark deep in his gut when he’d followed in Keith Hartman’s footsteps into the thick and airless jungle, gun clutched hard in sweaty palms, trigger finger steady.

  It’s the part of him that had silently thrilled, in a twisted black way, when he’d first laid eyes on Danny Moore standing tall next to him in the sand. The part of him that had felt shivers up his spine, and screaming adrenaline in his bones, when he’d looked down to his right from under his eyelashes and seen Danny Moore’s shorts tented in a steaming public shower.