by S. Love
I hold out my hand like I’ve lost something into thin air. “Uh… work?”
“They can survive without you for a couple hours.”
The notion of such a responsibility’s lost on Ozzie.
“It won’t be a couple of hours, though. You just said it’s two hours away. And then you’ll be out there till you’re noodle-armed, and I could get fired. Where are you surfing, anyway?”
“Dead Man’s Cove.”
Only one of the biggest right breaks on the east coast. And the morning after a hurricane? “No one will want me there crowding the lineup when I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ll probably smash into the rocks and die.” I shudder at the thought. And that’s if the local surfers don’t get to me with pitchforks first.
Ozzie smooths out a creeping frown. “No one will give you any hassle while I’m there.”
Yes, they will. Bigger waves equal no groms. If the conditions are just right, which it sounds like they are with a juicy, red cherry on top, we’re talking top-to-bottom barrels. I’ll be kicked out of the water if I don’t snap my board in half first and wake up in the hospital paralyzed from the neck down.
“Thank you, but no. Dead Man’s Cove is way, way, way outta my sector on a flat day. I’ll sit this one out.”
Ozzie’s expression doesn’t read a flicker of understanding. Where’s this boy’s sense of danger? Switched off? Was he born without it? I’ve got no desire to be caught in a hurricane on dry land, so why the heck would I dump myself into the unpredictable ocean? That thing might cut back the way it came and wipe us all out. I value life too much.
“Suit yourself, but that board’s going to rot if it doesn’t see some water soon.” Ozzie adjusts the stiff collar of his black jacket around his jaw. “You’re meant to surf with it, not look at it. The thing’s collecting dust.”
“I can take it out when I get off work.”
“On those soft waves? They’re breaking up.” Ozzie lifts his gaze behind me, toward the shore. It’s frothing now, but the break’s directly on the beach, and it’s maybe two-foot at its highest. Choppy, too, with the breeze coming in the wrong way. “Wait until I’m back and I’ll take you to the pier.”
I can’t bring myself to commit to that, so I nod and move the topic along. “You should go. They’re waiting for you.”
I redirect my gaze to the deck floorboards and my peach-painted toes, to ease the strained tension that’s floated in and taken root. Really, I want to tell him to be careful. Don’t get in the water if the barrels are too heavy. But that would be dumb, and he wouldn’t listen anyway.
Ozzie dips his head, capturing my jaw in his hand and lifting my head so our eyes are level. “I didn’t mean to surf. I would never let you into swells as heavy and unpredictable as the Cove’s.”
I nod, because he’s making it kinda hard to string words together. He stops all the voices in my head whenever he stares into my eyes, whenever he’s this close, and I’m relying on those voices to steer me away from feelings like the ones I’m having right now.
It feels like forever until he finally leaves, the French doors standing open for me to go back inside and out of the dark. I think it may be even earlier than I anticipated, somewhere around four a.m.
From the tall, arching Palladian window at the end of the upstairs hallway, I watch the rest of the boards being bagged and strapped down to the Jeep’s black roof.
The water’s no joke where they’re going, anywhere from seventy-one to eighty degrees this time of year, and Ozzie throws two Quicksilver duffel bags into the backseat with Topher. He pulls back his hood to slide on a snapback underneath and then climbs into the driver’s seat.
The sweeping arc from the headlights freezes me in the bright glare before receding as the Jeep reverses and turns out of the driveway. When they’re out of sight, I grab my phone from my bedroom, alarmed at the 3:35 time stamp across the top of the screen.
Sleep’s not coming back to me, so I change into my leggings and sports bra and go running for an hour along empty roads that make it feel like the dead of night and I’m the last living person on Earth.
Much later, while I make my way swiftly through the day’s tasks, I check my phone regularly for weather updates, pinpointing the hurricane and the course it’s on. Thankfully nowhere near Dead Man’s Cove now, so at least there’s that. I track down a live surf blog, and apparently Topher was right in his observations, and the waves are some of the biggest this side of the Atlantic has seen in the last twelve years.
“Something bothering you?”
I hadn’t noticed Ray standing by the pool with an A5 roll of laminated paper in his fist. His black construction polo hangs over the waist of his jeans, the top two buttons open at the neck. His work boots are crusted with muck, and there’s a rogue streak of cement or mixing paste up the side of his neck and cheek.
“Ah, no.” I smile and shove the phone back into my apron pocket. “Sorry, I...” I’m floundering, an overstimulated livewire.
“Your head somewhere else?” Ray asks. But the tone he uses hinges on already knowing what I’ll say. “Why don’t you take off early? Topher’s car’s in the garage, and Mariah’s in her room staring at the walls. You could both do with getting out of the house. You aren’t going to get it any cleaner than it already is.”
Does he even know where his sons are? Maybe he knows and he’s used to them risking their lives for the opportunity of riding that one, unforgettable wave. Like Ozzie, what goes on in Ray’s head, only Ray knows. Ozzie’s surfing is way above average standard, but I haven’t heard Ray or Cindy acknowledge his talent once. They don’t watch him, encourage him, or take any kind of interest in his love of the sport. They just sort of let him get on with it. Weird. The first picture I ever drew is framed in my mom’s bedroom, and it wasn’t even good.
Getting out of the house isn’t a half-bad idea, though. I’m going stir crazy.
“Is there anything a little less…” I bite the side of my lip. “Less than a Mercedes, I guess?” I can’t drive that. There’s no guaranteeing what state I’ll bring it back in, and if Topher can’t deal with scruffy seats, he may well have a coronary if he discovers his fenders hanging off. I have my license, but I’m experienced in riding the bus and that’s the sad truth of my life.
Ray’s mouth lifts in a slow grin. He’s laughing at me. “You can take the Audi if you’d prefer. It’s gear shift, though. Do you drive stick?”
I don’t react to the humor he’s found in my iffy driving capabilities.
“I can.” I can work with the Audi. It’s older and more worn in. Besides, Cindy drives around in it in stiletto heels. How difficult can it be?”
It’s a ten-minute walk to Dead Man’s Cove from where I lucked out on a curbside spot in a nearby neighborhood with legal street parking.
The Audi took some getting used to, like tapping the gas and not plunging my foot down and stalling the three-liter engine. And yeah, I pulled over to the side of the road once or twice to settle my nerves and give myself a much-needed pep talk, but we got here in the end, so I can’t complain too much. At least not until the dreaded drive home. Two hours by car that’s too powerful for me is for sure better than four hours on multiple buses circling the world before reaching its destination.
There was a bit of a delay driving into town, a half-mile of traffic backed up because the road was partially flooded.
The ground shakes from the waves barreling the shore. I can’t see the coast yet, only hear the booming surf. It doesn’t fill me with tingly, warm feelings anticipating what we’re about to walk into.
Mariah leans into my leg, her fingers pinching my leggings at the back of my thigh as she tries to grab a handful of the material and nips my skin instead. “What’s that noise?” she looks up and asks, her gaze wide in fear.
“The ocean.” I take her hand in mine so the pinching stops. Loose, blonde curls in long layers blow gently around her stricken face. “There isn’t anything to
be afraid of. You’ll see in a minute.” In reassuring her, I’m reassuring myself. Whatever my doubts about Ozzie, the biggest doubt is whether I dislike him at all or I’m pulling the wool over my own eyes. So, there’s plenty to be afraid of, and I’m starting with that.
As we walk closer to the surf spot, up and down this part of the cove, there’s men and women changing into rash vests and wetsuits along the packed parking lot’s stone walls, everyone eager to get in the water and not waste time on dry land while the waves are soaring.
I have to admit, this is a rare sight. The height of the waves pounding the ocean floor me when I first cast eyes on them. Some surfers are being towed to the bigger waves farther out, others jumping in on their boards from the dock or the rocks.
It’s impossible to tell if anyone currently in the water is Ozzie, Topher, or Falcon, and the waves are so rugged they stop me from recognizing any of their boards, and I know they’ve brought extra that they don’t usually surf with. Now, I can see why. A board or two is getting broken today. The waves are back-to-back. Twenty/twenty-five feet, easily. I’ve never seen anything close to this size at Cape Pearl.
Mariah and I haven’t got any choice but to walk the beaten trail that scales the cliffs overlooking the dock and the pointbreak. We sit on a worn patch of ground on an overhang halfway to the top. My backpack’s loaded with turkey sandwiches, jerky, juice, and Red Bull. I take it off, relieving my shoulders and arms of the straining weight.
It could be busier here, most people at work or banding together to clean up the affected destruction. Life must go on for the non-thrill seekers.
I recognize a group of surfers with their boards on the rocks below, two jet skis bobbing on the water nearby. Professionals, I think. I’m almost sure, but I’d need a closer look to erase the doubt.
But then one of them turns around, wet, white-blond hair to his shoulders. He cups two tanned hands around his mouth and hollers across the rocks to another surfer who’s just dove into the squally water belly-down on his board. The blond guy throws him the shaka with his left hand, and the group he’s with cheer and shout words of encouragement that I can’t make out from all the way up here.
Nathan Anders. That’s his name. Surfs on the men’s world tour. My mind goes there, wondering if he’ll end up one of the guys who Garrett calls his friend when he’s out there competing against him. If he qualifies.
And now he’s on my mind, I scan the water and the waves searching for him even when he’s somewhere else. Garrett’s all about airs and tricks on smaller, cleaner waves, but he’d have probably come out here for the hurricane sweep, even if all he did was watch. These violent sets are a high injury risk now he’s serious about qualifying, and how well he could surf them is anyone’s guess.
I pull open the zipper on my bag and take out a paper-wrapped package. “Sandwich?”
Mariah shakes her head, so I offer her a box of organic apple juice instead and a packet of beef jerky. I grab my own packet and munch on the sweet, chewy meat while watching the surf.
Just as I’m putting the last piece into my mouth, I pause with the jerky between my teeth.
Standing on the rocks in wet boardshorts and his red and black cap turned to the back with the flat brim over his neck. It’s his body I respond to first, his broad shoulders and lean muscle tapering to his trim waist.
Someone approaches him from the wall that runs along the flooded beach. Topher. They say something to each other, and then Ozzie’s head dips as he tugs the blue rash vest from the waistband of his shorts. He works it over his head, the muscles in his back straining under his olive skin as he pulls it into place, the super clingy material plastered to his torso. He sits down to fasten the leash around his ankle, stands and picks up his board. He lifts his hat and passes it to Topher. My heart slides up into my throat when he leaps into the foaming water, and he’s the next to paddle out. Reaching the wave is only half the battle, and the ocean’s putting up one hell of a fight.
I lean into Mariah and point to the water. “There’s Ozzie.” I glance at her. “Do you see him?” You need binoculars out here.
She squints her eyes and pushes her face forward, eyelashes fanning over the narrow slits. Holding her hair back from her face with one flattened hand on her forehead, her bottom lip pouts out as she concentrates on what I’m trying to show her. “Oh. Yeah.” She smiles. But it soon falls away. “That wave…” her brows steeple, alarm opening her eyes wider. “It’s going to get him.”
A swell peaks into an angry, gray curl, but Ozzie’s already ducked beneath it. I hold my breath in my lungs until I see him on the other side, where the ocean’s a crumb calmer, and other surfers sit on their boards or tow-outs watching for the wave with their name on it. There’s no predictability, every wave is different. Some aren’t worth the trouble of turning around for, some you couldn’t even surf.
“He’s fine,” I say to Mariah. “He knows what he’s doing out there. You didn’t ever watch your brothers surf before? Before the other day, I mean.” I Mostly just want to get her talking while it’s just the two of us.
“No.” Her voice is powdery soft, sucked away with the roar of the ocean. “It doesn’t look like much fun, though.”
“This doesn’t,” I say in agreement. “But believe it or not, it is. For those guys, anyway. Not for me.” I shake my head vehemently, and Mariah smiles, the tip of her tongue showing between her teeth.
We settle into silence. Nothing uncomfortable, but we’re too engrossed in the surfers. One wipes out spectacularly, freefalling from the lip and plummeting into the water feet first. I put my arm around Mariah when I notice the concern etching her face. “He’s okay. Look.” The surfer breaks the surface right after his board. “See? Totally fine.”
We watch more surfers succumb to the savage curls. After sitting for over fifteen minutes, patiently reading the approaching swells and not jumping the line, Ozzie lies down on the deck of his board and puts his forearms in the water, turning and paddling forward with deep, intentional strokes to catch the coming wave. The dark swell looms with a dangerous energy. Ozzie glances quickly over his shoulder, and the wave lifts him up. One wrong move, one body part out of place, and he’s done for. But for some bizarre reason, I can’t look away. Not even for a second.
He springs to his feet. Under the overhead lip now, he bends at the knees and drags his hand over the murky face of the wave as he pulls into the steep barrel frontside. For an agonizing length of time, the seconds passing like years, he disappears into the surging curl, clouds of white foam shooting out from the barrel, making it impossible to see anything.
Then, when I think it won’t ever happen, and he’s on the ocean bottom unconscious, he shoots from the long tube, the spectating surfers on the rocks whooping over his smooth, effortless ride.
I sag in relief, my muscles two hundred times lighter now the knots have worked themselves free.
Ozzie surfs the crumbling wave until there’s nothing left of it but rough water, shakes out his wet hair and dives into the surf headfirst.
And I think I might just be in serious trouble.
Chapter 35
It had already crossed over into mid-morning when Mariah and I left Cape Pearl, and the sky’s gray chalk now, eating away at the cloudy sun until there’s no sign it ever rose. If I want to get Mariah back at a reasonable time, we need to start making a move soon.
My butt’s damp from the ground and the misty sea-spray chipping off the cliffs. I’d have taken off my oversized jacket to sit on if I wasn’t so cold. Summer’s just a rumor here, and I actually wouldn’t mind a toasty pair of gloves right about now.
We’ve seen all three Osborne brothers surf killer waves and eat just as many. When it comes to analyzing the swells and choosing the best ones, they got it right the majority of the time. Wiped out from the lip at least once each, or before they dropped to the bottom, but they’re all still walking. Still surfing. And still no idea I’m here.
I decide to get out while the getting’s good. Mariah’s shivering as we hike down the cliff, and I give her my jacket, swamping her in the beige down-puffer to below her knees and fingertips. I brave the wind, but the walk brings heat back into my stiff bones, a cold sweat dotting my hairline.
A wolf-whistle pierces the air. The third time it rings out, my reflexes are triggered by the shrill sound that could be aimed at anyone, and I turn to see where it’s coming from.
Standing on the wall leading to the rocks, the blond pro surfer, River Anders, jams a hand over the left side of his chest. “Hey!” he calls up to me. One of the guys he’s with slaps him on the back with a goofy smile on his face.
I glance behind me, to the side of me, but there’s only me and Mariah on this declining patch of trail. Yeah, I’m not acknowledging that. I frown and carry on walking.
“Hey, you,” he shouts again.
This time, I stop. “Me?” I say, but not loud enough for him to hear, because my voice is too high-pitched to be shouting that loud and making a fool of myself.
Must have been a while since his last wave because his hair’s half dry, curling loosely at his neck and around his ears. His wetsuit’s been replaced with shorts and a bright pink logo T-shirt under a thin hooded jacket that flaps around him in the wind.
“What’s your name?” he calls up to me. His mouth stretches into a brash smile, and now I’m farther down the cliff, it’s not difficult to get sucked into the clear blue of his eyes, unearthly almost against his deep-golden skin. I try and recall where he’s from. Somewhere like Hawaii, but it’s an untargeted guess at best. I know it’s exotic, and the sun shines year-round. Could be Florida.
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. He shouts the same question as I carry on walking, and since we’re starting to attract an audience, all eyes sifting in his direction, I call back to him, “Lyla. Now stop calling up here!”
“Give me your phone number and I will!”
A couple of the other surfers laugh, and I ignore him, tossing a disinterested smile his way and that’s all. How the hell is this happening to me? I feel like everyone’s watching us.