"A piece of driftwood, a trick of light." Photo: Jim Winton Porter
The lure of the sea. She exudes an inexorable, fragrant magic on those days when we have to see her. Feel her. Fill ourselves with her succulent ripeness. We want to be reminded of the beautiful contempt she wields. To be humbled by her grace willing to offer up a sacrifice.
The surf was junk but the sun sprayed silver and gold across the arch of the sky. The ribbons of light radiated off the water along the sand and we all breathed in its brilliance.
He raced to the water’s edge. Black wet suit, surfboard. A young man glowing; full of ‘no worries’ and ‘it’s all good’ manhood. Straight in. No contemplation or attempt to fathom if there were any rideable peaks.
He chose a channel where the rip was the strongest. It gripped him and his board and he shot out to the impact zone. A black, bobbing object surrounded by blue and yellow light.
There were chuckles of disbelief, and derision from the lads congregated at the café.
“What the fuck is he doin?”
He reached the sucky, rock-bottomed take off zone and lurked till an ugly slab approached.
To my concerned eyes it seemed to charge toward him; a truck driven by a drunken stranger. A hit and run. He prostrated himself, ready to accept the sweep of the muscular machine as it moved to maim him.
He turned and paddled. It picked him up. He jumped to his feet and then he was down, swallowed whole by the shoddy, collapsing edifice. His board was torn from him. He was caught. A small, round, dark speck. He could have been a piece of driftwood, a trick of light.
The board was lashed by waves until it came to rest in a small cove between brown, reedy rocks. He was going backwards funnelled out by the roaring rip. He didn’t seem perturbed.
I saw long arms loop out and catch the water and pull him through its falling white harvest. Easy as a snake he stole his way back through the pale blue gullies until he touched the shore. He must have felt the comforting tingle of fine grains of sand through his feet all the way up to his nonchalant, blonde head.
All of us in the Cafe watched. Intrigued. Skeptical. “What a joke.”
He turned to where his board lay 100 metres away and grinned; teeth white in his tanned face. Then he jogged away, up the beach to the car park, and disappeared.
His board lay in the rock pool, glinting, creamy and inviting, for about two minutes.
A couple of kids quick as pick-pockets raced out and grabbed it. Then danced up the sand with their shining prize. Anticipating adult challenges, one of the braver ones squeaked- “he said we could have it!”
We shook our heads and laughed.
