The Change

The rain was executing a horizontal full frontal assault. I waded through the high tide back to the shore line, where the Space Shuttle and the Reefshark stood huddled together in abject misery. The Reefshark, tall and lofty, towering a full head out above us, was copping the brunt of the rain, lashing us in the face. Ahead of us, the black ocean boiled and heaved, shrouded by a thick curtain of rain. We shivered violently.

   ‘Whadda yous reckon?’ I said, peering out from the narrow crack between the top of my hood and the edge of my rain coat. Rain stung my eyes like needles.

   ‘Hmmpf,’ the Reefshark grunted. ‘I guess there’s a bit of a wave out there.’

   ‘Yous are insane,’ declared the Space Shuttle with feeling. ‘You’ve got to be joking!’

   ‘Yeah nah ... I reckon we’ll be able to get a wave,’ I said. ‘Look, it’s breaking just there, it’s clean.’

   We stared into the dark. We saw the square root of bugger all. Two pairs of eyes swivelled accusingly towards me and glared.

   ‘Your delusional psychosis playing up again?’ enquired the Space Shuttle, through chattering teeth.

   ‘You know you’ve gotta lay off on those mushrooms,’ declared the the Reefshark, shaking his head.

   ‘Nah, it’s all good, trust me,’I said, crossing my fingers behind my back.

   The wind howled.

   The rain whipped furiously.

   Three wet shapes crowded together, searching moral support, comfort, and the warm cosy feeling of collective insanity.

   Three wet shapes resolutely turned around, walked up the boat ramp, put on wetsuits and came back, carrying boards and grumbling.

   We paddled out. Within minutes we were lost in the dark, blown apart by the wind, drowned out by the rain. The Reefshark and I made our way over to the Point, while the Space Shuttle hung back, sitting more wide. The Reefshark pulled into a wave and took off into the night, his shirt tails flapping in the breeze behind him. Somewhere in the dark down the line came the indistinct, muffled sounds of the Space Shuttle going over the falls and swearing and cursing.

   I sat back on my new board, admiring what I could see of it in the dark. Sharp, sleek, cut back from the nose in sweeping lines, designed for steep take-offs on vertical walls. Above all, short, much shorter than I’ve been used to. Designed for travel, to be able to be tucked under an arm easily, to be chucked onto the back of a donkey cart, or on the deck of a leaking fishing boat. But first I had to work out how to handle it.

   I took off.

   The first time I sliced both my feet open on the fins.

   The second time I rolled endlessly in the washing machine.

   The fourth time I hit my face on the sandbank below.

   The sixth time I came up and smashed by head onto the board bobbing above me.

   The sun made an attempt to come up. Tiny rays of watery light started to penetrate the darkness. I stared through the horizontal drifts of rain. In front of me a wave roared up, baring its teeth and announcing its intention to rip me to pieces, chew me up and spit me out. I spun around, paddled hard. Pulled into it, felt that magical tilt, that split-second weightless feeling of perfection ... and landed it, just right. The top of the wave curled somewhere near my ear, the wall stood upright and straightened its spine, and I flew off down the line. No time to think or plan or calculate, just ricocheting off the wall. Up, down, back, forward, more power, more speed. The chiseled nose of my new board slid effortlessly past the face of black, glistening glass, cutting through sections I would never have made it past on any of my other boards, picking up speed relentlessly, racing up to the lip and back down again time and time again, in one frenzied torrent of bliss.

   Eventually the wave died off, and I fell backwards into the water without the slightest pretence of grace, a sack of dead shit, spent. I bobbed around underwater, grinning from ear to ear, over the moon. The board had shown me what it was capable of, and I was in love.

   I crawled out of the water, following the tracks of the Space Shuttle and the Reefshark who’d seen the sudden unexpected light of sanity a bit earlier, and went and found them over a hot cuppa for a debrief.

 

Twenty-four hours later the ground fell away underneath me, the plane retracted its wheels, the jet engines roared, and I flew upwards through a black cloud of thunder and rain.

 

A beach stretched out in front of me. Azure sky, white sand sparkling in tropical sunshine. A light breeze, balmy warm air flowing around me. Ahead, the ocean blue, waves rippling gently onto the beach. Not a soul around.

   I paddled out by myself. No wetsuit, not even a rashie. Warm water, what a treat. Waves coming through regularly, calmly, unhurried. Not another surfer around as far as the eye can see. This is the stuff we dream off. Not just an uncrowded line-up: an empty line-up. You choose and pick whichever wave you want. They’re all yours. No rush, no pressure, no snaking, no dropping in, no shitfights. Peace, quiet, and the bliss of a solitary, unspoiled wave.

   But everything’s got its price.

   Surfing in the tropics has a particular set of drawbacks all its own.

   See that log floating out there, wide?

   Looking a bit closer, you can see two things at the front of the log. Oval-shaped things. They seem to flash in the sunlight. Could they be eyes?

   At the back of the log, is there something swishing? Is there a suggestion of a tail, scaly, with a serrated ridgeback, like a dinosaur?

   That shadow floating over the sand, in the crystal clear water – is it moving?

   People talk a lot about sharks. Everyone’s wary of them, and for good reason. Lots of people have died in shark attacks, a horrific way to go. But sharks mostly attack us by mistake, often taking us for seals or some other thing that’s on their menus. A lot of the time they don’t actually like the taste of us, and will take one bite and then spit us back out again. If we’re lucky we survive. I’ve had sharks swim under my board, I’ve surfed over the top of them, I’ve seen them surfacing not far in front of me, and I’ve had one pass right underneath me, no more than a metre below me, while I was swimming. And they left me alone.

   But that shadow over there, it doesn’t play games. It’ll stalk you and have you for breakfast.

   That crocodile won’t spit you out, it’ll enjoy every bit of you.

 

   I got out. Fast.