Breathing Under Water Read online

  Around us, the car park is dead, trees are still, and for a moment it is only us in the world, six kids lost, as if nothing exists beyond that jagged line of gums. There’s a rustle in the bushes as possums growl in argument and the air smells of damp grass. I brush loose strawberry blonde strands behind Mia’s ear. Spreading her jacket on the ground, I help lower her down to rest and she closes her eyes.

  In spite of Ben’s and Jake’s banter, all I hear is the crunch of peanuts as the boy beside me munches on a nutty choc bar. From the corner of my eye, I see a grey Converse edge closer toward me. I hear the slosh and slurp of chocolate milk from a carton and feel his shoulder brush against mine.

  Mia moans, rubbing her stomach. ‘Vego pies from servos are a bad idea.’

  ‘Don’t you know not to take candy from strangers?’ Ben teases as she sits back up, dry-retching. ‘Honestly, he just wanted to get into your fairy knickers.’

  Her body crumples. ‘Did not …’ she mutters.

  Ben sighs, shuffles across to her and rubs her back as she empties the rest of her insides onto the bitumen.

  When Mia catches her breath, she wipes her mouth and tells him, ‘I’m a catch, a perfect ten.’

  A fleeting smile crosses Ben’s lips as he wraps one arm around her shoulder.

  Three

  WALK ON WATER

  ‘Oh, Dad, you shouldn’t have … this place is way out of our budget!’

  My dad grunts, pushing Ben through the door. I scurry in behind them and slide the coffee table, topped with dated celebrity mags, to the side of the living space, making room for our boards and bags on the floor. Timmy, the young boy Walker Surfboards has just sponsored, hauls bulging paper bags, packed with groceries for the week, onto the kitchenette’s tabletop. He’s half Ben’s size yet carries twice as much from the car into the motel, looking over his shoulder repeatedly to check whether my dad is watching. Mia does little to help unload the car, instead spending her time skipping around the kitchen on the small square cut of lino floor, putting away the food.

  ‘Really, Mia?’ Dad says, and I turn to notice the way she has arranged our refrigerated items from tallest to smallest, and bundled the items in the pantry into groups according to colour. There are a few pieces of fresh fruit, spelt sourdough, fig jam, Vegemite and homemade muesli bars, but Mum would keel over if she saw the packets of instant noodles, chips, sugary cereals, lollies and cheap ‘do it yourself’ Mexican family pack Dad permitted.

  Mia giggles. ‘What?’ She bats her blonde eyelashes and I catch Ben’s sheepish grin.

  When we’ve settled in, Dad’s mobile rings. ‘Garry, mate, how are you! Yeah, we just got here … Ben, Grace, Timmy and the unit … Nah, Mel stayed at home … I’d love to … The Brownlow Pub? See you soon.’ Dad throws on a coat and ducks out while the four of us kick back on the couch. I turn on the local news to see a young reporter, red hair flying beneath charcoal clouds, standing on the sand dunes at MacAndrews beach, relaying the weather forecast for the week. We lean forward as if she’s a fortune teller, reading the ocean swell like the lines on our palms.

  ‘Great news for the directors of the annual Black Wave titles, the largest junior surfing competition on the east coast, boasting the best up-and-coming surfers in both the amateur and professional divisions. Be sure to come and watch the action unfold, starting just two days from now on Tuesday, and finishing with what is expected to be an epic day of finals on Sunday.’

  ‘I told you,’ Ben says, breaking open a pack of potato chips. The scent of lime and cracked pepper fills the air. ‘That storm way down in the Southern Ocean … the waves will be pumping this week!’ His fingers shake with excitement as he shovels chips into his mouth. We each take a handful, except for Timmy, who draws two chips from the packet.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I whisper. ‘The food is for all of us.’

  Smiling, he nods, reaching in for more.

  Ben pushes his broad shoulders back into the somewhat itchy cushions and spreads his legs wide, taking up half the couch, crowding Mia against the fat armrest.

  ‘You’re squishing me!’ She squirms, stands and then plants herself on his lap. ‘That’s better!’

  ‘Piss off! Your arse is so bony!’

  ‘Deal with it,’ she sneers, wriggling her bum on his lap, driving her sit bones into his thighs.

  Ben grins and shoves her off his knees. Landing on a bag of wetsuits, she is still for a moment before rising to her feet and kicking him in the shins. I recline against a cushion, settling in to watch a game that has entertained me since childhood. Timmy however, never before exposed to the pair’s antics, is shocked, his eyes widening as Ben flies off the couch and tackles her to the floor. The twelve-year-old watches them play fighting, unsure as to whether anyone is actually getting hurt.

  It’s a new address, but we’ve been here a thousand times before. Budget accommodation – close to the competition is preferable. This place has cream walls with green architraves and skirting boards, a couch still with the impression of its former tenant’s bum, a Monet print hung on the wall above the box TV in a tacky frame spray-painted gold and linen that smells of lemon wash powder, wrapped tight around plastic-covered mattresses. Mia takes the top bunk, and I slide into the shadows beneath. I fluff my pillow and roll onto my back, staring up at wooden slats. Her every movement on the bed above me makes the wire frame clank against the wall.

  ‘Are you nervous?’ she says.

  Ben rolls onto his side on the bunk bed he and Timmy are sharing on the opposite wall. He props himself up on one elbow, his silhouette that of an Athenian royal. ‘Nope.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you, Ben. Timmy, are you nervous?’

  There’s a moment of grey silence. ‘A little,’ he admits.

  Timmy tells us it’s his first time out of state – he’s been to Port Lawnam, and up the coast to the city a few times, but this is the furthest he’s ever travelled from Marlow, and although he doesn’t say it, I know this is the furthest he’s ever travelled without his mum. ‘But I’m excited.’

  What kid wouldn’t be? Picked from the thousands of keen grommets who attempt the Australian waves, chosen to surf for the famous Walker Surfboards. Better yet, taken away to a major surf competition with the man behind the sanding mask … Ray Walker himself. He’s the hard-faced surfing legend, the man whose attention and affection are highly sought after but not easily won. And it doesn’t matter who you are in the fight for his respect. Sharing blood has made no difference.

  ‘What about you, Grace?’ Mia rattles the bed frame.

  Outside, in the middle of the holiday park, fibreglass fish statues in the pool spit water out of their mouths into shells. Cold splashes in the dark.

  ‘Grace?’

  After a while, she gives up, deciding that I am already asleep.

  ‘Good luck, Grace,’ she says, handing me my competitor’s rash vest, still wet from its use in the previous heat. Wearing the volunteers’ T-shirt, this girl smells of the frangipani spray they’re handing out in the girls’ complimentary competition bags. We’ve been introduced before, but her tousled blonde hair and beaded leather bracelets are nothing out of the ordinary in this crowd. Dad has introduced me to plenty of these volunteer girls, plenty of directors, plenty of sponsors, plenty of judges …

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, not taking the risk of getting her name wrong, instead smiling with closed lips.

  Wandering down the path, through the dunes, to the beach, I hear the shuffle of sand as someone sprints after me. Ben, panting and red faced, stops beside me. ‘You don’t need luck, Gracie, you’re going to kill it.’ He hugs me tight before jogging back up to the competition tents.

  Reaching the shoreline, I plant my feet in the wet sand and listen to the deep cry of the ocean. Down the beach my fellow competitors do cartwheels, stretch to touch their toes, twist their spines, flap their arms, jump on the spot, jiggle their legs. One is wearing headphones that cover half the sides of her head. I see another
kissing a block of wax before she rubs a final coat over her deck.

  I scratch the sand, digging down until I sink my hands into an icy pool of water. Out the back, waves break well over the heads of young surfers, churning on the sandbank in the impact zone. Salty waves crunch, the power reverberating through the seabed, up the shore, through the sand. I feel the ocean’s energy charge my limbs. Electric currents shoot up my arms and set my collarbones on fire.

  Blaring over the loudspeaker, the commentator calls five minutes remaining for the heat in the water. Myself and the three other girls in coloured rash vests charge down to the shore dump. We leap over the first roll of foam and duck-dive the second. Grey icy water washes my hair back.

  We reach the line-up, and after a few minutes the horn blows. I watch the two progressing through and the two knocked out of the former heat turn and ride on their stomachs to shore. Thirty seconds later, a second horn blows, and with fingers that shake, I set my watch to count down twenty minutes. Moments later, a set approaches and I grasp that the others are a good ten metres away. I’m in position. I spin my board beneath me and drive forward as the wave builds behind me.

  On the beach, the commentator traces my actions with words, describing my movements to the crowd of onlookers.

  ‘Only seconds into this heat, we see Grace Walker in yellow, dropping down the face of this left … That’s got to be at least twice overhead for this young girl, don’t you think, Mark?’

  I crouch, touch my hand to the water, pivot and then drive up toward the lip.

  ‘Sure is, Adam, and WHOA! Grace absolutely annihilates the top of that section!’

  Bouncing off the foam, I descend and lay into another heavy bottom turn.

  ‘Such style from this girl. The pocket rocket proving yet again, big things come in small packages!’

  I fly through three more sections, whacking the lip on each, before kicking off the back and paddling out through the rip to make the line-up again.

  ‘Just like her brother and dad, the celebrated Ray Walker, this girl undeniably, walks on water.’

  A smile squeezes my cheeks as I race back to the other girls in coloured rashies, bobbing out the back. ‘And here comes her score, a whopping 9.12 out of a possible perfect 10. It’s a solid score to kickstart Grace’s campaign for the week.’

  In the moment before I duck-dive my next wave, I imagine my dad, chuffed, and wonder how wide his grin is.

  When I reach the line-up again, I make eye contact with one of the other girls. I’ve surfed against her a hundred times before. Erin, scorning with a puffed chest. There is a lull, and no decent waves come through for a good five minutes. When a set finally approaches, I lie down on my board and paddle into position but soon hear the splashing of arms and feet, thrashing the water. She pushes past, almost knocking me off my board. Erin makes the inside and steals the ride. A second wave approaches, but before I can straighten my torso on my board, another competitor, Jamie, shoves me to the side and takes off. By the time the third wave arrives, I barely manage two strokes before Ash drives forward and jumps to her feet in front of me. Alone, and with no waves on the horizon, I sink into the grey.

  I trudge over dank dead seaweed back to the competitors’ tent. Handing back the sandy rash vest, I can hear the contest director talking to Dad in the next tent.

  ‘Ray, she surfs better than almost every girl in the competition – everyone can see it … She just doesn’t have the confidence. Grace doesn’t have the fight like the others do. I mean, she was ripping on that first wave, the highest score in the heat – it’s just a shame she couldn’t back it up.’

  The girl at the desk takes my rash vest and gives me my show bag. ‘Better luck next time.’

  Mia finds me at the outdoor shower, with a towel in one hand and a hot chocolate in the other. ‘Ah, well,’ she sighs. ‘We’ve got the rest of the week now to enjoy the eye candy.’ She glances at three boys strolling past with boards and unzipped wetsuits. ‘Oh my god!’ she mouths. ‘I just don’t know where to look!’

  I shed my black skin and feel the sting of the icy shower. When I step out she wraps my towel around my shuddering body and my hands around the hot chocolate. Carrying my board and dripping wetsuit, Mia leads me to the marquee we’re sitting beneath. I put on dry undies beneath the privacy of a towel around my waist and rug up with trackies, uggs and a jumper. Together we plant ourselves down in our camping chairs on damp grass, gazing out at the next heat in the water, with hot cocoa running down our throats.

  ‘What do we have here?’ Mia reaches down and grabs my show bag from my feet. Sifting through it she pulls out a small bottle of frangipani spray, a necklace with a pink pendant shaped like a hibiscus flower, a Black Wave Surf Titles magnet for the fridge, a 10 per cent off voucher for the local surf shop, a ticket to win a new surfboard, a surf mag and some sunscreen and moisturiser samples courtesy of the competition sponsors. While she inspects the freebies, I swirl my hot chocolate around my mouth with my tongue, letting a tiny bit seep out, warming my purple lips.

  ‘Ew, stop it,’ she demands. ‘You look like you’re drooling brown saliva.’

  Her smartphone buzzes. Immediately, she types her password to unlock the screen, holding it close to her face. ‘EEE!’ Mia bounces in her chair.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He messaged me!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That boy!’

  I wait until she’s stopped bouncing.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Eric, the one from Friday night!’

  ‘The one who gave you absinthe?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘That made you vomit …’

  Ignoring me, she punches the mobile keys. In celebration, she puts on the necklace. It matches her pink freckles.

  ‘It looks pretty,’ I say.

  ‘It would look pretty on you too if you would wear jewellery.’

  I shrug as someone’s arms wrap around me from behind.

  ‘Aww, Gracie,’ Ben says, squeezing the air out of me. ‘Who cares if you’re in the comp or not? That first wave was epic!’

  Dad walks under the marquee, giving me a nod and a weak smile.

  ‘Hey!’ Ben shakes my shoulders, whispering in my ear. ‘That wave was epic, Gracie, okay? Nothing else matters.’

  In the hours between Timmy’s final and the prize giving, I cannot count the number of times he checks his watch.

  ‘The prize giving is at two, yeah?’

  ‘Yes, kid!’ Dad says, quick to turn his attention back to Ben, surfing his final.

  The loudspeaker blares, ‘And taking to his feet here is Ben Walker in the red, and oh! He kicks off the back of that one.’

  Dad is nodding, claps his hands together, speaking softly under his breath, ‘That’s it, son. Come on, Ben.’

  ‘Wise decision there from the young seventeen-year-old. With two solid scores beneath his belt, he could see that wave didn’t have the potential to better his position in first place.’

  ‘You’re right, Adam – it just goes to show his maturity as a competitive surfer, and haven’t we seen him evolve?’

  ‘We certainly have. Right from his early start in the grom comps, this boy has been a force to be reckoned with.’

  ‘Ray Walker would be very proud right now, but of course this heat is not over yet as we see Connor in the blue pick a cracking right-hander …’

  ‘Answering back on the very next wave we see Ben laying deep into his bottom turn, he comes up, stalls, and OHH!’

  Ben disappears behind a curtain of water.

  ‘Will he make it out? Wait for it …’

  Suddenly the wave spits and Ben comes flying out of the barrel, executing two impressive turns before the horn blows to signal the end of the heat. The commentators go crazy, the crowd along the fence line applauds, and I see Dad shaking hands with one of Ben’s sponsors.

  Timmy takes second place in the grom division and doesn’t let go of his trophy – or his grin.
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br />   When Ben is announced as having taken out the under-18s division with unanimous first-place scores from every judge, he takes the microphone. He thanks Mum and Dad for their ongoing support before rattling off a list of sponsors. Afterward, he thanks Mia for letting him eat the last packet of instant noodles and for spitting on his board for good luck. ‘Disgusting but it seems to have worked.’

  Chuckles ripple through the crowd.

  Finally, his eyes find me through the sea of people and honeycomb softens. ‘Most of all, thank you to my twin sister … my best friend, Gracie.’

  Handing back the microphone, Ben takes his $1500 bank cheque, raising it high above his head as someone shakes a bottle and sprays him with fizzy drink. Onlookers applaud and whistle, yet Ben holds his gaze on me.

  On the podium, Ben thanks me in silence, in a way only I can understand. A lump grows in my throat and soon I am clapping louder than anyone else.

  The four of us kids are all woken up when Dad pulls off the highway just outside of Spring Valley, gravel and orange earth crunching beneath our tyres. A bushman with white stubble, an Akubra, hard leather boots and an oilskin jacket sits on a weathered chair by the gate to his property. Piled on the rusty wagon beside him are trays of peaches, apples and nectarines.

  But Mia is looking in the other direction. ‘Whoa,’ she says, pointing across the highway. ‘Look at that.’

  Turning around, I see trees stripped naked, blackened limbs, torched bodies on ashen earth. Without foliage, I can see for miles through the forest, all the way to the mountains. A wave of grief washes over me. I wonder how many creatures caught fire.

  Dad forks money from his pocket for the fruit, gazing across the highway to the scorched bush. ‘Bloody hell, it’s amazing it didn’t jump the road.’

  ‘Believe me,’ the bushman says, ‘every fire truck within a fifty-kilometre radius was on this highway.’

  ‘Were you still here?’

  ‘They evacuated everyone in the area, but my wife and I stayed.’ He carries a tray of peaches to the Rodeo ute. ‘I was born on this property … I’ve spent my whole life breathing through these trees. This place is my home. You don’t abandon that.’ He shakes Dad’s hand as we climb back into the ute. ‘Looks bleak now but bush always grows back … I’ll stand by it until it does.’