A BOY, A DOG, AND A GIRL FROM THE SEA

The title says it all.

My wetsuit is still damp when I pull it on behind the shed, shuddering in the bare-faced day, my skin crawling in the cold as I tug it on and squeeze myself in with the zip. The morning sun has only just arrived. It’s weak, watery. There’s little wind. The world smells of stale, salty water and rotting kelp.

I wrap my hair up in an old elastic, jogging down past the road to keep warm. Loose bitumen stings the bottoms of my feet, my breath pooling in front of me, fingers and toes numb. I hold my board to my side, feeling it hitting up against my encased thigh with each smooth step.

The swell is heavy today, sending breakers foaming at the rims over and over each other, licking up the last of the one to go before it. Water swings up against the sand in a single breath, and then it fades, swallowed by the next one to come. It’s rhythmic – a pull and a push, constant in its beat. A rip tugs down by the rocks, sucking in what it can. I can taste this, what it feels like, before I’m even on the waves, and it’s better than cigarettes.

I run down to the water, kicking up sand behind me. My board is tacky beneath my fingers, freshly waxed, and then I’m in the thick of it. First my legs, and then all of me, paddling madly up to the next wave. It’s so cold it burns, but that’s how I like it. I squint up through my hair at the rising sun, my face stinging with wind laced with water. I careen over the lip of a wave as it’s about to break, spitting up spray behind me. There’s no one else here. The sea is all mine.

And I think this is what flying would be like, if we could fly. We try to make flying too complicated. It’s always air time, and height, and wingspan, but I think flight is more of a feeling than it is a physics equation, and this is what it feels like. Blinding, giddy freedom. Air and salt and wind. Breathlessness. Total, stomach-wrenching joy.

A wave comes, swelling up until it’s about to break. I tug my upper body up, and then bring my feet with me, landing unsteadily before I regain my feet and I’m off. Knees low, feeling the waves beneath me. It’s like they’re alive. I grin, loose streaks of my hair beating around my face.

I slide off as the wave peters out to foam, dropping down into the water. I look towards the shore, and there he is, as he always is, his dog running circles around his feet. I don’t know if he’s watching me or if he’s just watching the waves.

I tug my board with me, dragging my legs through the waves as I head back to the sand. The waves are calling me, but the pull of my curiosity is stronger today. His dog breaks from its frantic circling, kicking up a spray of sand as it sprints down the beach to me. I laugh, reaching down and giving it a rough pat. It looks like a mutt – some staffie, maybe, and a little cattle dog. Its face is wet with its own saliva.

I don’t go to him, because I don’t want him to think I left the waves for him, even if that’s the truth. I go to my bag, taking a long drink of water. I glance over at him. He’s still watching the sea.

‘You walk along here every morning,’ I call out. He takes a moment before he looks at me.

‘I do.’

‘Why?’

He shrugs, moving closer. ‘Scruff needs a walk. I like it here. So does he.’

I scrunch up my nose. ‘Scruff is a terrible dogs name.’

The boy laughs, seemingly unperturbed. ‘I’ve never thought about it. I guess it is.’ He nods to my board. ‘How long have you been surfing?’

‘Ten years.’

‘That’s a long time.’

‘I’ve never thought about it,’ I say, echoing his words. He smiles loosely it. ‘I guess it is.’

It’s quiet for a moment. Well, as quiet as you can be at the beach. I think anything seems quiet in the absence of words. Waves crash and birds call and the night lifts into the day in a sunrise sinking orange and pink light over the world.

‘You’re very good,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘At surfing. Sometimes I watch you for a little while.’ He pauses. ‘That sounds strange. I watch because it’s easy to watch – smooth, clean movements. You’ve very skilled.’

‘Thanks. It’s in my blood.’

‘Yeah?’

I nod. ‘Yeah. My Dad was Hawaiian. He and my grandpa would spend the weekends out in the waves. He used to do that with me, too.’

‘Used to?’

I give an empty shrug, and he seems to get that I don’t want to talk about it. His dog is still running around madly, flinging slobber around in the sand. I wonder what they feed him to make him so mad.

After a while, the boy says, ‘I think we went to school together.’

‘Oh. Really?’

‘Yeah,’ he says, looking at me. Maybe he looks familiar, or maybe that’s my mind making things up. ‘In primary school. I was the year above.’

‘Did you go to the high school here?’

He shakes his head. ‘I boarded in Brisbane.’

‘I’ve heard it’s nice there.’

He tilts his head uncertainly. ‘I guess.’

‘I guess?’

He does the same thing he did before – something between a shrug and a shake of the head. ‘I mean, it was fine. I missed it here though. It might not be in my blood, but I love the beach, and the sea. And I missed Scruff.’ I laugh, and he looks confused. ‘What?’

‘Scruff,’ I say, laughing again. ‘It’s so awful.’

‘Scruff.’ He says it like it’s the first time he’s saying it and really hearing it. He starts laughing with me. ‘Scruff!’ He yells out, and then I start saying it, and the dog is running around like it’s having some kind of brain aneurism.

‘Oh God, the poor thing, we’ve confused it so much,’ I say, giving the dog a pat as it stops by my feet. It seems worn out. It drops down onto the sand, chest rising and falling with long breaths, tongue hanging out one side of its face.

‘I’m Jack,’ the boy says.

‘Lora,’ I tell him.

And then we go back to the quiet, watching the waves as they rise and fall with the tide.

...

I see him again in town. I say in ‘town’, when ‘town’ is really just a few old shops slung together in a makeshift shopping centre. I’m gathering oranges in an old canvas bag I use just for the fruit, stained in places, a fresh loaf of bread still warm under my arm. He’s over by the frozen game. Bill, the shop owner, likes to go shooting roos in the summer with his sons, and then sells the meat, mostly for dog food. I don’t particularly like it, but I don’t hold it against him. Jack buys a couple of frozen roo bits for Scruff. I try to pretend I wasn’t watching as he turns around, feigning interest in my oranges.

‘Lora,’ he says, and I look up like this is a surprise.

‘Hey there stranger,’ I say. ‘You weren’t at the beach this morning,’ I point out.

He stops by me, leaning up against the table stacked with boxes of local produce. Scruff huffs obediently by his feet, seemingly unimpressed by my presence.

‘Yeah, Scruff here had to get a shot this morning. Figured we didn’t want to rile him up too much before he saw the vet. He already gets into a bit of a state whenever he goes.’

‘Tomorrow, though?’

Jack smiles at me like this is obvious. ‘Of course.’

...

I don’t know how, but I’ve found myself looking out for Jack every time I’m at the beach. I’ll be on a wave, stretched out, glittering in the morning sun, and all I can do is look for him until he’s there. It’s strange. It’s like I get anxious if he’s not there. I’m not sure if I like it or not.

I see him today, approaching through the rough beach scrub, Scruff dancing around his bare feet. My whole body relaxes a little. I reach up, giving him a wave. He waves back.

But the movement has distracted me, and the board wavers uncertainly under my feet. I can see everything unfolding before it does. The waves kick back, and my knees buckle, my back hitting the water as I let out an uncharacteristic yelp. I go under, my eyes jammed shut, and the line tugs ferociously at my ankle as my board struggles above water. My head hits the sand, my knees and front scraping across as I tumble, over and over, unsure of where the water begins and ends. Somewhere along the way the line unstraps from my ankle. The wave dies, and I reach up, but my hand smacks into the sand. Up? Isn’t that up? Panic starts to set in, my lungs aching. My back hurts, and so does my head. I’m tired. I reach up another hand weakly, and this time I feel air. I push up.

My head breaks the surface and I scream in a breath, my chest wheezing as I blink the swirling bits of light out of my eyes. I’m not really sure where I am. My head is pounding. My board got sucked off with another wave.

I feel hands around my arms, tugging me out and into the shallow area. Something smaller jumps up and down in the waves, and Jack says, piss off, Scruff, seriously. Not now. My head lulls back. My eyes roll into my head, but I don’t faint. I sit on the brink of unconsciousness, unable to let go fully. I wonder if I’ve broken my back. It’s too late now.

Jack lays me down against the sand, panicky. He looks back into the scrub, and then back at me, lying motionless in the sand. I can tell he’s deciding whether to go get help, or to stay with me in case anything else happens.

He chooses the first option. I see his back disappearing into the low-lying bush, Scruff bounding after him. I let out a long sigh. The morning sun is warm on my wet face.

...

Dr Miles is the only doctor in town, and I think he’s dated my mother at some stage, because it’s always awkward whenever we visit. I sit in the only chair in his office, holding ice to my head. My mum stands beside me, frantic.

‘It’s just a small concussion,’ he tells her. ‘And some stretched tendons in her neck and back. Nothing too serious. She’ll be okay.’

And those are the words which take all my mother’s worry away. It’s like someone reached inside her and fished out all the fear with a long sigh.

She takes me home and I sit on the veranda, ice still on my head, although I’m not sure what good it’s doing. A cold cup of black tea sits untouched beside me. Mum is inside, making breakfast.

Jack comes up our driveway, but hesitantly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed. I give him a smile and wave him up with my free hand, the other still holding the ice to me head. I let the ice drop to my lap as he walks up onto the veranda, Scruff hopping up at his feet, but he takes it and puts it back against my head.

‘That was pretty scary,’ he says. He holds the ice lightly, worried it might hurt even more if he pushes too hard. ‘I thought you were a goner.’

‘So did I,’ I say, and I laugh a little, but it hurts my head so I stop. ‘Thanks for pulling me to shore. I could’ve drowned.’

He shrugs like this is no big deal. ‘I guess it’s good I decided to start watching you surf then,’ he says, grinning. I give him a grin back, but it’s a little tired. I just want to sleep. I want him to stay here, but I want to sleep. And so I say that.

I rest my head back against the chair, and he stands behind me, one hand on my shoulder and the other holding the ice. His hands are warm, soft. He smells like the sea. Scruff curls around my feet, his fur brushing against my toes.

I fall asleep listening to the sounds of the ocean and the bush.