Scott had been reclining across one of the roof terrace loungers in the surf school in Taghazout, his body recumbent across the width, his legs draping over the opposite arm. Now, he sits bolt upright.
“What???”
“It’s not as if you’ve been around much to check in on me,” she adds, as though Heather McVey has planted a worm hole in his daughter’s ear as well as his own. And there’s no disputing the little edge of frustration in Brianna’s message, implying he isn’t a good enough dad.
In an ideal world, Scott would be magnanimous, express gratitude towards Heather, and enquire more deeply about hisdaughter’s welfare. But somehow … somehow … he finds the conversation taking an altogether different, unchartered course.
“Well, you’ll need to get me her number,” he texts.
“Whose number? Heather’s? Why?”
“You know why. To arrange a transfer.”
There’s a herald of grey dots as a message is compiled, deleted, reformed.
“No Dad. I know you don’t like us relying on other people, but Georgia and I have sorted it. We’re going to trade meals and stuff.”
Maybe it’s silly, but the last thing he will allow is for himself or his daughter to become somehow indebted to that woman. Brianna, of course, senses this.
“What’s your problem with her? She’s just a kind person trying to help. She’s asked us to keep an eye out for Trey at Genealogy Society tonight. What’s so wrong about her looking out for us?”
What’s his problem, indeed? The question he’s been asking himself for days. It’s not something he can honour with a response.
“Just get me the number, Brianna.”
Muttering under his breath, Scott stomps to the shower. And as the warm water washes the salt tracks from his abdomen and the sand grains from his hair, Brianna’s question ricochets around his brain. Other than the blindingly obvious about her parenting style, whatishis problem with Heather?
***
It’s customary for all surf camp attendees to gather in the lounge area after dinner and review any progress made that day with Hamid, the lead instructor, and Caleb, the photographer. Scott can’t imagine a more knowledgeable coach than Hamid, who’drepresented Morocco in international competitions until a few years ago before retiring from the sport.
The first shots shared are of the newlyweds who are making Taghazout their home for the next four weeks. Hamid points out Verity’s improved posture and the way her new husband is now stacking his weight over his knees. The other course participants, Scott included, clap encouragingly, appreciating the hard-earned progress. Verity beams and shares a supportive glance with her partner.
Scott’s pictures are next, and it’s clear, even to an inexperienced eye, that he’s becoming an accomplished and confident surfer. Today’s photograph is even better than the one from the day before when he’d caught a wave just as it was breaking and stood for a few seconds before crashing headfirst into the surf. The image shows perfect posture, fantastic positioning, and breaking waves against a bright blue cloudless sky. Whoops and cheers go around the room as Hamid and Caleb stride towards him, their arms raised for a high five.
‘First on the Shisha pipe tonight is Scott. Look at that form! Way to go man!’
And this is it. This is the reason Scott is here, surrounded by thrill seekers and other adventurers because here there is a sense of purpose, of achievement, of support and encouragement. Here he can find the space to both be in the moment and, most crucial of all, here he has permission not to think.
They practice some yoga, watch the sunset, then sit in a misshapen circle on the roof terrace chatting. A guitar is passed around the group for anyone who wishes to play, and a Shisha pipe follows suit for those who wish to partake. One of the Surf camp attendees, a hardcore Hyrox competitor, has recently returned from the Silk Road Mountain Race in Kyrgystan, and Scott mines him for details about the most challenging, epiccycle rides in the world, and the possibility of being race-ready in two years. Scott always likes to have a new adventure in his sights, and this just might be the next one. It will serve the purpose of distracting him, that’s for sure.
It's only later, once most of the camp attendees have turned in for the night, that Scott allows himself to reflect on life back in the UK.
‘You okay, man?’ Hamid asks as he passes with a silver tray filled with empty tea glasses.
Scott’s instinct to deflect and minimise kicks in automatically.
‘Yeah. Good. Great. I’m loving the vibe here,’ he says, hearing the flatness in his own voice.
Hamid places the tray on the carved wooden table and sits on the cushioned bench beside him.
‘But?’
Scott stares across the roof terrace and out to the blackness of the ocean.
‘I guess I’m wondering if I’m that good a parent,’ he says, his voice scratchy.
Hamid reaches over and squeezes his knee.
