Gracie blushed, feigning interest in the pictures on the wall while she composed herself. "I hear you're not bad yourself."
"Used to be okay," he replied.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small zip lock bag filled with what looked like dried herbs. "I hope you don't take this the wrong way but a friend in town told me you were looking for some dope. Marijuana," she corrected herself.
Margaret looked at Stan and he looked at her. Then they both looked at the bag.
"Bugger me," he said.
Gracie smiled. "It's just some home grown stuff, not really strong but the little heads are more potent so be careful of using too many of them together." She handed the bag to Margaret.
"Thank you Luv, but ah…" She looked at Stan.
"We're not exactly flush Gracie," he said, the disease moving inside him.
"No, no, no. Please. I don't want money. I was thinking of a trade."
"What sort of trade?" Stan had eased back down onto the couch.
"I need all the information you can give me about the Point. About surfing it. I've paddled out there a few times and I always seem to get caught too far inside or I lose my nerve and end up sitting out on the shoulder. I've picked up a few nice ones on smaller days but I want to surf it big. And," she hesitated momentarily, "I want the respect."
She had blurted her story out as though it was rehearsed. Stan looked up at her and glimpsed the passion that had filled his younger, healthier body. "Well," he said, "you'll have to earn the respect yourself. But that'll come. And I'll give you what advice I can for free but," he looked over at Margaret, "the trade sounds like a good deal to me."
Gracie laughed and did a little hop on her toes like a delighted kid. "Thanks so much Stan." She looked back towards the door. "I gotta run. Have to get to work. Could I drop by tomorrow for a chat?"
"You can drop by any time you like Gracie. I'm not going far." Stan was on his feet again, happy at the thought of having met someone new, even at this late stage of his life.
"Okay. I'm off then. So nice to meet you two. Oh, by the way, do you know what to do with the dope?"
"Buggered if I do," said Stan. "I don't think my lungs are up for smoking."
Gracie was shaking her head. "Don't smoke it. Make a pot of tea. Couple of teaspoons should get you going. If that doesn't work I'll chase up some hash when I'm up in Melbourne next. You can make cookies. I'm guessing it's for the pain?"
"No Luv, the morphine does a passable job with that. But it kills my appetite. I did some research on the net and they reckon this stimulates the appetite."
"Ha," Gracie laughed and shook her head. "The munchies. You want the munchies! I reckon it might just work." She turned and headed for the door.
Margaret saw her out. "Thank you Gracie."
They smiled at each other and Gracie walked up the steep path to the gate. "See you tomorrow," she called over her shoulder and was gone.
Margaret made a pot of tea after Stan's meagre dinner. He had pushed the food around his plate, eating small forkfuls out of habit more than anything. The tea tasted bland and a bit grassy, but they both drank two cups before moving to the lounge and turning on the television.
After the nightly news and current affairs programs, they settled on a dancing show. Lots of athletic young men and women threw themselves about in a competition that largely went unexplained to viewers. The judges, all in their forties but dressed like teenagers, picked apart the performance of each pair of panting, smiling dancers.
"Wankers," said Stan.
Half way through the next dance number Margaret started to giggle. She tried to stop herself but found she couldn't. Stan broke into a quiet chuckle too. There were two dancers working feverishly to impress the judges, huge smiles plastered across their faces as they heaved each other across the stage. The girl was oblivious to the fact that one of her breasts had fallen from her top, while her partner seemed undecided about whether to ignore it or help it back in.
Margaret couldn't contain herself. She lay back on the couch and laughed. Stan too started to laugh uncontrollably, moving about to try to find a comfortable position. His body ached and he had to get to his feet and look away from the TV.
Margaret held herself together long enough to say, "Another cup of tea dear?"
"No thanks darlin' but I am a bit peckish."
"There's still some scones in the tin; have one of those. I'm going to have a shower before bed."
Margaret was gone for fifteen minutes but when she checked in on Stan, she looked in amazement at her emaciated husband sitting at the kitchen table. He looked up sheepishly. In front of him were the remains of the scones, two open jars of jam, a jar of gherkins, a block of cooking chocolate and a glass of Milo. Morsels of scone and jam ringed his mouth as he tried to wipe them away.
"I've never felt so bloody hungry."
*
Margaret had taken to sleeping in the spare room as Stan's illness progressed. They didn't take the decision lightly, having shared a bed for nearly forty years. They were attuned to each other's breath, to the patterns and rhythm of sleep. They knew the curves and angles of their bodies as they kept each other warm through the cold winters. When one woke, so did the other and now with Stan's sleepless nights Margaret knew she would need to sustain her energy to help him through each day.
So, reluctantly, she left him and moved into the visitor's room. She slept fitfully for weeks, listening for him, reaching out for him, wanting him to mould his body to hers, to share his warmth. And on occasion she slipped back into his bed early in the morning, just to hold him, to try to remember the energy and life that his body used to radiate. Stan would wake with a start, remember in an instant that he was dying, then fold into her and brace himself for the effort of living another day.
He used the Point to motivate himself to sit up in bed and swing his feet to the floor. He wanted to get up, to look out the front windows and see how the swell was lining up, how many surfers were out and who was picking off the best waves. And Gracie would be coming this morning.
She arrived bearing gifts mid-morning. Margaret opened the door before she had time to knock. Gracie proffered a bag of still-warm muffins.
Margaret spoke quietly, out of Stan's hearing. "Gracie, your little bag of pot worked wonders. You should have seen him last night. I've haven't seen him eat like that since before he got crook."
"Sounds like you got the quantities right then," Gracie said. "There's nothing like the munchies."
Margaret raised her voice. "Stan, Gracie's here." She shepherded her guest into the lounge.
Stan was peering into the telescope, training it carefully on the Point. "Come and have a look girl. It's a bit small today but it's lining up okay." He turned and beckoned her to step out onto the verandah.
Gracie liked the lack of formality about Stan and Margaret. She wondered whether it was because of his illness – the lack of chit chat, the directness, the need to move quickly in case death caught up and punished him for time-wasting.
"Not many blokes out this morning but I know most of them," he said. "Couple of ratbags but they're not a bad bunch once you get to know them. The Swanson boys are out – Chrisso, Stevo, Nicko. I don't understand the "o" bit. You'll work out who they are pretty quickly. Big smiles and heads like billiard balls."
"So who are the ratbags?" Gracie thought the word sounded strange coming from her mouth. It was an old person's word. Something her grandfather would have called the kids that knocked over his rubbish bins on the nature strip.
"The bloke they call Bags. He's a dickhead. Glazier by trade and you don't need to be Einstein to do that job – grade six maths and a tube of silicone. Thinks a lot of himself in the water too. Used to slash tourists' tyres years ago, just because they wanted to surf the Point. Someone got their own back though, waited for him to paddle out, got to his truck and put a brick though a couple of thousand dollars worth of glass."
The story flowed
out of Stan, like it was his duty to fill her in on the history of the Point. He had information to pass on and a limited time to do it. "Bags and another bloke, Sticky, they'll both snake you at the drop of a hat. Won't think twice about dropping in on you. Try to scare you off."
"I think I've come across them already. I tried to say g'day when I paddled out but they just ignored me." Gracie talked without looking at Stan, both their gazes directed at the corduroy lines marching out of the depths of the ocean. They shared a unifying obsession, a drift and current that moved them in the same way.
As a set loomed, Stan leaned forward as though the waves were drawing him toward them. "Watch this one now Gracie. See what happens when a bigger set comes through. It breaks a little bit wider but further out too. On a big day you don't want to get hit by one of the creeper sets. But the trick is not to get sucked into paddling wider. Hold your position inside but paddle hard and fast straight out. If you get the timing right you'll be in position, deeper than anyone else but far enough out not to have to wear it on your head. If you paddle into it, the take off will make or break you. You have to paddle hard and fast and get to your feet before it sucks on the outside ledge and drops out underneath you."
"Next big swell I might give it a shot I reckon." Gracie felt the familiar butterflies in her gut when she thought about surfing big.
"We just have to hatch a plan to beat any snakes like Bags and Sticky. Here's what I reckon we should do." Stan had a glint in his eye and his lips creased into a smile. "I get a bird's eye view from up here so I can see the sets coming long before you can when you're in the water. See that spotlight there?" He pointed to the corner of the verandah. "I'll flick it on and off when a bigger set's on the way. You'll have about a minute to get into position. Paddle further out, but don't head for the shoulder, stay deep. You'll sort out pretty quickly how far out you need to go but depending on the size on the day, the bigger ones could break twenty metres further out."
This time, as he spoke, Gracie turned to look at Stan. His clothes hung from his body as though everything was a size too big. His forehead and neck were dotted with brown sun spots. His fingers were knitted together where he leaned on the rail, the bones visible through paper-thin skin. It was as though his body had begun to disintegrate while he was still alive. She saw the tenseness in the way he pushed his body against the rail.
After that, Gracie's visits became more regular as she found the smallest excuse to drop by and chat. Margaret could see the confusion in her eyes as she watched Stan deteriorate. They formed a strange but tangible bond – two women standing guard as death reached out its spidery tendrils to envelop Stan. They shared a stoicism born of not yet having to confront the inevitable. Every day that Stan managed to get out of bed and shuffle to the couch by the window was another day that bore a passing resemblance to normality. It tore at Margaret to see her robust surfer husband being slowly taken from her but as long he could still find the strength to talk about the weather or give her a wink as she passed, as long as she could still touch him and feel him respond, there was still life and love and a glimmer of hope.
Before long Gracie became part of their daily routine, helping with the meals, running errands into town and staying on late into the night to play cards or sit and watch TV. It wasn't just the way Gracie did things without having to be asked, it was her company, her relentless optimism and sometimes just the way she exchanged a glance with Margaret when Stan's pain got the better of him and he cried out with the heat and anger of it. She had someone to share her own heat and anger with.
There were still some things he would only allow his wife to do, helping him to the toilet and bathing him in the evening. Gracie understood his pride. She saw the way he struggled to remember names, how he faded off mid-sentence and the constant shifting in his seat, trying to ease the pressure on his bones. She knew Stan was fighting an enemy he couldn't beat. He was a featherweight shuffling to evade the heavyweight champion. The punch was coming but if he ducked and weaved, danced as best he could, he might last another round.
*
Two months after her first visit a big swell rose out of the depths of the Southern Ocean. Gracie had been up in Melbourne for a few days and had returned late. She had wanted to check in on Stan and Margaret but saw their lights were out.
Deep in the night she lay awake listening to the rumble of the building swell. It would quieten momentarily then rise to a crescendo again as the next set pushed up and beat itself against the rocks of the Point.
At first light she got up and made a quick breakfast. She knew the tide would be just right by about seven o'clock. She felt the nerves crackling just below her skin, the tension building in her shoulders and arms. She forced herself to slow down, to breathe deeply and stay calm. She lay on the lounge room floor and stretched, going through her morning ritual of salutes to the sun. Then she stepped outside to check that the wind was right, that the offshore had held through the night. Reassured, she grabbed her wetsuit and towel off the line, tucked her board under her arm and walked out on to the road.
The wind was still light and there was a crispness in the air. She walked down the hill to the end of her street, arriving at the corner where she got her first view of the Point. All her apprehension and excitement was confirmed as a huge wave, the first of a set of six, peeled off the Point. The sound it created echoed up the valley and she was sure she could feel it reverberate through her.
She turned the corner and looked along towards Stan and Margaret's place. All was quiet but she knew Stan would be up on the verandah, anxiously peering through the telescope trained on the Point. She walked to the end of the dirt road and crossed the broad ribbon of asphalt that curved into the car park. There were already half a dozen cars there, Bags' truck among them. She ducked down into the tea tree and quickly changed into her wetsuit. Her hands shook as she strained to grab the cord behind her back and pull the zip up. Again she forced herself to breathe deeply. She waxed her board and walked down the path that led to the beach.
Her senses were alert to everything around her; the fecund smell of the melaleucas, the cold dirt under her feet, the persistent roar of the waves, even the taste of the toothpaste that lingered in her mouth. She reached the steps, took them two at a time and walked out onto the rocky point.
For the first time she looked at the waves from water level. From up on the hill they had appeared big and manageable, but down here they were forbidding mountains welling up out of the grey ocean. There were about ten surfers in the water but as Gracie stopped to watch and assess the conditions she didn't see any of them take a wave. They seemed small and insignificant against the size and power of the surf.
The largest waves of each set, the fifth and sixth as she counted, broke at least ten metres further out and across. Here the cluster of surfers waited, their boards pointed at the oncoming wave, weighing up their options – to scramble up the face and relative safety or to pivot the tail of the board, turn their back to the wall of water and stroke into the take off.
Gracie watched for a good fifteen minutes, timing the sets and watching the channel she would have to paddle out through. Near the end of the rock shelf, it was swamped by white water when the sets hit. She needed to time her run over the last ten metres, just as the water from the last wave of the set receded, and launch herself into the channel. She double checked her leg rope and scampered out onto the exposed reef as the sixth wave of a big set blasted across the shelf. She ran the last few metres and jumped into the foaming channel. She landed flat on her board and started paddling with every fibre she could draw on. The mass of the receding water helped carry her out and away from the rocks.
She hadn't made it into clear water when the dark shadow of the next set loomed on the immediate horizon. She stroked harder, urging herself out into deeper water. She made it up and over the first four, her board slapping heavily on the surface as she fell off the back of them, but the next wave was already breaking out
beyond her. As it breached and threw itself at her, she slid to the front of her board and dived as deep as she could, but it ripped her hands off the rails and pulled her down. She knew not to fight it but to let herself be taken, to be rag-dolled, turned inside out. She held her breath until it had done with her, then she stroked to the surface and sucked precious oxygen into her lungs.
Regaining her bearings, she was relieved to see flat water ahead of her, a brief lull in the storm she had launched herself into. She lay still for a few seconds, gathered herself and paddled over to the other surfers.
Gracie knew there was a strange synergy between people in similar states of anxiety – a tendency to reach out and acknowledge a shared fear, a nervous energy masked with humour. She recognised most of them, two of the Swanston boys, Bags, the barman from the pub and a couple of others she had seen about town. They were sitting on their boards, eyes trained on the horizon, legs dangling in the water, arms folded against the cold.
"You must be Grace. Nicko," he said by way of quick introduction.
"Hey." She tried not to let her voice betray her nervousness.
"Stan said you might be out if it got big. You up for this?"
"Gotta be, I'm out here aren't I."
"You've heard the news then. Poor bloke. Still, probably the best thing."
Gracie wanted to ask him what he meant but suddenly the group was on the move. The horizon was smudged with the approach of the next set. She lay down on her board again and hesitated. She peered back over her shoulder at Stan and Margaret's place on the hill. Where was the signal? The blinds were drawn and there was no light flashing at her. She turned to face the oncoming waves and dug her arms into the water.
All the others had paddled further out and across, anticipating the bigger waves at the back of the set. Gracie hesitated for another couple of seconds then stroked straight out. She was further inside than anybody by the time she drew level with them. She made a point of staring straight at Bags as she pushed past him. She knew her face would betray her fear but she was sure she could see the same in him.
"Bitch," he mouthed at her.
"Dickhead," she mouthed back. Then she turned her back on him and paddled another ten metres inside.
Headspring Volume 1 Page 5