Single Fin Read online

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my good friends Nick K., Nick T., Dan and Jan.

  To Ros Rowe and Charlie Janes, who gave tremendous support.

  To Iratana Tawhiwhirangi for te reo.

  To Barbara and Chris Else, who shared my vision and did so much for it.

  To the awesome team at Random House for their enthusiasm.

  And to my wife Joanna — love you always.

  Dedication

  To Scotty and Lee. There’s a chunk of fun that’s been missing in our lives since you guys left us. This story is dedicated to you both.

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Surfing glossary

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  A low depression

  Part One

  The last day

  Part Two

  Held under

  Part Three

  To my feet

  Epilogue

  Close-out

  Copyright

  Surfing glossary

  barrel — the Holy Grail of surfing. To have a wave invite you to become part of it is one of nature’s greatest gifts

  cutback — see reo

  floater — riding on top of the wave’s lip as it crumbles and falls

  mal — a long surfboard, used extensively before the 1970s. Increasingly popular with mature surfers

  re-form — a wave that has already broken and flattened out, only to re-emerge and break one more time before the beach

  reo — to turn quickly against the natural direction of the peeling wave

  roundhouse — a large, sweeping turn

  thruster — a three-finned surfboard

  Well I woke up this morning

  Rainbow filled the sky

  It was God telling me

  Everything’s gonna be alright

  Rainbow, G. Love

  Whenever I think of Mike, I get a dull ache in my arm. It trickles down my shoulder, all the way to my wrist and back, dragging a stream of bruise-like pain behind it. I vividly remember how heavy his coffin had been. I’d attended my share of funerals over the past nineteen years and seen the effortless way the departed had been carried out of church. Even my grandfather, who had been a large man compared to most, seemed to be floating in his wooden casket; my uncles bringing him out effortlessly with blank expressions.

  However, the initial lift that day was a shock. Coffins are damn heavy. So heavy in fact that I began questioning whether Mike was actually inside or not. After all, he had not been a big guy — tall, yes; muscular, definitely — but he wasn’t heavyweight material. Walking between the pews of people, I had serious doubts whether I’d be able to maintain a grip, even for the short distance to the open door and waiting hearse.

  New clusters of flowers were placed on the casket, the faces of sorrow untapping new strength from somewhere within me. Our walk was slow and awkward. I was on the left-hand side — my unnatural side — along with Mike’s eldest sister and cousin. On the right was another of his cousins, and two uncles, which made me the only non-family member. I never once looked at their faces, but considering the small steps we were taking I could tell they were struggling just as I was. I’d step with my right, an uncle would do the same, while another two would do the opposite, making for an uncoordinated journey; the momentum colliding with my hip at random. If we’d been rowing a boat we would’ve capsized by now. We walked on though, complete with blank expressions, towards the channel between the large group of people who couldn’t fit inside the church. Mike’s favourite old Mutton Birds song played hauntingly in the background — one last personal trademark to be left in the world. ‘Remember this song?’ they’d say later, ‘that’s Mike’s song.’

  … Singing songs that come

  from dead men’s tongues …

  It wasn’t until we placed the head end of the casket onto the rollers in the back of the hearse that my eyes began to burn; a blurred vision with every blink. From the beginning of the funeral, I’d had the same vacant, lost expression on my face. Well, that’s what I felt anyway. I’d cried enough times over the last three days for the equivalent of twenty mates’ funerals. Man, I’d cried more times than I’d ever imagined I could, or would. I did it when I was with people, when I was by myself, when I was showering; my whole body excreted salty tears. Right from that one terrible phone call until late last night as I’d lain awake in the darkness, the tears had flowed. But when I awoke this morning, they stopped. I waited for them to start again, but nothing came. I thought of Mike. Still nothing. I guess by this stage I was buried so deep in the grieving process that things just started to haze over. Even my small tribute to him half an hour ago — eulogy, the minister had called it — had been a tearless affair. I’d told myself beforehand that as long as I didn’t look at his coffin I’d be fine. Which was funny, ’cause when it came to speaking, I couldn’t take my eyes off it; picturing him inside dressed up in the same suit he wore to his sister’s wedding not three weeks before. Boy, he’d been in high spirits back then, with plenty of his noisy laughter and classic Mikey hijinks.

  Now he was lying in complete darkness. Silent. Soulless.

  I’d see familiar faces during the day, and hear people talking to me and as far as I know I responded to them, although a lot quieter than I normally would, but they weren’t in my world at that time. Mike and I had a special bond that most wouldn’t comprehend. And everyone was sorry. Every new person who said that to me was just confirming how much I was going to miss him. I wanted to say sorry back, but it felt like no one was in the same realm as I was, except obviously his immediate family. In the end, I just repeated the same words over and over again to anyone who said it:

  ‘Yeah, we’re sure gonna miss him.’

  My hand released the brass handle, and I knew the last great act I’d ever do for him had been completed. That thought wrenched so hard that my heart felt like it was tearing in two.

  I stood back from the car, slipped my hands into the deep pockets of my suit pants and watched as people, starting with his mum and two younger sisters, comforting each other, came and placed small flowers on top of the coffin. They paused to say their own personal prayers before backing away slowly to let the next trio of mourners through; their tears doubling as they did. Each person had Mike’s spirit inside them, you could tell that easily. Even in the short space of twenty years, he’d touched a lot of people. The tears they cried were testament to that for sure. I clenched my fist on my left hand slowly in and out to get the blood flowing through it once again. It felt weak, like the rest of my body. Exhausted; both mentally and physically drained. I was traumatised, ready to be cremated myself to end it all right there.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to be greeted by the sympathetic face of Grace. She asked if I was OK, tilting her head to the side and looking at me like only a girlfriend could. I tried to smile back but ended up burying my face into her shoulder. I don’t know whether she had tears too, I’m not even sure whether she comforted me back, but as far as I was concerned she was someone to attach myself to at that moment, and I wasn’t letting go.

  … Anchor me,

  in the middle of your deep blue sea …

  There’s something about winter that is sad in itself, I reckon. It’s the result of a slow dying phase. The trees around the church had lost their leaves one by one in the looming shadow of the season; the overcast day made them appear like skeletons, their branches bare, frail, lonely and cold. A fresh breeze whisked between the crowd of grievers. I felt it on the back of my neck. It was nature’s way of holding us all, whispering gently, ‘It’s alright, he’s with us now, but his spirit is with you always …’

  Thanks, Mother N,
but we’d like him back all the same.

  This funeral was too close. Too close to me that is. Like I said, I’d been to my fair quota of funerals. Although not one was pleasant, in reality everyone could see it coming, so you’d cherish the time spent with whoever and make provisions for when they’re gone. The writing is there the whole time. When it comes, it’s a shock, but a bluntly smothered one. And we all know we’re going to die some day. Some of us are comfortable with that, and some can’t stand the thought. I was one of the latter. Death scared me. Straight up. I was scared to death of death. Well, that was before three days ago anyway. Now nothing made sense. One day Mike was here, the next he’s gone and, to make matters worse, he wasn’t coming back. It’s as simple as that. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. There was no warning, no hunches and definitely no fuckin’ writing on the wall. Yet somehow, suddenly, he was gone, leaving a short life of memories behind. He was taken away in the prime of his life … like a ticket plucked in a raffle … I’d like to know who put his number in that hat anyway. What I’d do to them now. I used to think I had life sorted; me and him were untouchable. Now I can’t help feel insignificant in life’s big picture. Like a stack of blocks in God’s sideshow just waiting to be knocked down.

  I turned around as the hearse’s back door was quietly closed, the coffin semi-visible through the tinted back window. The engine started gently before the wheels began slowly running over the tarmac, taking Mike’s physical presence away from us for good. His surfboard, tied to the roof of the vehicle as a token of his first love, took priority of focus and for a moment or two I saw him standing on it with his trademark cheeky grin, waving goodbye. Then, the hearse went around the corner out of sight and he was gone. I stayed staring, waiting for him to walk back around the corner laughing at us all for the joke of the century. But he never did. In the end, Grace pulled me away by the hand, and at that moment I officially left my faith in the world at the entrance of the church.

  We never went to the crematorium. I couldn’t stomach it. I loved him too much to see him disappear once again behind two black curtains. Instead we went to the wake. I found a seat and attempted to hide myself on it. It couldn’t have worked though, as person after person stopped to give me their condolences. I smiled. I thanked them. I shared my memories. I wanted to run. I wanted to throw away that soggy tomato-and-egg club sandwich and stone-cold tea I’d been holding onto for the last two hours and just run. Where to? Who knows? Who cared? I wanted to shout at the top of my lungs, but I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to smash something, but for what good? I felt like I was going to explode with tension. If only I could’ve.

  Instead I sat quietly on that chair and made polite conversation with one of Mike’s great-aunts, whom he’d barely even mentioned in the time I knew him. She talked in spurts and starts, forgetting names and pausing to recollect her thoughts. It was painful, yet I continued to smile and nod my head slowly. Grace stood behind me silently. She was a stranger to this crowd, but she did her best to be a part of our conversation. I felt bad for dragging her into all of this. She tried to share the hurt, but she’d only gotten to know Mike well over the last few months.

  Which was ironic. Just when I had a room full of compassionate people ready to reach out and care, I felt more alone than ever. Being someone’s best friend is a double-edged sword. I’d just discovered it, felt its sharpness and now I had to deal with it. Don’t get me wrong: I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself. I felt sorry for him. So much damn potential left. Travel, different cultures, a wife, family, big plans, stamping his mark on the world. Now they were gone. Have you ever had something that you cherished so much that you couldn’t bear thinking about what you’d do without it? An old toy, a family heirloom, a new car, whatever. Imagine if someone came and stole it one day when you weren’t watching. You come back expecting to find it, but it’s not there. You spend hours or days asking yourself where it’s disappeared to, but you have no answer. It’s been stolen and it isn’t coming back.

  Hidden snugly in the darkness of early morning, I was lying awake with my eyes closed, gently strumming my chest with the tips of my right fingers. It felt nice being caught somewhere between the realms of tickling and scratching, especially at that time of the day. Slow, rhythmic strokes helped me think clearer. I blamed it on a life of not being able to sit still; I had always been told to stop fidgeting; rolling my thumbs, jiggling my knee, tapping the table, picking my fingernails; generally annoying those around me with better self-control. I couldn’t help it; without these traits I was as useful as a marching band with no snare drum.

  5:28am the clock blazed. Some of humanity’s best thinking is done at this time. I’m no different. Man, the ideas I’ve come up with. Everything just seems to come into place during this hour — the solutions exposing themselves to me as warm blankets, leaving a relaxed feeling, knowing I have solid artillery to take into the day. I’m so good at it, Tibetan monks should give me a call; I could save them a lifetime of finger cramps and haemorrhoids.

  Like the time my mate Mike wanted to pull a sickie at work so we could hit the surf, but didn’t know what to tell his Uncle Bobby, the owner of seven-hundred acres of farmland situated over the hill. He works for him as a shepherd-cum-handy-guy. Actually I don’t know what he does there; he tells me stories of sheep and cows and how their shit gets caught up on their arses in big knots, and what a three day-old bearing looks like, but I just nod and take his word for it. After all, a brickie has not the want or need for such things. Sure, Mike has got the gift of the gab, could talk his way out of paying taxes if he wanted, but even I can see the excuses he uses on his uncle are flirting with absurdity: ‘Jesus Christ lad! Another twenty-first? How many sisters your mate Fin got? And on a Tuesday? Seems bloody odd to me … alright, just make sure you’re not hungover for tomorrow, we’re shearing the two-tooths, you and me.’

  Unfortunately, usually by the time I finally drag my medium-framed carcass towards the edge of the bed, I’m left with only remnants. And as I wander to the bathroom, pulling my undies from out of my bum, I discover I’ve woken to find the same Jamie Finland that I was before I fell asleep — the same guy who can calculate fuck-all in a single bound, with an ability to rely on national scaling faster than a ‘FAILED’ stamp on an English exam paper.

  I didn’t save Mike that particular day and it was business, in his gumboots and my steel-caps, as usual. A notepad and a pen would probably save me some pre-sun suffering in the future. I bet Peter Jackson’s got these tucked in his top drawer, right next to his Oscars and spectacles. Perhaps I’m missing my calling? The Exam Cheater Who Just Wanted to Party and Chase Chicks — directed by Jamie ‘C Plus-man’ Finland — now there’s a true-life box office smash. I turned over slowly to my side and faced my glowing nemesis, watching as the minute digits flicked from 5:28am to 5:29am. One minute to go. My fingers finding the back of my left shoulder blade and then flowing over to the triceps and back, time and time again.

  Fifty-five seconds remaining,

  fifty-four,

  fifty-three …

  At twenty, Mike is one year older than me, although that’s never changed the way he’s treated me. In fact, I’ve come to realise that when you leave school, age barriers don’t seem to come into play when friends are concerned. Even Mike’s older friends just seem to accept me — which is strange, because they’re the same type of guys who would’ve loved to hang me from a coat hook at college.

  We first met when I arrived on his uncle’s farm as part of my new job — building a main gateway. My history consisted of seventeen years as a Wairarapa dropkick who thought Wellington was some far-off mythological place (its parliamentarians work in a beehive? Their team plays rugby in a cake-tin? Whatever). Shit, I even thought The Big Red Shed was unique to Masterton. Mum and I lived by ourselves in a quiet street on the eastern side of town. She’s always worked as a bank clerk, which did us all right. She’s still young, so it’s only a matter
of time before they promote her. We were happy, and although I had typical-male bad days at school, she always supported me no matter what.

  I never knew my dad — I doubt Mum even knows him herself. A bad combination of being a fresh eighteen-year-old, travelling with friends to the Big Smoke, a busy nightclub, a smooth-talking city boy, a cubicle in the men’s toilets and thirty seconds of self-degradation. She never knew she was pregnant till a couple of months later — a first name and some DNA the only clues to tracking him down; although embarrassment and humiliation would have stopped her from pursuing him more than any lack of detective skills.

  I didn’t always know this though. By the time I was old enough to know why everyone else had a dad and I didn’t, Mum had easily devised a fictional character who, funnily enough, was the most perfect dad in every way. He apparently died on an insurance business trip in Jakarta — of all places — when I was six months old. Cause of death: the crash of a privately chartered plane. She obviously used the time really well to think through her story … I’m just as guilty for accepting it.

  However, that’s how I grew up, stomaching the series of arsehole boyfriends she tried to tempt into living with us, putting up with their dirty smirks and doormat mentalities. ‘One day James, you’ll understand,’ I remember her telling me once, rubbing fingers through my fringe as I lay in bed, ‘we all need companionship from someone who’ll love us back. I just haven’t found that special one for us yet, but I will, and when I do, he’s going to be the best dad yet.’

  She managed to keep it hidden from me until my seventeenth birthday when Aunty Jen, who was a self-proclaimed wine connoisseur and renowned party diffuser, decided that I was old enough to know the real truth. She proceeded to bail Mum into a corner, causing a huge fuss and letting everyone know a deceptive old cat was about to be let out of a bag. I naturally thought she was just pissed, until I saw the look on Mum’s face.