Kirsty Eagar - Raw Blue

Penguin Books

RAW BLUE

Kirsty Eagar grew up on a cattle property in central Queensland. After studying economics, she worked on trading desks in Sydney and London before changing careers, wanting a life where she could surf every day. She travelled around Australia in a four-wheel drive, worked as a cook and personal trainer, and began writing fiction. Kirsty is married with two daughters and lives on Sydneys northern beaches.

www.kirstyeagar.com

RAW BLUE

Kirsty eagar

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First published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2009

Text copyright Kirsty Eagar, 2009

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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Thanks to Coastalwatch ( .

ISBN: 978-1-74-228640-2

Contents

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Coastalwatch Swell size 11.5 metres Swell direction E Certainly some surfable waves around today

Friday morning. Im heading down to the break, feeling antsy because I slept in. Id meant to surf early, but maybe its not such a bad thing. Getting there after nine means Ill miss the pre-work crew. Instead, Ill join the old boys, students and shift workers who have rearranged their lives to better suit their surfing. Theyre more relaxed about things, not jamming waves in. On weekdays people surf the break in shifts: the dawn service, the mid-morning slackers, the lunch-hour rush, the after-school grommet fest and the just-got-off-work party. When guys at the break ask me what I do, what theyre really asking is, how is it you can surf mid-morning on a weekday? How are you making it work? Thats the big question in surfing: how do you work less and surf more?

As I drive past Car Plus all the flags out front are being blown by a northerly, which is good because the break loves anything from the north and gets nasty in a southerly. Its a relief to know Ill be in the water soon. By the time I pull up in the top car park it feels like my stomach has been scooped out. I always feel like that until I get my first wave. Whether its good or not doesnt matter; Im put back into my body again.

I head over to the lookout spot, twirling the Lasers keys around my finger. Its the forty-ninth time Ive paddled out here. In the beginning I was nervous, but now Im reasonably sure that the whole clump of surfers wont turn around and order me out of the water. Besides, Im never the only blow-in, there are others. And Im female, so its easier for me. Outsider guys have it harder; the local guys drop in on them deliberately, teaching them a lesson. But only if they go to the arrowhead, where the waves peak first and the rides are the longest. If they know their place theyre left alone. I try not to look at people. I sit on my board and stare hard at the horizon like the next set is the most important thing in the world. Which it is.

Theres a guy standing on the bench seat at the lookout spot. The seats been bequeathed it says so on a plaque fixed to its back. Its in memory of someone who was a surfer and a friend. Two nice things.

I want to stand on the seat beside the guy so I can see, but I feel intimidated. Instead, I hover to the side where the grass is patchy from hundreds of surf checks a day. He doesnt give any indication that he knows Im there, which is unusual because people always look around when you walk up. If theyre local, they expect to see someone they know. If theyre not, they expect to see a local. Theyll usually give you a nod, but this guy stares out at the surf as if its the only real thing and the rest of the world is just advertising.

I feel like Ive interrupted a funeral and now I have to pretend Im not here. I stand on my tiptoes so I can just see the water over the scrubby vegetation behind the pine railings, then my gaze slides back to him.

The air around him is snap frozen. Hes in his mid-twenties, his face so shut off and wary I wonder whats happened to him. His skin is the sort that burns easily. The ridges of his ears are pink and freckled. They stick out a bit through his hair, which is light brown and lank. Its scraggy, seventies style; he hasnt had a cut for a while. Hes wearing old jeans, thongs and a white T-shirt, and he wouldnt be out of place in a pub or a TAB.

After hes walked off towards the car park, I take his place on the seat. Finally I have a clear view of the surf and I feel an electric charge. Its a glitter skin day. The ocean is a vivid emerald colour and the wind ruffles the wave faces so that they shatter the sunlight like glass. Seeing that glittering skin always tightens my throat with joy. Its stupid, but thats how I feel: joyous. I forget about the underbelly of things, my secrets, and I feel easy and free. I know that Im meant to stay on the surface and be happy. Just enjoy being alive.

Glitter skin days are my favourite kind of surf conditions.

On my walk back to the car I pass him. Hes pulling a shortboard out of the back of a battered metallic-blue Commodore station wagon and doesnt pay me any attention. I strip down to my bikini and pull on my spring suit. Im painting my face with zinc cream when I notice hes pulled his T-shirt off and hes wearing a white singlet underneath. Im surprised by that; it seems old-fashioned and for some reason I like it. I wonder what he smells like then I push the thought away, feeling like Ive swallowed a snake.

I make a deal with myself as I walk down to the Alley where the lagoon empties into the ocean and a rip runs alongside the rocks of the tidal pool, making for an easy paddle out I cant come in until Ive had ten waves.

The water is clean and glassy. I open my eyes while Im duck diving under the lines of foam and see the white water rolling overhead like storm clouds. There are a lot of bodies in the line-up. I paddle out with no real idea of where to go and somehow end up in the middle of the crows.

Faark , Davo. Whatd ya fark it up for?

Ya didnt, did ya? Faark .

Eeeeeuurgh! Up it, Bobby! Go son!

Faark . Good one, eh? Wave of the faarken day.

There are five of them clumped together in Alley Rights, on the inside of the arrowhead. Theyre zinc-faced, balding, tanned and wiry, and straight off a beer ad: A big faarken thirst needs a big faarken beer .

I float belly down on my board, just to their left. They hassle each other for everything coming through. Its funny. Occasionally two of them get up at the same time and the one on the inside chases the other one across, whooping and hooting. Theyre loving it, being out here together in their little club. Salty old cods.

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