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“Want to give me a hand?”
Rob’s not one for many words but grabs the scissors from the desk and sets about cutting through the wrapping.
Half a dozen framed images of me in various competitions over the years account for some of the items in the box. Some of the photos are pretty awesome, especially the ones of me surfing the bigger waves. When you’re out on the wave, you forget the scale of the damn thing.
“Wow, man. Insane.” Rob pulls one of them out.
“Yep. Jaws is insane. Here.” I rummage through a few of the smaller photos until I find the one I’m looking for.
This photo made me a fair amount of money. It was taken after my main sponsorship took off for the first time and set me up in Nazaré for the second season. The wave must have been about fifty-foot, and it was the first time I’d surfed one quite that big. The conditions, the training, everything seemed to align on that day.
Me, Bear, Archie, and Finnan hit some of the best waves of the season that day and felt as big as giants when we got back to shore.
I pull myself back to the present. “This is Nazaré. One of my favourite spots to surf.” I hand him the huge, framed artwork. The photo shows the power of the wave as it dwarfs the lighthouse on the cliff edge that looks out over the impressive swell. The monster wave looks like it’s about to swallow the tiny speck whole. But it doesn’t. I hold my nerve and ride the curve and energy of that wave as it breaks and races after me.
Of course, the photo only captures a second of the adventure—a second of the thrill—but it’s enough.
Rob holds it out to examine what I’m showing him, scrutinising it as if he’s challenging what his eyes are showing him, and looks at me.
“You’re the dot. The fool on the surfboard.”
“Yep. I told you I was a big wave surfer.”
“Yeah, but I thought that was your ego because you surfed when the swell was big. Not real big waves. Not professional.”
I chuckle and earmark the photo for the shop. You wouldn’t be able to tell it’s me without the story, but it’s awe-inspiring to see the kind of power Mother Nature can conjure for anyone, even if you aren’t into surfing.
“I travelled around the world to surf. Started out just backpacking but was in the right place at the right time to be picked up by some sponsors. That allowed me to chase bigger waves. I loved the adrenalin and the rush. The euphoria was a high that I’ve never matched and made chasing the next wave addictive. You always wanted the next biggest wave, and it became my life.”
“How come you’re not still doing it?”
“That’s a story for another day. Suffice to say, it’s not something you can do forever. And with any high-risk sport, you’ve got to be prepared to pay the price.” I pause and take a moment to look around my new life. “So, shop?” I point to a spot behind the counter.
“For sure, man. Hell, I’d be shouting about it if that were me.”
“Not my style. If people are curious, there’s plenty about me online. Help me get the rest of this stuff out. There’s some old sponsorship stuff, some magazines, signatures, and stuff I picked up on tour. I’ll move the bits I want upstairs. You can sort the rest for anything that might work for the shop, either as décor, prizes, or other random stuff, yeah?”
“Cool, man. Thanks.”
I leave Rob to it and head upstairs. The builders have been promising a final day for the last three now, pushing my famous patience to the limit. I want in. Properly. No more sleeping on the sofa or tripping over tools or other shit.
This will be my home, and I want to move in and make it that way.
Together with my boards, I’ve got a collection of things from storage I want to bring up, but they’re all on hold until they’ve finished the rooms. My fault, apparently. The renovations weren’t simple or straightforward, but I didn’t pay the contractor through the nose for delays or sloppiness.
The next day I stop in and grab my takeaway coffee. “Has Zennor been in today?” It’s not Molly behind the counter, and the girl looks at me with a deer-in-headlights expression on her face. “Pretty lady. Came back to town recently. Likes her coffee.”
She shakes her head as if making a point and shoves my cup towards me. “I’ll take a large latte to go as well.”
It’s a calculated move. I’ve not seen Zennor since the showdown where she shoved me in my place, but I’m not going to stay out of her way because of what she thinks. She’s going to have a hard time being mean when I bring her coffee. It might be small, but it’s a gesture. And I know that deep down, Zennor isn’t really mean, either. She didn’t become one of the prissy girls on the beach that pretended to be someone they were not.
At least I fucking hope not.
The girl passes me the second coffee, and I tap my card on the payment device and leave. I head up the path towards Zennor’s and go over some of the reactions I might encounter. This is a familiar path I’ve been down. A hundred times before I ever came back, I’d picture what would happen if we’d meet up again—what we might say to each other. And, right up until the point where she tried to ghost me, I lived my fantasy.
Drinks. Date. Sex.
As reunions go, it was fucking textbook.
