Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Jade
The water is beautiful, turquoise and clear, the bottom mostly sand with a few scattered rocks closer to the point.
I note where they are, and the best route back in.
Coral scrapes are nasty and can easily get infected, so I’d prefer to avoid one if I can, especially somewhere as remote as here.
It’s not busy, though, so I should be all right.
I reach the break, sitting up on my board and nodding to the surfer nearest me.
He nods back. Then I sit and wait, letting everyone else have their turn.
It’s peaceful, just bobbing here surrounded by blue, letting the ocean carry me.
I relax a little more, and it feels as though something is unfurling, a tickle of feeling beneath my breastbone.
It’s like when I was at the airport, but even more so.
Excitement. The way I used to feel when I started out surfing, when the possibilities seemed endless.
Finally I think I can grab a wave – I’m in the right spot and it’s just starting to break, a gleaming curl of turquoise water fringed with white.
I lie on my board and start to paddle, angling myself for take-off, pushing down and bringing my feet beneath me as I stand, knees slightly bent, shifting my weight as I ride the wild water, feeling it move beneath me.
And for a moment, it’s perfection. I feel weightless, free as a bird, as though I’m leaving all my troubles behind.
Like this wave is the start of something n—
Someone slams into me, dropping in from above.
I fall off my board, getting churned up as the lip of the wave breaks over me, and tumble around in white water.
My leg rope stretches, pulling me to one side as my board gets taken by the currents.
There’s a sharp pain in my leg, and I finally surface to find I’m on the rocks, my board smashing into them, a jagged edge scraping me.
I push away, as best I’m able, pulling my board to me.
Dora’s board. It’s damaged, dinged along one side, the tip broken off.
Rage pours through me.
“What the fuck?” I scream. The surfer who knocked me down has ridden the wave almost into shore, and is now paddling back out. It’s a woman, I realise, as she gets closer to me. I get onto my board, my leg stinging, and paddle towards her.
“What the hell is your problem? You just dropped in on me!” I yell, sitting up. It’s basic surf etiquette, for god’s sake. Maybe she didn’t see me, although I don’t know how she couldn’t have.
She turns her head, scowling. “Fucking tourist,” she snarls, and keeps paddling.
Part of me wants to go after her, wants to take this further. But my board is damaged and my leg is on fire. “Fuck you!” I scream after her. She raises her middle finger.
God. I’m this close to violence. But I have to remember who I am, what it would mean if it got out I was brawling with someone over a wave, what my manager, my fans would say.
And once again my old life drops in on me like a ton of really shitty bricks.
Even here, when I feel so free, I can’t escape it.
I coast back into shore, walking out of the shallows with one arm wrapped around my damaged board.
That’s the bit that upsets me the most, I think.
And the fact that I don’t even understand why it happened.
There are assholes at most surf breaks, despite surfing’s cruisy reputation.
Increased competition for waves, especially at popular spots, means that locals can sometimes take a narrow view of visitors coming in to surf “their” waves.
But this break isn’t even busy. There are three other surfers out there, and I waited my turn. What the hell was that woman’s problem?
I stand there for a moment, staring out to sea, then turn my attention to my board.
The tip is completely gone, as is one of the fins, and there are dents in the fibreglass as well as a chunk taken out of the side.
I bite my lip, trying not to cry, trying not to think of how long I’ve had this board and what it means to me.
The side of my leg feels cold, yet burns at the same time.
I look down. Shit. Blood pours down my calf from a series of deep gouges.
I need to clean them out properly. I can do it myself, but one of the cuts is deep enough I might need a doctor.
Sun beats down on my shoulders, hot through my rash top, but the rest of me feels cold.
Furious, I turn and start towards the cabins.
And, for the second time in about ten minutes, someone bangs into me.
Or maybe I bang into them.
Whatever. I’m so mad I don’t care. “Watch where you’re fucking going,” I snarl.
“Me? Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” The accent is American, like mine but more clipped. East coast, I guess.
I get an impression of storm-grey eyes, tousled sandy hair, high cheekbones and a strong jaw. The body I banged into is hard with muscle. As I stagger back, hands come to my arms, warm on my cold skin. “You’re bleeding.”
Axel
I didn’t mean to snap at her. But it’s been a difficult morning.
I’d decided to take a walk to the point.
It’s a favourite place to sit, to breathe in the waves and their power without having to worry about them touching me, watching surfers I don’t want to join.
There’s a pull in my chest whenever I do it, but whether it’s guilt twisting or the ocean calling, I’m not sure.
I suppose I could have gone anywhere to hide out, after it all happened. I had money and opportunity. But the ocean, despite what she took, still exerts a pull over me. Plus, I wanted to be somewhere I could make a difference. Where, perhaps, I could atone for my sins.
When I reached the point, everything seemed calm.
The fresh morning air, the tang of salt, the faint warm smell of vegetation unique to tropical islands.
A few surfers on the break, a sailboat visible in the distance.
Yet I still had a feeling in the pit of my gut, a faint apprehension, as though things were about to change.
Then I heard the shouting. A couple of surfers, one heading out and the other coming back in. The one coming in was wearing a turquoise rash vest, almost the same colour as the ocean, her long blonde hair darkened by water, slicked back against her head. She seemed to be limping.
I picked up my pace, wondering if I could help, when my phone buzzed. I grabbed it, thinking perhaps it was Anna. Or the new guest.
But it fucking wasn’t. That storm, the one I felt was coming, just made landfall. A single line, but it was enough.
There’s nothing to reconsider.
I kept walking, quickly typing my response, anger burning in my chest taking all the calm from the morning. I stared at my phone, waiting for a reply. Then someone banged into me.
Or maybe I banged into them.
I was about to apologise when a voice snarled at me. “Watch where you’re fucking going.”
As I stared into furious green eyes fringed with long dark lashes, spiky with water, something snapped. I snarled back, regretting it almost immediately.
The surfer is gorgeous, her turquoise rash vest clinging to her damp curves.
Something about her also seems vaguely familiar.
My gaze drops to her slender tanned legs.
Shit. Blood trickles down one of them, striping her shin in rivulets.
She stumbles and I reach out without thinking, my hands on her cool skin.
“You’re bleeding,” I say. “You need to—”
She shrugs off my grasp. “Oh, thank you,” she drawls, her voice husky. “I hadn’t noticed. So why don’t you get the fuck out of my way so I can go and sort it out.” Her mouth trembles, though, and I find myself watching it, the lush curve of her lower lip.
Then she’s gone, pushing past me. For the first time I notice the damage to her board. What the fuck happened? I turn, calling out. “Wait!”
But she’s already gone.