by Tim Winton
Fifteen foot, said Loonie.
Yeah, Sando replied. And it’s breakin in three feet of water.
In fact there were times when the wave broke over no water at all. Every set brought a smoker that sucked everything before it as it bore down, dragging so much water off the rock as it gathered itself that when it finally keeled over to break the granite dome sat free and clear before it. At these moments the trough of the wave actually sank below sea level. It was a sight I had never imagined, the most dangerous wave I’d ever seen.
We watched a couple of sets and then anchored up at a distance before Sando dived in and led us out. All three boards were Brewers – long, heavy Hawaiian-style guns. They were the same equipment we used at Old Smoky and Sando kept saying how good and solid they felt. He kept up the usual inspirational patter, but I was sullen with fright. Every time he tried to make eye contact I looked away, paddling without conviction until he drew ahead with Loonie at his elbow going stroke for stroke.
They sat up together outside the boil while I hung well back in deep water. Behind us the dinghy yanked at its rope, disappearing between swells. Sets came and went but everything passed by unridden. The waves were big but even at half the size I thought they’d be too sudden, way too steep, and the shallow rock beneath made them unthinkable. True, it was an awesome sight but the whole deal only broke for fifty yards or so; it was hardly worth the risk. I watched Sando and Loonie out there, right in the zone, letting wave after wave go by as if they’d come to the same conclusion despite themselves.
Then a wide one swung through and Sando went for it.
I saw the distant flash of his teeth as he fought to get up sufficient speed. A moment later it was vertical and so was he. As he got to his feet it was obvious the board was too long for the contour of the wave; he was perilously slow to turn. The wave hurled itself inside out. Sando staggered a moment, almost falling out of the face altogether. But he kept his feet and cranked the Brewer around with a strength I knew was beyond me. The fin bit. He surged forward as the wave began to lurch and dilate, reef fuming and gurgling below. The lip pitched over him. He was gone a moment, like a bone in the thing’s throat. And then a squall of spume belched him free and it was over. He skidded out into the deep, dead water ahead of me and let the board flutter away.
I dug my way across, retrieved the Brewer and steered it back to where he lay with his knees up and his head back.
Jesus, he murmured. Oh Jesus.
I sat beside him, holding the big board between us. He slowly got his breath back but he was wild-eyed.
When you go, he said, go wide and early.
Don’t think so, I muttered.
He took his board, checked the fin and got on.
You get half a second, that’s all; it’s brutal.
I shook my head.
C’mon, Pikelet. You know what’s what.
That’s why I’m stayin right here.
I didn’t bring you here to watch, did I?
I said nothing.
It’ll put some fizz in your jizz.
I felt plenty scared but not panicked; this time I knew what I was doing.
Shit, he said. I thought I brought surfers with me. Men above the ordinary.
I shrugged.
Pikelet, mate. We came to play.
He was grinning as he said it but I felt a sort of menace from him then. I didn’t give a damn. My mind was made up. He wheeled around in disgust and I watched him paddle back out to where Loonie scratched uncertainly between looming peaks.
When Sando sat up beside him Loonie straightened a little, as if fortified by his presence, and only a few moments later he took the place on. But the wave he set himself for was a shocker. It was wedge-shaped and rearing – buttugly – even before he got going. As he leapt to his feet you could see what was about to happen. Yet the next few awful seconds earned Loonie honour in defeat. The wave stood, hesitated, and then foundered with Loonie right at the crest. He’d assumed his desperate crouch, pointed the board to the sanctuary of the channel, but he was going nowhere but down. The wave subsided beneath him, sucked him with it. Great overpiling gouts of whitewater leapt off the reef and the most I could see of Loonie was a threshing arm. Half his board fluttered thirty feet in the air. For a horrible moment the granite dome of the reef was completely bare. Then all that broken water mobbed across the rock, driving Loonie before it, boiling off into the deep ahead of me while I sat there, rigid. The air was hissing, the sea bubbled underfoot, and I knew Loonie was down there somewhere in the white slick having the shit kicked out of him, but I didn’t move until I heard Sando’s furious yell.
It was whiteout down there. The water was mad with current. It was like diving blind into a crowd, and I groped, hauled off at angles until I saw the bluish contours of the seabed below. I dived again and got nowhere. I hit the surface, saw Sando – still yards off – hauling himself my way, and then I heard Loonie’s gasp and turned to see his upraised arm. He was twenty yards behind me, even closer to the boat than I was.
When I got there I swept him up onto my board and listened to him puke and breathe and puke some more. The back was out of his wetsuit and there was skin off his shoulders. His nose bled, his legs trembled, but by the time Sando reached us he was laughing.
I was gutted by that day at the Nautilus. A small, cool part of me knew it was stupid to have been out there trying to surf a wave so unlikely, so dangerous, so perverse. What would success there really mean – perhaps three or four or even five seconds of upright travel on a wave as ugly as a civic monument? You could barely call such a mad scramble surfing. Surely there were better and bigger waves to ride than that deformity. Yet nothing could assuage the lingering sense of failure I was left with.
The others didn’t mention it. All three of us celebrated Loonie’s moment of defiance, but the gap had widened between them and me. He who hesitates, as I discovered, is lost indeed. I began to feel that their delicacy on the subject of my cowardice only made things worse. At first I was grateful, but soon I wished they’d just come out and call me yellow and have done with it. I hated the coy looks, the sudden gaps in conversation that reinforced my sense of relegation.
Loonie and Sando planned new assaults on the Nautilus using shorter boards – two only – shaped for the purpose. We never broached the subject of whether I’d accompany them. God knows, I should have been relieved, but I was inconsolable. I knew any reasonable person would have done what I did out there that day. Which was exactly the problem: I was, after all, ordinary.
For a few years as a teenager in Sawyer, it seemed I had control of my own life. I didn’t understand everything going on around me, but for a brief period I had something special that afforded me a private sense of power. It let me feel bigger, more vivid than I’d been before. Although I was no leper at school I never really made much social headway. Classmates thought I was standoffish. Some said I was up myself and none of it worried me because for a couple of years I went home from Angelus every day harbouring a consoling secret. I did stuff other people couldn’t do, things they wouldn’t dream of. I belonged to an exclusive club, drove around with a full-grown man and a mate who spooked people. Even among surfers we had enigmatic status. When we deigned to paddle out at the Point you could sense everyone else’s deferral. Older, vaguely threatening blokes like Slipper were grudgingly respectful, especially in the presence of our mentor. Whenever some mouthy grommet started quizzing us about Sando he would be quickly silenced by one of the older crew. They knew by now that he’d surfed Old Smoky on his own for years. He was in his own league; we’d all sensed it instinctively. Sando radiated gravitas. And I got used to the power of association.
But when Sando first took Loonie to the islands, he left me behind in more than a literal sense. Somehow I stayed behind. I lost confidence in my place and value. It’s possible some of my sense of relegation was imaginary or the result of shame, but I was convinced that Sando no longer took me seriously, that
Loonie didn’t regard me as an equal anymore, and the rich feeling of being in charge of myself evaporated. For the first time in my life I was not so much solitary as plain lonely.
Not long after Easter, in the first week of the term break, an unexpectedly vicious cold front burst upon the coast. Wind tore trees from the ground and blew roofing iron deep into the forest, and when the storm was spent it left the kind of booming swell that kept me awake half the night with that old mix of excitement and apprehension.
I waited for the sound of the Volkswagen but Loonie and Sando didn’t show. About eight o’clock, while the oldies were off in town, I got on my bike and rode out to the coast.
From way across the estuary curtains of spray were visible at the rivermouth.
At Sando’s the boat and the Kombi were gone; they’d opted for the Nautilus. I could hardly blame them for blowing me off but it provoked something in me. The dog didn’t bark as it trotted down and I was relieved because I wanted to get in and go without waking Eva. It followed me into the undercroft where I pulled out the big yellow Brewer I’d disgraced myself with a few weeks before. I waxed the board with a block from the Milo tin on the bench and walked back down the drive with it. There was no way I could ride a bike and carry that great spear of a thing, so I hoofed it out to the headland and by the time I’d hiked across the ridges to the clifftop overlooking Old Smoky, the sun had broken through and I was clammy with sweat. My right arm felt wrenched from carrying the board so far. I did some stretches while the bombora cracked and flared out on the sunlit sea.
I don’t know why I paddled out there on my own. I was hurt and angry. And I suppose I felt there was a point to prove. I knew Old Smoky had been surfed solo before. But not by a fifteen-year-old. At this distance it seems like an act of desperation – or worse – a lunge toward oblivion. Even now I can barely believe I did it.
Before I got halfway out to the bommie, it dawned on me that Old Smoky was breaking much bigger than I’d seen it before. Between long, deceptive lulls, waves angled in to stand up twenty feet and more, and by the time I got close I knew I’d seriously underestimated the size of the swell. At this scale, it was a wonder the wave still broke cleanly.
I hummed. I spoke aloud to myself. I manoeuvred into position over the reef and checked and rechecked my bearings as I’d been taught. The offshore breeze fanned up a steady chop and beneath the surface the water was busy.
I was right on the lump when a new set of swells wheeled in from the south-west. They quickened as they got a footing on the shoal and soon I was labouring uphill time and again to get beyond them. Each seemed bigger than the one before and every time I squeaked over and tumbled down into the trough behind, I was blinded by spray. In all that stinging white confusion I failed to see the third wave until it was too late. It was already seething, beginning to break, and by then it was a matter of riding it or wearing it, so I turned and went.
All the way down the big board chattered against the surface chop; I could hear the giggle and natter of it over the thunder behind me. When the wave drew itself up to its full height, walling a hundred yards ahead as I swept down, it seemed to create its own weather. There was suddenly no wind at all and the lower I got, the smoother the water became. The whole rolling edifice glistened. For a moment – just a brief second of enchantment – I felt weightless, a moth riding light. Then I leant into a turn and accelerated and the force of it slammed through my knees, thighs, bladder, and I came lofting back to the crest to feel the land breeze in my face and catch a smudge of cliffs before sailing down the line again. With each turn, each stalling fade, I grew in confidence. By the wave’s last section I was styling. I scudded out into the channel, so addled by joy I had to sit a while to clear my head.
I felt fabulous, completely charged. I was not a coward or a kook. I knew what I was doing and it wasn’t within a bull’s roar of being ordinary.
In retrospect I know I should have sat there glorying a bit longer, given myself a full soak of fuckoff vindication until I got over myself and had a laugh at my own expense. Then I could have gone about the business of putting the act back together, gathering my thoughts, returning to some method. But I was so amped and eager I just wheeled about, paddled back into the impact zone and picked off the first wave of the next set. Compounding the first mistake with a second, I rushed at the thing instead of letting it come to me, and so I never quite got into position and had to scramble to get momentum. As the wave peaked I dug hard and felt myself pitch forward, teetering at the crest, surging for a few yards only to feel the wave forge ahead without me.
I knew before I even sat up and looked back over my shoulder that I was in strife. I’d left myself bang in the path of the following wave – which was bigger again and already breaking. In the seconds left I sprinted for the channel but I knew I’d never get there. I pumped myself full of air, hyperventilating hurriedly, and at the last possible moment, as the crashing white wall came down, I stood on my stationary board and speared deep as I could get. I kicked hard but in an instant the whitewater smashed in, blasting me sideways, hurling me down. I saw hazy outlines of rocks. Kelp flew by. My ears hurt badly but I couldn’t equalize, and then I was pitching end over end across the bottom, glancing off things hard and soft until slowly, like a storm petering out, the water slackened around me and I floundered up toward the light.
I broke the surface in a drift of foamscum and barely got a breath before another tower of whitewater crashed over, and this second hold-down was worse. I’d started with less air and got worked harder, longer. When I kicked up it was into the path of a third wave, and then there was a fourth. Each breath was more hurried, each dive just a bit shallower than the last. I got so strung out and disoriented I ploughed headfirst into the seabed, thinking I was headed for the surface. Burns and tingles shot up my legs. I saw light where there was no light. My gut began to twitch. Things went narrow – it was like looking out through a letterbox – and out there, at the other end of the slot, the white world was trying to kill me.
But when the sea let go and the water cleared I clawed up into the sky. For a moment, at the surface, it seemed my throat was jammed shut. I couldn’t make myself breathe. And then wretching spasms overtook me and bile and seawater poured out and the air burnt down sharp as any regret.
There was no sign of the yellow Brewer. Once I got control of myself I saw I’d been bulldozed, mostly underwater, for four hundred yards. The only way home from here was to swim.
It took me an hour or so to reach the cliffs and maybe another thirty minutes to make it up them. I got seasick treading water in the moiling backwash. And at the end, when I wondered if I had the strength to hold out much longer, I came in on the back of a huge, blunt roller which set me down on a ledge from which I could crawl, very slowly, to safety.
When I got back to Sando’s I tried to keep clear of the house but I so badly needed a drink. Eva caught me gulping from the rain-water tank.
Pikelet?
I’m just goin, I croaked.
Saw your bike. Where you been?
I shrugged, but I was standing there in my wetsuit and my knees were crusted with blood.
I gotta go.
Come up here.
No, I’m off.
You heard me. Jesus, look at you. Get up here.
I stumped slowly up the stairs and onto the verandah.
You went out there on your own, didn’t you?
I lost his Brewer. The yellow one.
You mean you swam in? Let me look at you.
I’m just thirsty. I feel bad about the board.
Oh, forget the goddamn board. Sit down and I’ll get you something.
The moment I sat I felt overcome with fatigue. I must have dozed because when I looked up she was there already with a Coke and a plate of sandwiches. I ate and drank greedily while she watched.
You take him too seriously, she said at last.
Who?
You know who. I’ll get something
for those gashes. Stay here.
But I didn’t stay there for fear of falling asleep again. I followed her into the house and propped myself up against the kitchen bench while she rummaged in a cupboard.
Sit down before you fall over, she said. You’ll have to wait until they get back. You’re in no shape to ride home.
I can ride, I said. I had no intention of still being there when Sando got back.
Will you just sit the fuck down.
I did as I was told. Suddenly I was close to tears.
He tell you they’re heading to Java?
I shook my head, unable to speak.
It’s just not funny anymore. I don’t know if I’ll be here when he gets back.
She wielded a fistful of cotton balls and a bottle of something nasty-yellow. I blinked.
Jesus, why’m I telling you this?
I could only shrug.
Hey, she murmured. Pikelet, you won’t say anything, will you?
No.
She looked at me appraisingly, and when she unscrewed the bottle and poured antiseptic into the cotton her hands shook. She took me by the chin and tilted my head up to press the scouring stuff cold to my brow and I tried not to wince.
She put the bottle down and fingered through my hair a moment to find the divot in my scalp. I looked at the pale hairs around her navel where her windcheater rode up.
You’ll live.
She was a foot away. She smelled of butter and cucumber and coffee and antiseptic. I wanted to press my face into that belly, to hold her by the hips, but I sat there until she stepped away. And then I got up and left; I didn’t care what she said. I rode home slow and sore and raddled.
That evening, while the day’s warmth leached into the forest shadow, I sat against an ancient karri tree to smoke the hash Loonie brought me. At dinner I ate my chops with elaborate caution, anxious at every quizzical glance. I felt transparent, light, uncomfortable. In the night I dreamt my drowning dream. There I was again, head jammed tight in the reef, and when I woke, touching the tender parts of my brow and scalp, it took a while to believe it had only been a dream.