Night Beach (2 page)

Walls.
The
council
has
painted
over
it
in
prison-‐grey.

Then
I’m
distracted
by
a
flash
of
colour.
A
surfer
in
a
red
wetsuit
is
picking
his
way

down
the
boulders
of
the
sea
wall
further
back.
When
he
reaches
the
bottom,
he
chucks

his
board
down
on
the
sand
and
zips
up.
He’s
too
far
away
for
me
to
see
his
features

clearly,
but
the
red
wetsuit
makes
me
hope.

But
I’m
being
stupid.
It’s
not
who
I
think
it
is.
Can’t
be.

I
hit
the
water
with
a
gasp,
and
my
scalp
tightens
in
shock
as
I
duckdive.
The
rip’s

running
strongly
and
I
start
heading
diagonally
across
to
give
the
Right
a
go,
just

because
there’s
hardly
anybody
on
it.
Today,
it’s
the
Left
that’s
pumping.
I
pull
up
on
the

outside
of
two
kids
and
they
get
the
first
two
waves
of
the
set,
and
then
I
move
across

into
position
where
it
bowls
up.
My
first
wave’s
steep
enough
on
the
take-‐off
and
I
come

out
of
my
bottom
turn
with
plenty
of
speed
–
but
by
the
time
I
begin
drawing
the
curve

of
my
cutback,
the
wall
of
the
wave
has
already
fattened
out
and
died
away.

When
I
paddle
back
out
again,
the
surfer
in
the
red
wetsuit
is
ahead
of
me,
and
seeing

him
gives
me
a
jolt.
He
has
the
same
powerful
shoulders,
the
same
big
reach
and

effortless
paddle.
But
this
guy’s
hair
is
shaved
short.
He
glides
up
to
the
pack
of
surfers

in
peak
position.

Confident.

Or
stupid.

Before
I
know
it,
the
sweep
has
pulled
me
over
in
front
of
the
guys
at
the
head
of
the

line-‐up,
right
in
the
impact
zone.
I
start
to
paddle
back
across
but
I
don’t
get
very
far

before
a
big
set
comes
through
and
I
have
to
change
direction,
paddling
out
wide
to

avoid
being
wiped
out.
It’s
a
struggle
to
get
over
the
first
wave
in
time.

Two
surfers
are
hassling
each
other
like
crazy
as
they
both
try
to
make
the
wave.
The

guy
on
the
outside,
the
one
closest
to
me,
is
Greg
Hill,
instantly
recognisable
with
his
big

barrel
chest,
chunky
neck
and
white-‐blond
hair.
He
blocks
my
view
of
the
other
surfer
–

and
I’m
trying
to
see
who
it
is,
because
I’ve
never
seen
anybody
do
that
to
Greg
Hill

before.
The
wave
pitches
sharply,
the
guy
on
the
inside
takes
the
drop,
but
Greg
Hill

pulls
back.
Spray
hits
the
water
around
me
with
a
machine-‐gun
rattle.
From
the
back,
I

can’t
see
if
the
other
surfer
made
it
or
not,
but
he
must
have
because
there’s
nobody
in

the
whitewater.

Greg
Hill
punches
the
water
and
shouts,
‘I’m
gunna
faarkin’
have
you,
mate,’
in
a
hoarse,

bellowing
voice,
and
nobody
looks
at
him,
because
that’ll
set
him
off,
too.

Then
another
set
is
coming
and
I’ve
got
to
paddle
forward
like
everybody
around
me.

This
sucks.
I’m
completely
in
the
wrong
place
at
the
wrong
time.
There’s
such
an
angry

buzz
in
the
atmosphere
today.
All
these
guys
at
the
head
of
the
line-‐up
are
in
their

twenties
or
older.
Their
faces
are
hard
and
they’re
looking
around
all
the
time
but

focusing
on
nothing;
you
notice
the
whites
of
their
eyes.
Some
of
them
are
from
the

boardriders’
club,
or
they’ve
surfed
here
forever,
or
they’re
good,
or
were
good
once;

they’ve
all
got
some
chunk
of
history
they’re
using
to
hammer
out
a
claim
on
the
water.

It’s
because
this
break
is
always
better.
One
wave
here
is
worth
ten
anywhere
else.

Things
are
sharper
here.
It’s
not
like
life
on
land
where
people
are
so
insulated
from

each
other
that
there’s
no
danger
of
being
scratched
–
other
than
a
bit
of
road
rage,

somebody
giving
you
the
bird
out
of
their
window.
Different
element,
different
rules.

Turns
out
the
other
surfer
was
the
guy
in
the
red
wetsuit.

I
see
him
now.
He
made
it
all
the
way
in,
and
he’s
jogging
along
the
beach
towards
the

rip,
board
tucked
under
his
arm.

Guys
in
the
pack
are
looking
back
at
him,
probably
wondering
what
will
happen
when

he
paddles
out
again.
Greg
Hill
turns
around
and
gives
him
a
nice
long
stare,
swearing

and
hissing
under
his
breath
like
he’s
got
Tourette’s.
And
I
wonder
if
he
ever
thinks
to

give
his
poor
dog
a
drink
before
he
leaves
her
sitting
on
a
beach
for
hours.

‘Thought
it
was
crowded
enough
already,
but
then
you
show
up.
Now,
I’ll
never
get
a

wave,’
a
man’s
voice
drawls.

It’s
Vince,
one
of
the
old
guys,
paddling
past
me.
If
I
had
a
dollar
for
every
time
he
makes

a
joke
about
me
getting
a
lot
of
waves,
I’d
buy
him
some
new
material.

‘Hey
Vince.’

The
first
wave
of
the
next
set
looms,
and
I
start
paddling
forwards,
following
Vince.
I’m

wondering
if
I
shouldn’t
just
go
in,
come
back
for
a
late
one.
I
live
for
late
surfs,

especially
in
summer.
Thanks
to
daylight
savings,
you
can
surf
until
eight-‐thirty
at
night

before
it
gets
dark.
It’s
crowded
until
around
seven,
and
then
people
start
going
in

because
they’ve
got
to
get
home
for
tea,
or
to
help
bathe
the
kids,
or
whatever
it
is
they

do.

Just
before
dark
everything
gets
beautiful
and
most
people
aren’t
even
looking.
The

ocean
starts
to
glass
off,
the
sky
becomes
pink
and
purple
and
orange,
and
you
can
see

the
lights
of
La
Roy
down
the
other
end
of
the
stretch
of
beach,
shimmering
like
a

mirage
in
the
sea
mist.
In
summer,
I
surf
until
I
can’t
see
anymore,
and
I
don’t
seem
to

get
that
hollow
ache
in
my
guts
that
I
call
the
ending
sadness.
Ever
since
I
moved
in
with

my
mum
and
step-‐dad
it’s
been
getting
worse.

But
now
it’s
winter,
things
get
dark
around
five-‐thirty
and
I
have
to
go
in
too
early.
The

ache
usually
catches
up
with
me
on
the
way
home.
The
other
thing
that
gets
rid
of
the

ending
sadness
for
me
is
painting
or
drawing.
Unless,
of
course,
the
work
is
about
the

ache:
kind
of
hard
to
forget
a
bruise
exists
when
you’re
prodding
at
it.

Vince
stops
paddling
and
I
let
my
board
drift
until
I’m
beside
him.

‘Been
out
for
long?’
I
ask
him,
which
is
the
surfing
equivalent
of
talking
about
the

weather.
Talking
about
the
weather
doesn’t
qualify
as
small
talk
in
surfing
because
the

weather
is
all-‐important.

‘About
an
hour.’

‘Try
that
again,
mate,
and
I’ll
send
your
mouth
down
your
throat
to
kiss
your
arsehole!’

Vince
and
I
turn
to
see
Greg
Hill
splashing
water
into
the
face
of
the
surfer
in
the
red

wetsuit.
Greg
must
have
parked
himself
at
the
back
of
the
pack
to
wait
for
him
to
paddle

out
again.

A
buzz
of
shock
rings
through
me
as
the
surfer
in
red
paddles
straight
past
Greg.
It’s

because
I’ve
finally
seen
his
face.

It’s
him.
His
hair
is
shorn,
he
has
darker
skin,
but
it’s
him.

He’s
back.
Early.

Greg
screams,
‘You
don’t
belong
here.
Got
that,
shithead?’

Another
set
is
coming
and
people
start
paddling
forward,
their
heads
turned
to
the
left

to
see
what
happens
next.

I
haven’t
moved.
It’s
only
when
I
hear
Vince
say,
‘Big
one
out
the
back,
Abbie’,
that
I
start

paddling
again.

Greg’s
right
beside
him
now,
getting
in
his
face,
hissing
a
continuous
stream
of
abuse
in

a
low
monotone
which
is
worse
than
shouting.

Then
the
first
wave
of
the
set
is
on
us
and
I
just
make
it
over,
spearing
towards
the
sky

before
hitting
the
water
with
a
solid
slap
on
the
other
side.
I
bury
the
nose
of
my
board

deep
into
the
face
of
the
second.
The
third
wave
looms,
and
I
should
be
pulling
hard
to

make
up
ground
before
it,
but
I’m
paddling
on
automatic
pilot,
staring
at
the
two
men

who
are
facing
off.
Something’s
not
right.
Something
is
not
right.
But
then
the
threat
of

violence
becomes
the
act
and
nothing
is
heightened
anymore,
only
flat
and
ordinary
and

harsh.
Greg
Hill
is
punched
so
hard
that
he
spins
around,
arms
flung
out,
eyes
squinted

shut,
blood
trickling
from
his
nose
as
bright
as
the
red
wetsuit.
The
wave
shuts
down,

falling
like
a
line
of
domi-‐noes
between
them
and
me,
and
I
duckdive,
but
I’ve
left
it
too

late
to
go
deep,
and
there’s
a
curious
moment
of
stillness
before
the
turbulence
hits
me

like
the
afterburn
from
a
jet.

I
surface
in
a
sea
of
foam
with
a
couple
of
others
who
didn’t
get
through,
the
water

around
me
fizzing,
and
I
slide
back
onto
my
board
and
start
paddling
hard.
I’m

waterlogged,
sinuses
salted,
hair
pulled
loose
and
sticking
half
over
my
face.

Vince
is
looking
back
to
see
where
I
ended
up
and
I
head
towards
him,
wanting
to
get

clear
of
the
impact
zone.

Just
before
I
reach
Vince,
I
duckdive
to
smooth
myself
out.

It’s
only
when
I’ve
surfaced
and
I’m
sitting
up
on
my
board
that
I
look
around
to
see

what
happened.