Single Fin Read online

  Yeah, Mike had taught me lot in a short time. His words always seemed to make sense to me, like I had any reason to doubt him. He knew the ways of the world better than I did; whenever we talked, it felt like my mind was expanding with each one of his facts or opinions. Like my brain was a balloon, and he was blowing it up. And he was always laughing at me and my past sheltered life. Mike was so set in his knowledge, so confident; it was like he’d already lived once. It was easy hanging around someone like that.

  The first glow of Saturday sun had already started to show on the bare horizon by the time we rolled up to the gravel parking lot. Mike stopped the car and pulled on the handbrake. The first light. Only an East Coast surfer has this privilege. It was clear, crisp and yellow, the makings of an exceptional day. Sparkles of silver spread across the water, all the way to our car bonnet. The island offshore looked especially close this morning, like I could wind the window down and touch it. Before I tried, the real star performers in this early morning symphony of energy began to make their entrance. Squinting out to sea, we became stunned like a couple of possums caught in Huey’s headlight. Mike gave an excited squirm forward in his seat.

  A sure sign.

  From out in the distance, lines of darkness approached. Silently, yet building to a crescendo. The glitter of light became overshadowed. There looked to be four, maybe five. Whatever, the third one was going to be the biggest. They were thick and big: five, probably six feet from the back. Yet, as they intruded on the rising sun, they became semi-transparent like paper on a window. They’d been travelling for a couple of days judging by their structure. Sure, the gentle southerly blowing offshore manicured them, but they were shaped too smoothly to be a flash in the pan. These had been crafted over a length of time by an expert who knew the true meaning of patience. Hard to believe they were spawned from a low-pressure system of violence and turmoil somewhere out in the middle of the ocean — hundreds, if not thousands of miles from any earthworm. Huey must’ve packed a real sad that day. They glided in with intense power and mass, tired and unaware of their imminent death as they headed straight for the submerged banks of sand and grit deposited from the river mouth.

  ‘Faaarken’ell,’ Mike exclaimed in a laid-back slur, watching the face on the earliest wave of the set rise higher and higher as it made first contact with the sunken coast. It sucked up all idle water in its way before spewing its lip out and onto itself, sending a thunderous noise that sounded more like napalm exploding — the vibrations reaching the chassis of our car. I love the smell of napalm in the morning. The water wrapped along the underwater contour, while the offshore breeze sent the proverbial white-horse manes back out to sea in a stampede of fine mist. They floated back down slowly while the face of the wave — steep and emerald green — raced just in front of the peeling hollow lip. And this aqua game of cat and mouse continued faultlessly for a hundred metres or more. Meanwhile, behind it, and suddenly now aware of its fate, the second wave was beginning to do exactly the same, with the third, fourth and the fifth following on behind. All carbon copies of each other, toppling over helplessly with stored momentum like regimental soldiers being shot down one by one by one.

  We’d seen enough …

  ‘Let’s get out there bro!’ Mike sprung open the door.

  I followed, the cold morning air stealing a small percentage of my breath. I went around to the back of the car and met Mike, who was already shaking his wetsuit out. I reached in and grabbed mine, cursing as I realised it was still wet from its last outing — a hangover from being a lazy bastard. I psyched myself up and began tearing my clothes off in an attempt to put the rash vest and suit on without savouring the experience. I strained my muscles and clenched my teeth, growling like Dr Banner hulking out. Mike gave me a glance midway through inserting his arm to see what all the commotion was about. He shook his head. I jumped up and down on the spot to jump-start my internal furnace.

  We emptied our board bags of surfboards and started eagerly waxing them. The car was repacked and locked, and Mike hid the keys where everyone does. This was one of my favourite parts of surfing: the initial semi-run to the water’s edge. The excitement. The anticipation. The way I always start busting for a piss. It’s all on! But, sure enough, we got two metres away from the water and Mike suddenly stopped, shoved his board to the side and started doing quick press-ups.

  ‘Oh, come on bro! Surely you don’t have to stretch this time? The place is going to be crawling with others any minute.’

  ‘You go without me,’ he said calmly while he pulled his arm and wrapped it around his neck like a scarf, holding it there for so long I thought the wind had changed direction. ‘I’ll see ya out the back.’

  I looked out to sea. It was quiet due to a lull between sets. Back in the car park, two new vehicles were skidding to a stop and the occupants were mirroring our excitement. They still had to get changed though. I guessed I could afford a few seconds worth of limbering and conscience cleansing, although my insides were so cold it was debatable what good it would do. In the halls of my memory, Buck Shelford’s voice echoed: ‘Your muscles will snap like cold chewing gum.’ My Pa reckoned he was a legend, a real ‘hard bastard’. I laid my board on the stones, sat on my arse, and started mimicking Mike’s actions half-heartedly (Fuck me! How does he get his leg up there?). Like a sulking kid, I shared my time between staring out to sea and the progression of the new arrivals.

  The paddle out at this place is a challenge in itself, although not half as bad as the paddle in. If you want a place to drop the kids off, there’s safety to be found over the hill. The river-water temperature is colder than the sea so the initial shock of contact is not a true indication of what’s ahead. It’s like crossing the road too. The Mouth is the main route out to sea, with a width of only fifty metres or so. Slap a ten- or twelve-metre trawler in there and there’s not much room for anything else. Even a puny surfer on his fragile board. On a big swell like today, the traffic ain’t busy anyhow. The Mouth has a Too Dangerous regulation put on it and most of the captains and crew have no choice but to spend their day greasing neglected nipples or getting a new tattoo. Whatever. On days like today, only the most experienced of operators attempt the passage as the waves crash mercilessly in their paths. They sit at the entrance playing with the throttle with one hand and taking small nips of rum and brandy with the other, waiting for the right time. The right break. The perfect lull. They scratch their four-day growth and focus out to sea, all the while battling the incoming drift of the tide pushing them back up river. It’s a game to them. Played for years — hell, decades for some. That’s right, patience isn’t only played with cards and hospitals.

  The boat in front of us idled its diesel engine like a cat ready to pounce. If we attempted the paddle, we ran the risk of ending up around the propeller or, worse, being yelled at. So we stood at the bank and waited. I checked on the progress of the fresh meat. One of them was already wrapped in neoprene and swinging his leg-rope over his shoulder. Damn.

  On days like this, when The Great Huey Circus thunders into town, young and old alike arrive at the Mouth to get a few hours free entertainment. Roll up, roll up! See man and machine take on the might of Nature! Free parking for one and all! We didn’t care about that hype though. We just wished this show-hog would hurry up so we could enter the centre-ring ourselves.

  ‘This is going to be interesting,’ Mike said. ‘That’s Smokey Hart drivin’ that. He only just got his launchmaster’s licence the other day. Shit, dude’s probably never even been out in this size before.’

  ‘Is that Smokey? So that’s where he’s been. I heard he’d given it in and bailed to Wellington with his missus?’

  ‘Nah bro, she gave him the flick before she left. Caught him cheating with some bird, according to his uncle. I was with him last week. He told me Smokey was going all hard-out to get through his course. Wants to get his own boat and take people divin’ for a living.’

  ‘Another one, huh?’

  ‘Yep.’

  The engine roared into overdrive, sending a couple of seagulls on a nearby rock flapping into the air. It was time for him to make the breakthrough.

  But Mike looked concerned. ‘What’s he goin’ now for? There’s a set comin’ in around the point, the bloody idiot.’

  Comments like this freaked me out. How did he know that? Dude did it all the time — he had this amazing affiliation with the sea that crossed into a realm reserved exclusively for those who lurk in its depths. Like a given right, where humans have no business. I doubt Mike was ever properly placed in the human basket with the rest of us though; almost like he was accidentally dropped in the one with marine-life stencilled on it first, before someone threw him in the proper one. The guy had a gift. Mike didn’t read what the sea was doing; he knew what it was doing. Just by watching him surf it became quite clear. Most guys, including me, catch a wave, then paddle back out to the same spot and wait — the law of probability states another is bound to come there again. But not Mike; he’d move about the line-up like a solo gypsy, never returning to the same place twice — he knew exactly where the next wave was going to hit. And it did, sometimes up to a minute or so after he parked up. The peaks surging before him, serving wave after wave on a seafood platter. There’s no way he knew that! Truthfully, I wouldn’t be surprised if he just stood up one day and started walking on it.

  Out of jealous frustration in the past, I tried to tap into his secret. ‘Bro, how do you know a wave is coming there? C’mon, I could use the help.’ But his trance-like response was always the same: ‘Can’t you see it?’

  It would’ve been enough to make Cousteau become a landlubber.

  I looked out on the horizon, but naturally couldn’t see anything. The sea looked still enough, even from my experience with the surf. Obviously Smokey thought the same too as his vessel approached the river bar with speed.

  A set of rolling green suddenly sprang into view from nowhere as though they had been sitting under the water, watching, waiting for any virgin drivers at the helm. You could almost hear Smokey’s heart skip a beat, and the profanity spoken under his breath, as he abruptly became aware of his misjudgement. Three long, reaching, salty lines of peril raced towards a collision course with his bow.

  By now, he was too far out to retreat back to the safety of the river, and with no alternative. The six middle-aged passengers on the back were unaware of their impending doom as they chatted and laughed casually. Last Wednesday, when the brochure was dropped on their matai desks or received through Jetstream connections, it contained glossy pictures of men’s men happily holding giant tuna and beating their chests. It dripped with overflowing testosterone and male bonding — something a trip to Eden Park in the newest European sports car couldn’t compete with. Nowhere, though, did the brochure show waves of mass destruction salivating at the thought of tasty city folk. Oh yes, Huey knew that taste, and how to have it delivered to the front door.

  Without warning, the engine powered into another gear. Smokey made the desperate decision to take the small mountains head-on full steam ahead.

  Mike and I let out a groan each as the front of the boat sliced into the first of the trio, sending a mass of white water on either side. I raised my hand to block the sun; not that I was going to enjoy watching them be digested.

  The boat rose high into the air before crashing back down with a loud wallop. The motor over-revved but never ceased. The occupants suddenly became aware of something happening. Some of them fiddled with their lifejackets in a state of panic. The others struggled for something firm to hold on to, their laughter now substituted for confusion and unease.

  The second wave loomed even higher and gave a genuine threat of breaking.

  ‘He ain’t gonna make that!’ I claimed loudly, my voice going high-pitched like a twelve year old.

  The lip of the wave began its curl as the boat drove up the face, where it seemed to transform from a floating craft to an aeroplane taking off the ground. Smokey desperately tried to hold on to the pinned coated wheel. The front of the vessel exchanged the ocean for clear air to the point where there was more underbelly exposed than down in the water. It looked to be starting to cartwheel back onto itself. We heard the naked roar of the engine as the propeller emerged from out of the water. We stood in helpless shock. Another full car with half a dozen boards strapped to the roof pulled up to the park.

  Somehow the boat managed to keep balance, only to drop out of our sight behind the breaking wave, before finally reappearing over the last one of the set; we could see the silhouettes of Smokey’s customers congratulating, or comforting, themselves.

  ‘That bastard is going to get caught out one day,’ Mike said as he bent down and started tying his leg-rope to his left ankle. ‘Those tourists got their money’s worth out of that little antic.’ We checked for any more gambling captains heading out, and waded into the river. There had been rain upstream and the water showed the remnants of this; the dirt and sand flowing out to sea would determine the underwater bank structure, which ultimately controlled how the waves broke on the surface. Without these banks, the swell would merely crumble in close-out sections, rendering surfing useless, or frustrating at the best of times. This is why river-mouth waves are so special to us surfers — there is always some sort of bank generated that guides the breaking wave aesthetically. Always new substances being deposited with each outgoing tide or flood. Every day working for us. Naturally simple. Just the way we like it … Me and Mike had enjoyed some hell sessions here over time. The way these waves were breaking today held the promise of yet another one.

  The current of the river pushed us out to sea as we began paddling. It was just a matter of crossing over to the takeoff zone at the right spot of the trip. The water quickly started to turn into a scene of confusion and disorientation, splashing, sucking, twirling in our paths. The strong flow took us through it as though the river was escorting us. Mike was the first one to start making the tangent across to the other side. I followed a few seconds after. The water slowed and felt deep, with the safety of land a good distance away. Didn’t worry us though. We’d been here plenty of times.

  We sat on our surfboards looking into the direct sun, now above the horizon. I could feel it burning my eyes — the only drawback to our claim of first light. I was about to mention something about it to Mike, but when I glanced over to him he was sitting calmly looking out to sea with a wrinkle-free expression as though it was an overcast day. I turned to the horizon, this time feeling like I was fighting the effects of a sucked lemon.

  I found myself glancing back to the car for relief. Another vehicle of surfers was pulling up, while the second and third lot were starting to make their way towards, and out of, the river. Great. The joys of Saturday morning at the Mouth. Hasn’t anyone told them that surfing isn’t a team sport?

  ‘Here comes the crowd,’ I said, pointing over my shoulder with my thumb.

  Mike gave a quick glance back, shrugged his shoulders and smiled. ‘Ah well, what can ya do?’

  It’s all right for you. What about us human-folk?

  Mike suddenly swung his board around and began paddling as the first wave of a set lurched in front of him — naturally. Four sharp strokes, two kicks, and he was up to his feet in one fluid motion; the ten-foot face becoming steep, propelling him downward. Hitting the bottom of the wave, he turned in a strong arc, soaking up every cubic centimetre of rolling energy, and ascended back up the face as the lip begun to pitch out over itself. Stalling, he arched and buried his right hand deep into the wave, caressing it as a thick roof of recycling water curved over, hiding him inside like a bullet in a barrel. Three seconds … five … seven seconds later, he shot out, the wave fattening as he turned wide, grabbing the outside rail tightly and turning the nose back into the turbulence. The power, the spray, all results of years of perfecting. He hit the white water and turned back, finding the green momentum once again, this time pumping in a series of top-to-bottom turns as the wave neared its end in the shallows. He prepared for the climax, the critical part of the wave fully utilised, the wave now hollow and looking to close out. He bottom-turned once more, never taking his eye off the lip as he drove the board vertically towards the crashing sweet-spot. While he was airborne, the wave disintegrated in an eruption below. Someone hooted loudly, and he landed sweetly, the whitewater cushioning his impact.

  Then he was back down on his stomach, paddling out for the next, his modest nature hiding any quantity of stoke he may have had.

  I’ll never be able to surf as well as him. I’ll certainly never be able to bust my board off a wave, let alone land it. Tried it once; ended up falling backwards and shooting the board into the air without me — felt like a fuckin’ kook. Decided it’s not my style anyway. When Mike was teaching me to surf, the most important thing he’d say was, ‘No matter what Fin, make sure you have good STYLE. Doesn’t matter if all you can do is get to your feet and plane across the wave. Just do it with STYLE. Nothin’ worse than seeing surfers who think they’re honing their skills, with their arms and torso flapping around, looking more like they’re in a friggen drama class. Get your STYLE right and everything else will become a natural extension. Then, one day, you’ll find a sizey repertoire of moves at your disposal, all activated with the sharpness of a butcher’s blade, the control of a gymnast and the accuracy of Carter aiming for the two posts.’