Swell (17 page)

When he said the last word, my gaze faltered from his face down to his lips. By the time they moved back up to his eyes, he was staring directly at me. The hairs on my neck jolted with static electricity and waved as if they had survived an emergency sea landing and were trying to attract attention. It was a warning and I knew I should walk away but I stayed rooted to the spot, my fingers almost touching his in the grass.

‘We’ve talked so much the past couple of weeks,’ he said, blinking slowly, ‘maybe we should stop talking and see what happens.’

‘What do you mean?’

My voice did not sound like my own.

Jason’s fingertips touched mine in the cool grass. I tried to move away but the devil on my shoulder pushed me towards him. I watched his lips open. I closed my eyes. His lips touched mine and in an instant my body turned to the consistency of a trifle. The taste was just as sweet.

His lips pressed hard yet they felt as soft as marshmallows against mine. His tongue pushed into my mouth and his warm hand ran up my back. A coyote howled in the distance or was it me howling with desire? The kiss became more urgent and thorough. We tasted each other. My body was almost melting into his. I was more alive than I had ever been but at the same time I felt like I could die from the overwhelming passion flooding through my veins. His hands cupped my jaw, pulling me closer. I opened one eye and saw the sunset reflecting off his cheekbone. I heard the water rippling and the insects chirruping, my senses were so heightened. If being with Cain had felt dangerous then giving in to Jason made me feel suddenly safe.

It was only when Jason paused to catch his breath that I realised I had to stop. Comparing Jason to Cain instantly made me relive the regret I had felt after letting myself give in to that impulse. This time my whole body stirred with a desire I had never experienced before but I had to resist.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.’

I pulled away and clambered to my feet. Smoothing down the chest of my shirt, I made to walk away but Jason grasped my hand and pulled me back down beside him.

‘Excuse me but I think I did it too. I wanted to kiss you so I did and I would very much like to do it again.’

I suppressed the urge not to let the moment pass. I was too determined not to let a single moment ruin everything the way I had almost done before. I could not mix business and pleasure however incredible that pleasure felt. I had to nip this in the bud. I lifted my chin and looked Jason directly in the eyes.

‘And you always do what you want don’t you?’

He blinked slowly.

‘I guess.’

‘You know.’ I pulled my hand away and stood up again. ‘Not this time, Jason.’

He looked so hurt when he peered up at me that I wavered for a second but then I steeled myself to correct a situation that could destroy everything I had worked for.

‘Look it’s been an emotional time for you trawling through your past and being so open with me so let’s just put this down to a release. A momentary loss of control.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’

‘Yes why?’

There were so many reasons. Because we had to work together and I needed this job. Because I had made the same mistake with his arch enemy in Hawaii and subsequently found myself on the next plane home to concrete city. Because it was all too obvious. Because that was the effect he had on every woman on the surfing circuit and I did not want to be another notch on his bedpost.

Jason stood up.

‘I know what you’re thinking.’

I stepped back away from him, not trusting myself to resist.

‘No you don’t.’

‘I do and please, I’m not like the other guys on tour. I don’t want you just so I can say I’ve had you and notch you up on my bedpost. That’s not my game.’

Alright so he did know what I was thinking.

‘And you’re not like the other girls on tour. You’re so different. You fascinate and delight me.’

My hand pressed against my chest in a reflex action as I absorbed what was probably the loveliest thing any man had ever said to me. I knew him well enough to know he genuinely meant it.

I swallowed hard and raised my palms defensively.

‘Thank you for the compliment and I know you’re not like that, Jason but the thing is… the thing is I am not attracted to you. As I said, you’re not my type.’

His face fell.

‘That’s not what it felt like when you kissed me.’

‘I thought it was you who kissed me.’

‘You kissed me back.’

Where were we, the playground?

‘Whatever, we kissed, it was a very nice kiss but that’s it, end of story.’

Jason brushed his hair back from his face.

‘Do you want to know what I think, Bailey?’

‘No but I have a feeling you are going to tell me.’

‘I think you are scared of letting yourself fall for any man.’

‘Really? So you’re a therapist now are you?’

He crossed his muscular arms over his even more muscular chest. I diverted my gaze to concentrate on my feet and took a deep breath.

‘Jason I’m sorry, I don’t want to fall out over this but I told you in Indonesia I am not going to get involved with another professional surfer. I made a promise to myself and to you if you remember?’

‘I don’t mind if you break that promise to me.’

I smiled and looked up at him. His smouldering eyes could melt solid gold.

‘Let’s keep this as a working relationship, OK? You pay me to write your book and that is what I will do but’ – I cleared my throat – ‘other than that I am not for sale.’

I turned away quickly to avoid seeing the sadness that spread across his face. When I walked away I hoped it was the last time I would have to resist Jason’s advances because, judging by the way my entire body still sizzled with the intense emotion generated by his kiss, I doubted how strong my defences would prove to be.

TAHITI

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The following morning we flew to Tahiti ahead of the contest. Jason had spent the evening studying weather charts and swell predictions and a storm system promised world-class waves at one of his favourite reef breaks of all time, Teahupoo. Enthused by the prediction, it was as if Jason had transferred his feelings away from me and back to the one woman whose whims he incessantly indulged; Mother Ocean. I was glad for the distraction but at the same time a little sad to leave our ranch retreat, say goodbye to Ricky and return to the relative rat race of the world tour.

Teahupoo, or Chopes as it was affectionately known, was one of the world’s most terrifying natural creations that had become a necessary rite of passage for the professional surfer. In a similar vein to Pipeline, it was without a doubt one of the world’s deadliest breaks yet the contest surfers had no alternative other than to take their chances when the contest was called on, no matter how gigantic the waves on the day. There was no calling in sick to skive in this job.

Outside the contest, when the surf was too enormous to paddle into using human power alone, the surfers towed in behind a jet ski in the manner of a water-skier. This was the new form of the sport that was allowing the surfers who dared take up the challenge to push the limits of the size of wave a surfer could possibly ride. The goal of the respected big wave surfers, of which Jason was one, was to catch the first genuine one hundred foot wave in history. Jason likened the feat to jumping off a ten-storey building into water. It was a better idea, I supposed, than jumping onto concrete but when the ten-storey building then curls over and jumps in right on top of you, the stakes are raised.

Jason and Rory practised towing in on the first few days in Tahiti while waiting for the swell to drop enough for the contest to start. The waves were roughly measured at thirty to forty feet in height and looked terrifying. I could not imagine any human being taking on a one hundred foot wave; it just did not seem physically possible. Watching Jason let go of the towrope and sling himself into a wave that darkened the sky made me feel sick. I did not think I would be able to cope with watching him take on a wave two to three times the size. The swell that we had chased across the Pacific then dropped in time for the contest to a more manageable size of fifteen to twenty-feet. Where previously I would have been overawed by the spectacle, I realised I was becoming accustomed to seeing such monsters. I could understand why the surfers felt the need to push the boundaries.

The wave was situated a fifteen-minute paddle out to sea from our island on a concealed coral reef as sharp as shattered glass. The wave formation was unusual in that its base sat below sea level. A sudden and drastic change in the gradient of the ocean floor threw the swells forward at intense speeds, creating a breathtaking sheer wall of water that was as thick as it was high. The wave morphed into a hollow tube with such momentum that, at close range and at its terrifying best, it roared like the engine of a 747.

On the opening day of the competition, Chuck, Ruby and I sat in a boat in the calm channel just metres from the wave. While the surfers risked life and limb, we soaked up the sun and sipped fresh coconut juice straight from the coconut. I had watched the young kitchen hand shimmy up a palm tree in his bare feet to collect the coconuts as effortlessly as if he were retrieving cake ingredients from the top shelf of a kitchen
cupboard. He trimmed each hairy fruit back to its bald green skin with a machete and then whipped off the top to expose the flesh and the delicious juice inside.

Despite us being in a Jurassic paradise of jagged volcanoes and spectacular crystal water, the channel was so crammed with jet-skis, boats and surfers it resembled the M25 on a Friday afternoon. The differences being that the occupants of every craft were scantily clad and invariably gorgeous. The latest fad was for the SWAGS to watch their men surf while lying on their fronts on a flotilla of neon pink Lilos, sunning their pert bottoms. They wore eye-wateringly miniscule Brazilian bikini bottoms, which gave as much coverage as an average sized moth splayed out on the coccyx. At first glance, one could have been forgiven for thinking the island was being invaded by a homosexual naval fleet of miniature bald men.

‘Look at all those bum cheeks,’ I said to Chuck.

‘Dammit do I have to?’ he said, fanning himself frantically.

The photographers spent more time taking photos of the bottom parade than they did of the incredible scenery.

‘Bernard, make sure you get the cover shot, dude,’ Chuck said to the French photographer who had joined us in our boat in order to have the prime view of the action.

His name was Bernard and Poseidon had jetted him in especially for the occasion. Bernard was a slim, elegant Frenchman from Biarritz with close-cropped hair and pianist’s hands who spent more than half his year away from home shooting surf trips and contests. He had a wife back in France, who was either very understanding or she didn’t much care for his company.

‘I will try, Shuck. The light it is perfect raght now,’ Bernard said from behind the giant lens sticking out from his face like an elephant’s trunk, ‘if they catch one like dat and pull in I will ‘ave the shot for sure, non.’

‘Oui oui fer sure you naughty little French man,’ Chuck mocked, ‘and ve vill pay you one meeelion dollars.’

I leaned across Chuck’s lap and winked at Ruby.

‘You know I really think he believes he’s speaking French.’

Chuck laughed and tapped the top of my head.

‘I speak every language in my own way, baby. Now while you’re down there. Holy shit!’

I sat bolt upright and lifted my hands.

‘What? I didn’t touch you.’

‘No, not you, B’ - Chuck waved his hand at the wave and whistled – ‘that Tahitian kid just took the heaviest wipeout I’ve ever seen for real. I’d be surprised if he came outta that a full human, you know what I’m sayin’?’

Our Tahitian boat driver manoeuvred us closer to the break and every eye in the channel scanned the surface of the water for the unfortunate local surfer.

‘Can you see him through your lens, Bernard, is he bleeding?’

Bernard squinted.

‘Oui, I see blood. He will soon be shark food, non,’ Bernard chuckled.

I shivered and strained to see, feeling as if I was rubbernecking at a car crash.

Chuck whistled to our driver, who span us full-circle and raced towards the injured surfer. He pulled the boat alongside the young Tahitian, who sat astride half a surfboard and smiled crookedly up at us.

He was olive skinned and handsome on one side of his face but the other was red raw and bloody as if he had rubbed it on a cheese grater. The right sleeve of his white rash vest was stained as beetroot as Chuck’s hair. Ruby gasped and I covered my mouth.

‘Dude, that’s like ouch,’ said Chuck, stating the obvious.

Our driver leaned over and spoke in French before handing him a bottle of water. The surfer took a sip, smiled merrily and chatted before he handed the bottle back and paddled off to find a replacement board.

‘He must be in shock,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t we take him to a hospital?’

‘Nah,’ said Chuck, waving his hand dismissively, ‘it’s just a graze.’

‘Yeah, like a lion’s been grazing on his face. That looked a bit more than superficial.’

‘War wounds,’ Chuck shrugged. ‘Part of the game.’

‘Is death part of the game too?’

‘Sometimes, B, sometimes.’

I glanced over at Ruby who was nervously chewing her lip. I tried to think of something reassuring to say to her but nothing seemed appropriate. Her boyfriend’s job came with inherent risks, which she was well aware of. However, seeing the aftermath of a gamble gone wrong was never easy no matter how mentally prepared one was.

Moments later, a tanned hand clutched the side of our boat and Rory pulled alongside on his surfboard. He wore a black impact vest that was a slim life jacket with a built in six-pack.

Ruby reached out and pressed her hand on top of his.

‘Be careful out there, darl’.’

He pressed his other hand on top of hers.

‘Always, you know me.’

Chuck patted him on the arm.