blue smoke at me. Her eyes narrowed. I could almost hear her mind ticking away, trying to figure me out.
“Why you so interested in me surfing anyway, Sam? You always ask.”
I shrugged. “Just chatting.”
“You still not going to have a go?” she said.
“Maybe, one day.”
“Maybe? One day? Really? One day might never come, Sam. No point in waiting.” She looked away, towards the sea. And I thought, She’s actually keen for me to do it. For all her acting cool, she was trying to persuade me.
“What’s so good about it then?” I said. “Tell me.”
“If I told you how good it was, you’d be doing it first chance you got.”
“Try.”
“Can’t. It’s one of those things that’s hard to put into words, like. You only know by doing it. If you don’t go, you won’t know. That’s what surfers always say. It’s true too.”
I thought back to that morning. All that getting up and getting cold and knackering myself. All for those few seconds I’d spent standing on a wave, riding and gliding on water.
I had gone; I did know.
“Yeah, that’s probably right. Hard to put into words,” I said. “Like dancing about architecture.”
Jade flicked her dead roll-up away. “What?” she said, frowning like I’d said something in Japanese.
“This old singer Mum likes was once asked to describe his music, and he said talking about it was like trying to dance about architecture.”
She took a deep breath, ready to make some piss-take comment. But she paused, thinking.
“Right,” she said, nodding. “I get that. But you’ll never know, will you?”
I grinned a bit more. I couldn’t help it.
“It’s going to be a great day, isn’t it?” I pointed at the blue sky. She stared at me, wary.
“You know, Sam, you’re not just a kook. You’re also weird.”
UNLESS THE SEA was flat or totally messed up by wind, I went surfing. Every day, pretty much. Weekends were good. As long as I helped out with Teg, and spent time helping Grandma with shopping, it was cool for me to go. But I did most of my real learning on schooldays.
I had the same routine: wake in the dark, bolt a sandwich I’d made the night before, neck coffee, cycle like mad, surf for an hour, race home, change, get to the bus stop. And then act with Jade like I’d crawled out from under the sheets two minutes before, which was a hard thing to do as I was always buzzing like a bee with the high of it, a high that didn’t leak out of my muscles till mid-morning, when I’d almost fall asleep in class.
I got good at it – not surfing, that took time – but the whole routine. Whitesands was my choice surf spot; a half-moon of golden sand, backed by dunes and rocky hills. A cool beach, always, but in the light of dawn, with a mist on it and the sun coming up, it was something special. I was struggling to even remember London.
Whitesands was near enough for me to get to, but far enough that I knew Jade and the others wouldn’t go there. There were better spots nearer to where we lived.
Sometimes I’d get there and it wouldn’t be breaking, or low tide, so all the waves closed out, smashing straight on to the sand, with no chance of a ride. But I never turned around and went home. I’d sit on the huge, rounded rocks on the edge of the bay, watching the sea change, grey to blue. I’d get a little lost in my mind then, feeling kind of stoned, like round the campfire with Jade and the others, just looking at the sea, waiting for the waves to start breaking. Surf or no surf, I never got tired of the place.
Most times though, it was working. Sometimes I’d spend the whole time paddling, being ripped around by vicious currents, or have a whole hour of fun just getting battered. I got held down a few times, but never for long. I tried that Jade trick of counting, but I never got to more than a few seconds before the wave let go and I could come back up. That day, when I’d rescued the dog, it had been worse than it looked. Or maybe I was just getting used to it now, and knew what to do. What I’d been afraid of to begin with began to be normal.
Some days I got a total of two rides, other times I lost count. But whether it went good or bad, I got to understand how waves broke. Waves that were fat and friendly and slow, others that had a nasty, fast edge. Ankle-snappers and shoulder-high white-water mushburgers. And everything in between. Over the days, I spent less time under water, less time paddling and jostling, and more time riding. I mostly rode the white froth of broken waves. But it was surfing, and I was learning.
*
Mum was okay about it at first. Like I said, I reckoned she thought I’d lose interest.
But then, after weeks, it became an almost daily thing. And even with me helping out in the house loads to make up for it, it got to the point where she was going to say something.
I came in from school one day to see the table laid. We usually ate tea on our laps in front of the telly.
“It’s your favourite,” she shouted, from the kitchen. I already knew it was, from the smell. Roast chicken. And that meant crunchy roast potatoes, peas and a dark, steaming gravy. My mouth was already watering.
“Great,” I said. I threw myself on the sofa, groaning, putting my feet on Teg’s lap. I did this every night, crashed out on the sofa, waiting for dinner like it was my first meal in months. That was how it was from the surfing. I was always hungry and always tired. I’d scoff dinner, then turn into a surfed-out zombie till I melted into my bed, seeing the waves in my head, mind surfing them all over again. Wondering what it would be like the next day.
When Mum brought tea in, it was a massive effort just to get up off the sofa.
We sat down, and ate in silence for a bit.
“It’s not going anywhere,” said Mum. “No one’s going to steal it.”
I paused, with my mouth full.
“Huh?”
“You’re wolfing it down, Sam. You’ll enjoy it more if you eat it slowly?”
I stared at my plate. Almost empty. Mum and Teg had hardly started theirs.
“Oh, yeah, sorry.”
“Make you hungry does it, this surfing?” she said.
“Yeah, loads.” I tucked in again. It took me a second or two to realise they
