The Sea Ain't Mine Alone

by C. L. Beaumont

  Nobody makes a sound. The edges of James’ vision start to spark and blur.

  The entire universe shrinks down to the speck of Sydney’s t-shirt in the deep blue water. James can’t tell if he himself is standing or kneeling, silent or screaming, sleeping or awake. He sees Sydney turn over his shoulder to call back towards Don before paddling up and over a twenty-foot wave just about to break, barely reaching the crest before it topples over into a barrel.

  Someone from the beach suddenly yells. “I see him! I see him out there to the right!”

  Sydney’s already paddling straight towards Dickie, as if he knew exactly where he would surface. James covers his mouth with his hand as Sydney reaches out for Dickie between two massive swells and pulls his limp body onto the front of his board. They’re just to the right of the main breaking point, dangerously close to the crashing falls of the waves as the ocean continues to barrel towards the shore, completely unaware of the three men trying not to drown in her foam.

  Don arrives at Sydney’s side, clearly exhausted from the sprint, and helps hoist Dickie’s body onto Sydney’s back, wrapping his arms under Sydney’s stomach so he can try and limply hold on. Then they’re racing back to shore, barely avoiding being flung and slapped about by the breaks.

  James can see the straining of Sydney’s muscles from here, pulling with all his strength against the thick current and fighting to get enough air as his board sinks beneath the weight of two people. Sydney catches a few smaller waves in towards the shore, body-boarding in on the whitewater, and Don reaches the shore just a minute before him, panting and sprinting towards the surfers all standing in the shallows.

  “He’s alive, but we can’t tell if he’s breathing,” he pants out. The two lifeguards swim out to meet Sydney where he’s paddling in. Sydney slides off his board once his feet can reach the bottom and catches Dickie under his arms. He limply passes Dickie’s body over to the two men who drag him backwards up to the sand and out of the last clutches of the hissing waves.

  James is running before he even notices what he’s doing. He’s running right past the group crowded around Dickie being looked over lying in the sand and sprints straight towards Sydney instead, white shirt plastered to his skin and dripping with saltwater, trails of wet sand wrapped threateningly around his thighs and calves.

  Sydney’s chest is heaving as he pushes his wet hair back from his face, stepping back from the surfers kneeling in the wet sand to make sure Dickie’s okay. Sydney’s eyes are blown wide open where they stare down at Dickie’s limp body, mouth twisted and taut, and as James reaches his side, he suddenly realizes what Sydney must be thinking of as he watches the lifeguards open Dickie’s airway and try and force air into his still lungs. How he must be seeing James himself lying there lifeless in the wet sand, sand-covered lips slowly turning cold and blue.

  James reaches out for his arm, and Sydney flinches at the touch, hands still clutching at his hair.

  “Sydney, I’m here,” he says, not giving a shit about calling him Danny. “Look, I’m here. It’s me.”

  Sydney blinks hard and sucks in a breath, then whips his head towards James.

  “I’m here,” James says again.

  Sydney releases all the air in his lungs, stepping back further from the men kneeling in the sand and taking a stumbling step towards James. He lets his arms fall to his sides and leans his weight against James’ shoulder, sagging like air let out of a balloon.

  James takes him by the wrist and starts to lead him away. “Here, let’s get you some air, get some air,” he says, over and over. “There’s nothing more you can do.”

  The beach is eerily silent as he pulls Sydney away, his limbs moving thickly through the sand in a daze.

  “Moore, you alright?” Hank calls out behind them.

  Sydney blinks hard, then turns around, leaving his wrist in James’ hand. “I’m all good,” he says in a weak voice. “Just need some air.”

  Hank looks relieved as he puts up an understanding hand. “Looks like he’s alright,” he calls out, nodding down at Dickie. “He’s breathing now, just a little stunned. He’s fine.” Hank shakes his head and passes a hand over his mouth. “You fucking did it, man.”

  Sydney nods that he heard but doesn’t respond, letting James lead him quickly up towards the shaded canopy of the trees right at the edge of the line of parked cars. His legs feel numb, whole body going into an automatic mode he never even knew he had, completely unaware that any other breathing person exists on the beach besides Sydney, his warm, wet wrist still clutched in James’ hand.

  James gently pushes Sydney down into the sand against a palm trunk and rifles through their nearby bags for the canteen of water he brought along. He kneels in front of Sydney and puts a hand on his shin, trying to exude nothing but a strong, calm peace.

  Sydney gulps down the water and takes a deep, shaking breath, pushing the curls back from his forehead again.

  “I’m alright,” he says, still panting.

  James huffs, and his voice cracks. “Like hell you are.”

  “I’m fine. I’m good. Just needed to catch my breath.”

  James shakes his head in disbelief as Sydney shuts his eyes and leans his head back against the trunk, taking careful breaths. The saltwater glitters across his skin, and the muscles of his chest rise and fall under the clinging wet contours of his white tee. There are small lines of exhaustion painted around his eyelids, and a little smear of mud clings to the pulsing vein in his neck.

  James looks at him for a long moment, his hand innocently clutching his shin, and he wants to lean forward and grab Sydney’s face in his hands and kiss him and growl, “You promised me you wouldn’t go out there without saying goodbye. You fucking promised me.”

  But James also knows he would never really say that, not in a million years. Because Sydney Moore knew that he was the fastest swimmer on the shore, and he knew that he would know exactly where Dickie would eventually surface. And James knows that Sydney just saved that man’s life without even a second’s hesitation—a man who’s maybe given him shit in the past, or called him a fairy, or whispered behind his back, big wave camaraderie aside.

  And Sydney called James brave.

  James lets himself reach forward for a brief moment to hold Sydney’s hand, shielded from the rest of the beach by his own body. Sydney opens his eyes and gives a tired smile, and James feels his heart sink deep in his chest. He’d suspected, but now he definitely knows.

  “You’re still gonna go out there, aren’t you,” he says.

  Sydney gazes into his eyes and nods, body tense and waiting for James’ reaction.

  James takes a deep breath and releases it with a nod, and Sydney’s eyes widen in surprise. James squeezes his wet hand before letting go.

  “I said you should do it. I won’t take my word back now,” he says. He stares into the eyes of the man he’d slept next to that morning, the man who knows every secret, horrible, intimate inch of James’ skin. Who knows it, and who still wants James Campbell to be by his side, in his home, in his life. Who admitted that he, the top winning surfer in all Hawaii, would only feel confident enough to swim out into Waimea if he knows James is there.

  Sydney closes his eyes and leans back against the tree, whispering James’ name once softly into the warm breeze, and James doesn’t say anything more as he sits by his side, watching the wind slowly dry the salt from Sydney’s skin.

  They wait in the shade for another half hour as Dickie recovers on the sand, and the crowd tries to recover from the scene.

  But all too soon, Hank’s waving over in their direction.

  “You still joining me, Moore? Or did you get your fill already?”

  Sydney immediately opens his eyes from what James thought was a nap and smirks, then starts to rise to his feet. “Gotta show you incompetent idiots how it’s done,” he calls back, and Hank flips him off and laughs. “Five minutes!”

  Suddenly, James needs to say everything, so str
ongly that the beach around him reels and tilts on its side. He grabs Sydney’s hand before he can start walking away to change into his wetsuit and prepare and yanks him back into the palm trees, slamming him up against a trunk with a surprised grunt from them both.

  They’re still in full view of the crowds by the water, and James finds himself wishing more than anything he’s ever wished for in his life that he could just lean forward and press their lips together one last time. That he could strip off their shirts and press their chests together so he could remember the warmth of Sydney’s skin, the rhythm of his breathing lungs.

  Instead, he holds Sydney at arm’s length and grips his shoulders hard. Sydney watches him, lips parted and eyes wide behind a curtain of half-wet curls.

  James’ voice is choked. In his mind, he sees Sydney young and asleep earlier that morning in their bed, with the moonlight illuminating his face and his curls softly falling across his pillow.

  He blinks again, and he sees the open, shocked face of the man on the pier.

  “Don’t you dare not come back to me,” he whispers. His voice is hoarse.

  Sydney’s focused eyes are the vastness of the sea. They stare straight through James’ skin into the red, swelling muscles of his lungs, and his large hands come up to grab hold of James’ forearms. James looks down, throat embarrassingly tight, at the sight of Sydney’s long fingers over the blanket of golden hair covering his own skin.

  Sydney takes a deep breath, and the earth disappears.

  “James,” he breathes in a fragile voice. His eyes grow wet. “I love you.”

  James shuts his eyes quickly as a moan escapes the back of his throat. He shakes his head and huffs out a wet breath, trying to force his voice to work, but Sydney goes on.

  “I know . . . I know it’s soon. That we . . . we aren’t really—but I need you to know. Before I go out there, I need you to—”

  “Sydney.”

  James is shocked he was even able to form a coherent word. He grips Sydney’s shoulders so tightly he can feel the contours of the bones, and he lets Sydney see the tear that rolls down his cheek without wiping it away. “God, you . . . come back to me and I’ll tell you the same thing, you—” A thousand curse words zoom through James’ mind, and his mouth opens and shuts, his head shaking. “You . . .”

  Sydney’s mouth crumples, and he smiles with wet eyes and nods. “I will,” he whispers. “I promise you, I will.”

  And James knows that that’s the last thing Sydney can promise. That he’s just about to let the man who kissed his scar without pity walk away from him in the sand without getting to hear that he’s loved back.

  And Sydney does walk away from him, then, after one more heart-stopping look. He holds his head high, and pulls his wet shirt off his back, and makes his way towards his board to join Hank out in the surf. Leaving James grasping at cold, thin air in the dark shade.

  James stands dumbly at the edges of the beach as he watches Sydney rejoin the surfers as if nothing’s happened, waving off what looks like Hank’s reminder to don his wetsuit and instead attaching his ankle strap wearing just his boardshorts. He slips off his aviators and drops them into the sand.

  James watches Sydney act as if he didn’t just risk his life saving one of their own, or as if he didn’t just look into the eyes of James Campbell and say, in full view of the clear open sky and the vast blue sea, that he loves him.

  That he loves him.

  James wants to turn his face up towards the covering of thick, soft clouds and laugh at the top of his lungs—a gigantic “take that!” to the universe that’s tried to drag him down over and over again. That whispered to him for nearly three long years that he should just walk back out into the sea and never swim back. Leave Rob Depaul to show up to surf together the next morning only to find an empty shore.

  But then he watches Sydney walk confidently with his board towards the waves, the crowd gathering closer to watch and cheer them on. Sydney turns back just when his toes reach the water and looks over his shoulder, giving James a wave where he still stands by the trees, and then he’s running out into the thrashing sea, not once looking back.

  James stares as the crisp black lines of Sydney’s tattoo gradually disappear into the spray. He tries to breathe in the choking, salty air, grateful that it smells like the sea and not like blood, and mud, and jungle. He refuses to be embarrassed at how his throat is burning and tight, and how he’s blinking back the hot tears threatening to spill over in his eyes.

  That man out there—the one dwarfed by skyscraper waves—he loves him.

  James goes to stumble closer to the water so he can see, when he catches a small movement out of the corner of his eye. A woman appears from the line of thick trees, long black braid streaked with grey curling over her shoulder. Her long skirt blows gently across the surface of the sand, and her blouse ripples and clings in the strong wind pouring across the shore from the waves. She walks towards the water with small, hesitant steps, then stops in her tracks and raises a hand to her mouth, eyes completely fixed on the two surfers paddling out into the fierce walls of deadly, roaring water.

  In a flash of clarity, James realizes exactly who she is.

  “Lahela always used to tell me ‘Ukuli'i ka pua, onaona i ka mau'u.’ The flower may be tiny, but it scents the grasses around it.”

  He quickly scans the waves, making sure Sydney is still paddling within the safety of the shallows, and then he slowly walks towards the lone woman where she stands completely frozen in the sand.

  He gently clears his throat by her side so he won’t startle her. “Are you here to watch Danny?”

  She still jumps at his voice, and turns to face him like she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone on the beach. Her deep brown eyes are wide with fear.

  “Yes,” she whispers. She doesn’t ask him how he knew. James looks down at her face, not bothering to mask the fear in his own eyes, and she clutches at a little golden cross hanging down around her neck.

  In a silent decision, they walk side by side closer to the shoreline, off to the side of the rest of the rapt crowd. Lahela’s skirt blows against James’ ankles in the sand, grounding him on the earth as his heart flies out across the waters to the place where Sydney paddles through the waves, fighting against the water to let him ride her swells.

  James watches the man who just said “I love you” swim steadily towards the most dangerous waves on earth, leaving James completely powerless to save him on the dry shore. And beside him he hears whispered words escape from Lahela’s trembling lips, carried away on the salty breeze and nearly covered by the roar of the sea.

  “Ka mana o ke Akua e ho’ opakele mai ia kakou,” she whispers, gripping the cross with her fingers. “Ka mana o ke Akua e malama mai ia kakou.”

  Sydney paddles out just to the left of the breaking point, perched on his board above the heaving swells of the deep. He looks back once towards the shore, straight at James, a silent signal that he’s about to take the next wave barreling in towards the shore.

  And James whispers his own prayer softly into the wind, just as Sydney’s powerful arms cut through the storming water.

  “Please . . .” he murmurs across the sand. “Come back to me.”

  25

  The wind scours across the surface of the waves and whips the cool saltwater into his face, hurling droplets into the rolling void of the deep surrounding his board. Sydney grips his thighs tighter around his board to steady himself against the rocking water beneath him, trying to breathe slow enough to keep his heart rate steady after the harsh paddle out to the breaking point.

  Hank is still battling behind him—stuck in the shallows and trying to get past the barrier of cresting waves, pushed back again and again by the whitewater no matter how fast he tries to paddle over the tops. And Sydney is alone out on the water, gasping for breath with a burn in his arms and limbs, shaking with exhaustion since he already battled through these waves once not even an hour ago to help Dickie. />
  He tears his eyes away from Hank pushing through the breaking waves and instead looks out towards the horizon. The vastness of the sea suddenly looms before him with a moan. He can hear the empty groaning of the void across the surface of the ocean, stretching out to infinity with no break in sight. No people, or whispered words, or family, or jobs, or money, or competitions on crowded beaches.

  No James Campbell.

  The empty horizon line had always been peace for him—a welcome reminder that he always had an out. He could simply swim out towards her unreached depths and never look back if he wanted. He could take a deep breath and swim forever in the blessed, lonely silence. He could wake up one day in his house, step out into the sea, and let his feet leave the steadiness of the ground for the very last time, abandoning the whispers behind him on the dry land.

  But now James Campbell is at his back, strong and brave and beautiful standing on the shore, letting Sydney be out here in the raging swells just so he can prove to himself that he’s capable of reading the secrets of the ocean. That it’s possible for him, Sydney Moore, to have one place on earth where he actually belongs. To dare the sea to welcome him with thrashing, outstretched arms.

  Time stretches out before him like eternity, dripping with smears of danger and promise. Sydney knows he’s only been in the water for about five minutes, and that he only stopped paddling and stopped to perch on his board thirty seconds ago. But now Sydney also knows, deep in the pit of his soul, that James Campbell is waiting for him back on the sand, waiting to tell him, in his sweet, smooth voice, “I love you.”

  And Sydney knows, for the first time in his entire life with certainty, that the ocean will carry him back to shore. That it will not leave him to roam over the lonely horizon forever.