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Cove
I attack the wave with the nose of my board, refusing to bow to its power by duck diving. It’s a challenge. A fuck you. The sea is tempestuous today, and I don’t care. I welcome it, in fact. I’ve been charging the waves all day.
I can’t stop thinking about the blonde girl. The one from the beach. Which makes me feel guilty as hell, because if I’m going to be thinking of any blonde chick right now, it should be the one who died last week.
It bothers me that Malia-Tarni – or Mai-Tai as I’ve taken to calling her in my head – wasn’t at the party. That I haven’t seen her since she was in the ocean, despite checking all over campus for her once the news came out that there had been a death.
I guess I should call a spade a spade and call it what it is: a murder.
When we got the news and I saw the flash of blonde hair in the victim’s photo, I had to know if Mai-Tai was okay. Once I knew it wasn’t her, I expected to feel relief, but the anxiety in my chest just grew. I need to see her with my own eyes to know she really is okay. But she seems to have vanished, and that scares me more than innocent people on campus dying in a war they know nothing about.
The lure of the ocean is strong today. It always calls to me – my brothers too – but today it feels tangible. The veil between our world and this one is so thin right now with all of the celestial unrest, I feel like I could dive head first into the next wave, and come out in my homeland.
It’s been so long since I was home, it’s hard to remember details of what the kingdom was like. When I try to focus on conjuring up memories of my time spent there, I just bring on a headache. I may not have any concrete memories, but I do still have the strong feelings that home evokes. And the love for my queen. A queen who has been missing for so long, that no-one even remembers anymore.
I wipe out on a huge wave, which serves me right for not paying attention. The ocean doesn’t discriminate, but you have to respect it.
Shaking saltwater from my hair and rubbing my eyes while coughing, I resurface and tug on my leash to bring my board closer. I rest my forearms on the top of my board, floating for a moment in the lull. I vow to focus on the task at hand and completing our mission quickly so that I can return home sooner. But for now, no more thoughts of home.
I pull myself up onto my log, resting on my knees. A set of waves is building further out, so I have a minute to get ready. My gaze snags on someone further down the shoreline, also sat astride their longboard waiting for the next set like me.
All of the islanders serious about surfing know that Shark Harbour is one of the hottest spots to catch some serious waves, but today it’s surprisingly quiet. Most of the students are in lectures or whatever, it’s only me slacking off and following up a potential lead.
The other rider is not my lead. For one, even from a distance, I can see she has long, crazy coloured hair, which is whipping in the wind. So I doubt she’s my six foot four, skinhead informant named Kevin. Which means he’s late and most likely to be a no-show.
Sighing, I watch as the waves up shore hit for the other rider in the impact zone first, and I observe how she effortlessly pops up onto her feet and manoeuvres her board. I wonder if she’s a student. I don’t recall anyone with mad hair signing up for our surf club, so maybe I should approach her.
I catch the wave as it filters along the shore to me, not really putting much effort into prolonging my ride. I simply use it as a means to return to the beach.
Once I’m situated on the sand and drying off in the sun, I have a much better view of the lone surfer out on the waves. She’s really really good. It makes me determined to stay and speak to her.
She surfs for another twenty minutes or so, making several impressive aerials whenever she takes off on a bomb. But when the wind turns and it begins to get mushy, she calls it a day. While I’ve been watching her, I’ve moved along the beach so that when she gets out she’ll walk right past me and I’ll be able to stop her for a chat. If nothing else, I just want to pass on my compliments of what a great rider she is.
“Hey,” I call out a few minutes later as the surfer cuts diagonally up the beach, walking right by me without sparing me a glance. Even my voice doesn’t break her stride, though as we’re the only people on the whole beach as far as the eye can see she must know that I’m talking to her.
I abandon my board and jog to keep up with her. She’s carrying a beautiful wooden longboard that I suspect is a custom job. I’ve never seen anything like it before.
“Hey, you had an amazing ride out there. I just wanted to say how impressed I am. But now I also want to have a closer look at your log. May I?”
The girl stops walking and turns back to stare at me, a frown of annoyance on her face.
“Oh! It’s you!” I cry. Blonde girl. But not blonde anymore. My surfer chick from the beach.
“Tide times guy,” she replies, uninterested. She looks like she’d rather be anywhere than here talking to me right now.
“I’m Cove.”
“Right.” She goes to turn away, and I sidestep her to prevent her from leaving.
“I haven’t seen you around all week, but then again, I’ve been on the lookout for someone with blonde hair.”
“Oh. Yeah. My friend dyed it,” she says, tugging at her long locks like she’s still getting used to the colour. “I like it.” She shrugs.
“I do too. It suits you. Goes nicely with your board.” She frowns at me again. “You know, mermaid colours to go with the underside of your board. Is it a custom job? I’ve not seen anything like it before.”
Her face brightens at the mention of the woody, and she gives me a wide, bright smile that’s captivating. I get the feeling she doesn’t smile like that very often, and I’m glad I’ve been the one to make her.
“Oh, yeah, it’s a custom. I just had her shipped from home. I was using a rental before and she arrived. I cut class to try her out,” she adds sheepishly.
