Single Fin Read online

  I needed to get out of that province anyway. I could feel the mould setting in way before that particular day — I knew a world outside existed and each day my curiosity was growing. So I applied for a forestry course up in the Bay of Plenty, was accepted based on my NCEA Maths result, and a week later I booked a bus ticket, packed a bag and left her.

  Haven’t seen Mum since.

  Like I was saying though, I first saw Mike when I was working on his uncle’s place, although I didn’t actually meet him until a month later. I’d only lasted three weeks in the forestry course before I decided that it wasn’t for me — it takes a special breed of person to lug all that gear around trees all day, and I guess I’d been disillusioned. I still wanted to do labouring work (like I had a choice), so I applied for a bricklaying job and got it.

  Bobby’s gateway was going to be made out of local river rock, a product that takes time but the end result looks the dog’s bollocks. For the first couple of weeks I’d see Mike come and go with his board sitting in the back of his car and it intrigued me. I’d surfed a bit back in the Wairarapa — well, tried. My cousin would sometimes take me out to the local beaches, and we’d share turns on his board, pushing each other to see who could actually stand on the damn thing. Wow, what a feeling it was when one particular wave scooped underneath me like a giant hand, and I wobbled my way to my feet, dropping into the wave before the lip began to break. Man, the look on my cousin’s face — the look on my face.

  He left for university soon after, taking any future I had in surfing strapped to the roof of his car. Still, that first three seconds of adrenaline had been absorbed into my blood and it simmered nicely inside me. I knew I wanted to do it again; wait, no, I knew I would do it again, it was only a matter of time. Especially now that I was living next to the sea.

  I eventually asked one of the guys I worked with who Mike was as he drove past one day. ‘Him? That’s this farmer’s nephew, Mike Ihaka. Bloody good surfie he is, used to win all the contests around here.’

  That did it for me. I almost felt the cone of light embrace me from above. Here was a middle-aged guy who couldn’t give two stuffs about the sport, yet knew that Mike was a surfer, and a damn good one at that. The respect Mike must’ve had. The talent he must’ve possessed.

  I was in awe straight away.

  A couple of weeks later, I moved out of the backpackers and into a flat, managing to save enough money to buy myself a second-hand surfboard. Even though the number of dents made it look like a flat golf ball, I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever bought. Shit, a hundred bucks wasn’t going to get me far anyway. Too bad I didn’t have enough money to buy some common sense.

  As far as bad ideas go, me deciding to throw myself head first into giant surf rates somewhere between shitting on The Mob’s doorstep and wearing a Blues jersey to a Crusaders match. Sure, my bravado scale was running into red, but I hadn’t thought it through fully. As I walked towards the water’s edge with my new board under my arm I didn’t even know what a repercussion was. Some sort of instrument, perhaps? What I did know, though, was that I was going to pick up surfing where I left off in the Wairarapa, and leave the water shitloads better than when I first stepped in.

  Plus, the guy in the shop told me to start out over the hill. What could possibly go wrong?

  When I finally gained consciousness, my eyes opened to a silhouette of a guy’s head, the tips of his ears red where the sun was trying to push through. I tried to recall facts but jigsaw pieces were all I found. New heads appeared in the distance; they talked excitedly, one applauded out loud. I couldn’t feel anything from my neck down. Next thing, I was being rolled over as half the Pacific spewed onto the sand next to me. Christ, did that hurt.

  ‘You alright bro?’

  No answer from me, I’m still trying to find a piece that fits.

  ‘Bro? You OK?’

  I nodded my head slowly, eyes closed, breathing in sand. Finally finding enough energy to slur a couple of words together,

  ‘Anyone save … my board?’

  … four,

  three,

  two,

  one … I reached over to the phone in lazy anticipation as digital rings pierced the early morning silence.

  ‘Heya bro,’ I casually murmured down the receiver, half my face remaining buried in the pillow.

  ‘Are you up yet?’ asked the excited voice on the end of the line.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did Grace stay with you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then bullshit you are … is she naked?’

  ‘You comin’ or not?’

  ‘I wouldn’t ring if I wasn’t. I’ll see you in ten minutes.’

  ‘Righto. See ya then.’

  But the voice had already hung up, leaving me to silence once again in a room that glowed too bright.

  ‘Don’t you sleep like a normal person?’ Grace mumbled, grabbing an armful of duvet and nestling back into the bed linen for comfort.

  I moved closer to her. As soon as we touched all other commitments were easily cancelled, a risky move if ever I did one. I held her close. She smelt nice. Not like a perfume smell, but a warm natural skin smell. It had been her tanned covering that had won me over three months ago. She maintained it on a sunbed in town, along with the rest of the beach bunnies around here who can’t stand the pastiness of winter in the mirror. Along with her small pointy nose, chocolate eyes, lips she kept so well balmed, brunette hair cascading in sheets of ripples halfway down her back (she kept these hidden in a ponytail during the day, before secretly unleashing them at night), skinny waist, legs and ankles; she wouldn’t look out of place strolling down the Champs Elysées (I’ve never been to Paris, but my Nana did once and she brought Mum back placemats; one had a painting of a street with a decorated arch at the end. She’d called it swanky).

  Grace was physiotherapist by day, tiger by night. When I dropped those bricks on my wrist and walked through the door for my first day of rehab, I had no idea she’d be next to me this morning. She was three years older than me for starters! Yes, I was aware of the rumours that she’d come two props and a halfback away from doing the whole of the Marist rugby Prems, and the odd lucky Colt, which of course she denied savagely. Yes, I knew she had a reputation of having a fuse the length of a hair on a tick’s nut. And yes, I was quite aware that her possessiveness was very comfortable sitting in hell’s definition of psychotic.

  But when she rubbed that cold silicone gel on my wrist and started the ultrasound, I felt things tingle inside that’d never tingled before. And she seemed so nice. The way she would lay my limb across her thighs and talk about herself all the time, like how she’d been expelled from the School of Happy Relationships for failing every exam. Her voice was always so casual, yet it plucked every right note on my sentimental harp. The next thing I knew, we’d already done it twice by the end of the three-week rehabilitation period, once in the back of her Sigma, and another back at my pad. Nowadays she keeps a toothbrush permanently in my bathroom. It’s funny, before my wrist swelled to the size of Popeye’s, I’d always envisioned myself with the stereotypical blonde-haired surfie chick, and classed girls like Grace merely as high K’ed second-hand imports blocking the way to the flash models parading the showroom. Shelvies, Mike calls them — the type of chick who’s been left up on the shelf ’cause no guy wants her. So they start acting all desperate for a guy to pluck them down, going out to the pub most nights, hanging off the sleeve of any dude who gives them the time. From what I’ve seen, there’s a few of them in this place. Although she did tell me she loved me last week. How’s that? Plus, I could really do with the companionship — any companionship from the opposite sex is all good.

  ‘When’s Mike coming?’ she asked, the words fighting through the pillow.

  ‘Soon. I’m just saying goodbye. Can ya lock up and put the key in the normal place? Oh yeah. Dishes need doing and I’ve got some damp washing that’s been sitting in the machine sin
ce last week. Cheers, babe.’ I loved baiting her like that. But the silence that followed told me she didn’t have a sense of humour this early in the morning. Or she’d drifted back to sleep. I kissed her on the side of the neck and squeezed her tightly in a hug. Damn, she felt good — what was I thinking?

  I stretched to the roof and grasped at my salty hair before fumbling in the chilled darkness for my standard attire: a snug-fitting pair of undies, trackies and a T-shirt, a clean pair of rugby socks and a beanie. If I knew of any items of clothing more comfortable than these, then I’d probably change my policy; till then, nothing beats that combo. I’d left them in a random heap at the foot of the bed in preparation for this morning’s early rise. It’s good karma to be prepared. Even the little things like helplessly searching for a matching sock can make you late, and when you’re racing against nature and her imminent onshore sea breezes, incoming tide and decreasing swell, plus every other keen surfer in this district, then that’s a delay Mike and I didn’t need. When you’re after quality surf, the earlier you can hit the water the better. Which explains the pre-six o’clock go ahead, ’cause the early bird really does get the worm. Just ask any surfer.

  I live in the bottom granny-flat of an elderly lady’s house which, when I think about it, is just plain weird. We’re situated up on the heavily urbanised hill in town where, on a still day and if you hang off the balcony on the second storey, you might just get a brief glimpse of blue from the Pacific Ocean — just enough to whet the appetite. It’s a nice enough place though. Mrs Higgins, the elderly woman, enjoys the security of having someone like me living below. Someone young, strong, charming, knows what he wants in life, not bad on the eye …

  Apparently Mrs Higgins was married once, but has been a widow for a long time now. Something to do with a war somewhere along the line. She also has a daughter in South Africa, I think. I try not to talk about her family with her ’cause I’m crap at being sensitive. I have about as much tact as an anarchist at a queen’s tea party. It’s easier if I just avoid the subject. She doesn’t push it onto me anyway. In fact, we don’t really talk a heck of a lot. We might bump into each other on the driveway or while she’s tinkering around in her garden — her own little slice of heaven on earth — but apart from that, she’s pretty good at letting me be. She definitely isn’t the nagging type. Although one time during summer, a year or two back, we had this crazy after-pub thing back at the flat — I guess half a dozen pissed guys in a paddling pool at three-thirty in the morning isn’t the sort of thing a seventy-eight-year-old wants to see when she looks out the window with her torch. The blatant nakedness on our behalf wouldn’t have given her a warm fuzzy image to go back to bed with either. As long as she gets her rent, and I pat her corgi every so often, then I believe we have a pretty good relationship. Oh, and as long as I don’t park my car in front of her garage on Saturday nights. Hell hath no greater fury than an elderly woman late for church!

  I began making my way to the kitchen, sliding my hands along the wall until they fell onto the light switch. Without stopping I turned it on and squinted between rubs. The flat is small, but just right for me. I call it home, but a greater man would probably pass it by. It consists of a main bedroom and a living room, complete with a three-seater couch and a well-used brown La-Z-Boy, coffee table, my prized collection of surfing magazines, posters of waves, beer slogans and my three future queens — Christina, Britney, and Jessica — and an entertainment system that holds a TV, PlayStation and stereo. Part of this room is a breakfast bar with a semi cut-off kitchen, together with all the normal things you’d find in one. It doesn’t get used that often. Plenty of takeaways down the road; Stan’s Café makes the best kebabs ever.

  I glanced at the small stack of bills piled on the bench — bound to be the odd ‘Final Notice’ amongst them. I’ll write a cheque when I get home after the surf. It’s not like those big multi-million dollar leeches aren’t familiar with my procrastinating way of living anyway. They must look at their computer screens and say shit like, ‘That Finland! Slack bastard if ever I knew one! He’s either a thick prick or a bloody slow learner — looks like we’re gonna have to shut him down this time.’ You’ll get your money, just don’t rush me. It’s a big effort posting those self-addressed, pre-paid envelopes.

  Mike calls this flat the ‘concrete tent’. Mrs Higgins has a much bigger area than mine. Heck, there must be about four or five bedrooms up there. But apart from her balcony, I’ve never set foot in there to confirm it. Not that I’d ever want to. In typical old-person fashion, she probably has heaps of black-and-white family photos all over her walls, and the air smells like old people. That stuff tends to freak me out. Like the sensation when you walk into a hospital; that odour makes you feel like you need a drip yourself. She’s never invited me into her place anyway — I bet she drinks black tea out of real china too.

  The headlights of Mike’s station wagon began beaming up my driveway, sending shadows from protruding objects around the walls and light into hidden corners. I grabbed a can of fruit salad from the cupboard and a small spoon from the drawer, sticking them both in my pocket for a quick breakfast on the run.

  Darting into the laundry, I grabbed my wetsuit, still sitting in the sink. Thanks to a sea-salt corroded muffler, Mike’s car wasn’t the quietest vehicle around. The last thing I wanted was for him to wake any torch-wielding old widows.

  My board stood leaning up against the wall just inside the front door like a silent bouncer watching people come to and fro into the flat — six foot six with plenty of depth to the guts of it. A prime fibreglass example of art versus function. Even though it was over two years old, with its semi-whiteness and ding-free surface it maintained a youthful appearance that could only come from constant obsessive nurturing on my behalf. Two years equates to about twenty human years as far as surfboards are concerned. They have a short prime and a very long retirement that often passes on through a second or third generation. They seem to particularly love the dark and damp solitude of the underbelly of a bach, regardless of location. And you thought turtles and trees live a long time? That’s why most dedicated surfers ditch their boards and get something new every three or four years. Something that has virgin qualities with no surface defects or stress marks forming. Something that feels nice and tight when you run your hands down the rails slowly, and the shape of the twin concave running down the smooth stringer on its backside. Even the smell of a new board. Ooh man, there is nothing better than the first inhale of a board fresh out of the shaper’s bay. There’s certainly something very sensual about that resin smell. Intoxicating. You have to make the most of it too, ’cause it disappears by the second week — ahh, its first sign of adulthood.

  Mike was buried in the darkness of his bright yellow ’83 Ford station wagon. He called it The Sub because it was so long, and apparently after that submarine song by The Beatles. I ran around to the back of the car to throw my gear in on top of his. He was tapping the top of his steering wheel with two index fingers. I couldn’t hear music, so it must have been out of anticipation of my company. He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement with a semi-nod and grin — cheer bro. The surfboards lying on an angle across the inside rendered the back seat useless. Didn’t matter, ’cause it was always just me and Mike anyway.

  I accidentally slammed the back door, sending an echo across the still morning air. I cringed. A light flicked on upstairs. I took the can from my pocket and threw it onto the dashboard before crashing into the passenger seat.

  ‘Go! Go!’ I urged as I fiddled with the seat belt.

  I handed the half-empty can of fruit to Mike. ‘Want some?’

  He looked down at the colourful lumps drowning in syrup. My well-used spoon sat in the middle of it all.

  ‘She’s right,’ he replied, before turning on his indicator. ‘That shit hasn’t got any substance. You need something with guts to it. Bro, only eating that, I’m gonna be surfin’ rings around you —’

  ‘You
already do,’ I said, taking another spoonful.

  ‘— something with protein and plenty of fat. Like sausages and eggs or a chop. None of that empty sugar crap.’

  ‘I ain’t got time to cook those.’

  ‘Not while you have a naked chick in your bed you haven’t,’ he said, nudging me with his elbow and chuckling. ‘The only eggs you’re cookin’ are hers. I bet she’d love a little meat in the morning, huh?’

  ‘Nah, not really. But she sure likes the bone!’ That sent both of us into a spontaneous explosion of laughter. We may’ve still been half asleep, but it was never too early to talk smut, bless it.

  We rumbled along the narrow main road that lead towards the Mouth, past a slowly waking suburbia on our right and the gentle rocking of charter boats moored in the river on our left. I caught odd glimpses of captain and crew, already well awake by now and preparing their equipment for a day of tourist dollars. This town’s diversity is a magnet for them. Everything is at your fingertips here, depending on your pleasure of course. It’s the last point of call from the huge urban surge of the self-proclaimed national capital of Auckland. You can almost see the marauding blackness coming from the North from Mrs Higgins’ balcony high on the hill. Like modern day Vikings. There’s nothing like a bit of rape and pillaging for kicks, eh lads? Thanks to the geography though, we’re just out of reach of their upmarket, rip snort and bust, city-slickered, cellphone-dependent, let’s make a mockery of the 4x4 market, bigger is better, wankerish way of living. It’d squash this town like an elephant on a grape. According to Mike, this place sounds too cultural for them anyway. Even for just a holiday home. Ignorance can be daunting. Ask some of them where this town is and young Maori riding horses bareback along gravel roads with a couple of fat eels impaled on a spear would spring to their minds. An image a million miles away from their towering offices, or favourite North Shore café. Instead let them take over the Mount like a septic virus, with apartment complexes and other high-class living for the fortunate few. Fuck it, New Zealand is full of coast, we’ll find a beach somewhere else away from that bullshit immorality. ‘Yeah, the Mount, it’s a nice place to visit these days, but I wouldn’t wanna live there.’ Conclusion? Sure, their self-centred, spending ways may scare the bejesus out of us, but we won’t be bullied. ’Cause in the end, no one likes their personal space poached from underneath them. Least of all us. Especially when our own slice of paradise is at risk.