Chapter 21 #2
Kit fixed the Mary Jane’s gearbox when he was fourteen.
Fourteen. Dad told the whole harbour. Bought him a pint at The Ship and let him drink it in front of the crew, never mind that he was underage.
That’s my boy. Born to it. I won the county marine science prize two years later – youngest entrant, paper on tidal ecosystem mapping that my teacher said was undergraduate level.
Dad glanced at the certificate, said, That’s nice.
Now come help your brother with the winch.
That’s the thing. It was never cruelty. Never a slap or a shout or anything I could point to and say, There, that’s the wound.
It was just … silence where praise should have been.
A persistent, gentle nothing. Kit gets the pint, the pride, the that’s my boy.
I get that’s nice. Kit’s name in Dad’s mouth sounds like an achievement. Mine sounds like an afterthought.
Never bad enough to confront. Never quite right enough to celebrate.
On a wave, none of that exists.
‘Come on,’ I say, setting down my mug. ‘I’ll teach you. Or remind you. Whatever your muscles remember.’
She grins. ‘Confident?’
‘About this? Yeah.’ I meet her eyes. ‘This I’m good at.’
Brynn tilts her head, evaluating, gauging, looking at me like I’m pieces she can slot together.
I grab her hand, linking our fingers. ‘What are we waiting for?’
The shed is chaos.
I knew it was bad – everyone in the village knows the Trelawney place has been falling apart for years – but seeing it up close hits different.
Tools rusted beyond recognition. Nets so tangled they’ll never come apart.
A boat engine that looks like it was last functional during the Thatcher administration.
And in the back, leaning against the wall like it’s been waiting: a surfboard.
It’s old. Battered. The wax is cracked and the fins are questionable. But when Brynn runs her hand along the rail, her face softens.
‘It’s a good board. Classic shape.’ I lift it, test the weight, check the rails for damage. ‘Needs new wax, but she’ll float.’
‘You sound like you know what you’re talking about.’
‘Told you. This I’m good at.’
She tilts her head, studying me with that sharp gaze. ‘The only thing?’
I don’t have an answer for that, so instead I say, ‘Wetsuit?’
Brynn arches a brow, lips hooking into a half smile. ‘I’m not a magician; I can’t just keep pulling this stuff out of nowhere.’
I laugh. ‘You conjured up a board.’
‘And now I’m done. Can I hire one somewhere?’
One phone call to Nina and a detour via the café and we are en route, driving in my truck, fingers linked.
The beach is empty. Just us and the gulls and the grey-green April sea, the waves rolling in with a rhythm that feels like breathing. The swell is exactly what I thought – chest-high, clean faces, waves that make you forget everything except the next set.
‘Right,’ Brynn says, eyeing the water, hands on her curved hips under the wetsuit we’ve borrowed from Nina. It’s not a perfect fit, but it’s close enough. ‘How cold is it going to be?’
‘Cold.’ I grin, a lightness washing through me I haven’t felt in days, weeks, maybe even longer if I think about it deeper.
‘Reassuring.’
‘April water temperature is a fresh ten degrees. You’ll feel it for the first few minutes, then you won’t.’ I nudge her side with a playful poke of my finger.
‘Because I’ll be numb?’
‘Because you’ll be focused on not falling off. And anyway, I was in that water last night, and I’m okay.’
She laughs, startled and bright, and there’s a solid thump behind my ribcage.
‘Okay, surf bum,’ she says. ‘Teach me.’
I do.
We start on the sand – positioning, pop-up, where to put her weight.
She’s a quick study, her body finding rhythms her mind can’t quite name.
When we finally paddle out, she’s determined, no, not determined, she’s ferocious in her focus as she stares down the waves.
I stay close, and tug her back when it looks like she’s about to launch off in chase of a catch. ‘This one’s too small. Let it pass.’
‘This is boring.’ Her look is challenging until a swell lands across her board and she swallows salt water like it’s a lethal cocktail.
‘The sea did that to you on purpose,’ I say, wobbling a little on my board with the depth of my laughter, but then I catch sight of the perfect wave. ‘There – that one. Paddle, paddle, now—’
She catches it. Wobbles. Nearly falls, but holds it and then rides it all the way to shore, arms windmilling, a sound coming out of her that’s half scream and half laugh.
I watch her from the lineup, paddling water, and I’m grinning so hard my face hurts.
But then a set rolls in – bigger than the others – and I stop watching Brynn and start watching the horizon.
Three waves. Four. The third one is mine.
I paddle before I’m consciously aware of deciding. My arms know the rhythm, my body knows the timing. The wave lifts me, that moment of suspension where everything goes quiet, and then I’m up.
And I’m free.
The world narrows to this. Just this. The board beneath my feet, the water rushing past, the wall of the wave curling beside me. I drop down the face, bottom-turn hard, feel the spray hit my back as I carve up toward the lip.
Everything else disappears.