James groans. “Copy.”
“He loves doing cutbacks at the foot of the wave. He’ll zoom straight down the face just to get to the bottom and then stay there to surf at the base of the wall. Virginia judges liked it because the waves there aren’t huge to begin with and it let him do some nice trick moves in the whitewater, but judges here want to see you take advantage of the pipeline. That’s your specialty, just as long as you can drop in before he snakes in on you. And he will—”
“Oh, wonderful. Thanks.”
“—try. He will try.”
James closes his eyes and runs both hands through his hair before looping his fingers at the back of his neck, breathing deep and slow. Sydney watches, transfixed, as James’ chest rises and falls beneath his own t-shirt covering his warm skin.
He wants to slip his head under the shirt and rub his face against the hair on James’ chest and breathe in the smell at the base of his neck, under his arms, in the crooks of his elbows. The desire is so intense it startles him—this sudden need to possess, to be possessed, and he only just kissed him for the first time yesterday goddamn morning.
“What are you thinking about?” James suddenly asks.
Sydney hadn’t realized he’d been quiet for so long, his monologue long forgotten. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that question?”
James rolls his neck once on his shoulders to crack it. “I’m thinking about being scared shitless to go up against O’Brien on the Pipeline in an hour. And also that I want to crush his ass. Your turn.”
Sydney’s chest clenches tightly against the words that want to come spilling out his mouth. That he doesn’t know how he’ll breathe when James gets on a plane tomorrow and leaves. That he had it all planned out to take James over to the east side of the island tomorrow to a little place where he knew he could buy James a strawberry milkshake, but then he found out James’ flight leaves first thing in the morning, and they won’t have time. That finding James Campbell on that pier was more life altering than the first time he ever popped up on a board and rode a wave into the shore.
That James is about to win and go on with his life, and Sydney will just have to quietly go back to only ever being called Danny Moore.
He gathers his aviators and his keys so that they can leave the car and head back down to the beach, ignoring the dull, dreading ache in his chest.
“I’m thinking that you’re about to surf like hell,” he finally says, forcing out a calm confidence he sure as hell doesn’t feel, and James nods once with a small, grateful smile on the corner of his lips before opening the door of the Jeep to the rushing noise of the real world.
~
“—with a final three-wave score of a whopping 27.1, Terry Russell just proved that he is definitely the one to beat in this Billabong Finals. Is that a Billabong record?”
“Moore finished last year with twenty-seven even, so yes!”
“Right on, Russell! Gonna make Moore have to break a sweat next year!”
“What a performance, folks. Eight full rides, beautiful clear barrels, epic speed and a hang ten right at the end there to rack up the extra points . . . Georgie Davis surfed the set of his life, but looks like even that wasn’t enough to come out ahead of Russell today.”
“Gotta feel bad for Davis, man. 25.8 is the best he’s put up in his career, but of course it had to be in the same Finals round where Russell seemed to pull together every ounce of strength he had and absolutely demolished that set—such an ace performance.”
“Davis didn’t even really have a chance from that first swell, you know.”
“Right on there, man.”
“Now Russell’s in the hot seat—you think he’s praying this second Finals heat goes badly?”
“Who wouldn’t? He’s sitting on the Billabong title right now and hoping one of these next two competitors readying themselves on the start line doesn’t snatch it from him.”
“And those two surfers are Angelino Jimmy Campbell and Duke O’Brien all the way from the faraway lands of the UK.”
“What a matchup! Who woulda thought?!”
“Campbell had a solid run yesterday in his Wild Card heat, but man did he surprise us all this morning!”
“He had a radical set this morning, pure magic. No other way to put it. Not sure how the hell he knew that rip tide wasn’t as strong as we all thought, but man did he take advantage of it.”
“He’s gotta be feeling those monster waves in his legs now, though. Gotta be tired. O’Brien lucked out with his semi-final, as we all saw.”
“That’s right—small waves, perfect for his trick moves, and two fine surfers who caved to some harsh injuries. It’s just about the perfect recipe for a surfer like Duke O’Brien to get a Finals seat without breaking a sweat.”
“I dig it. Gotta admit, though, I’m bummed we aren’t gonna get to witness O’Brien versus Moore.”
“Now that would be the match of the century! The true battle of the giants. I think I’d have to split my life savings in half and bet on both.”
“Let’s pray to those gods out there that O’Brien decides to take on Waimea next week, then.”
“Nope—look at O’Brien out there. He’s shaking his head. Even Danny Moore isn’t crazy enough to surf the Pipeline and Waimea right in a row.”
“Damn. Such a let down . . .”
“You can cry about it later, brother. Now, though, we’ve got about five minutes until this last Finals heat of your 1976 Billabong Pipeline Masters—let’s talk strengths. Jimmy Campbell.”
“Campbell’s been having a hell of a month—just made it out of qualifiers about three weeks ago at the ISF and already he’s showing us all he deserves to be here with the pros.”
“That’s right, dude. Went from placing top ten and top five in some local SoCal competitions, did a few as far as San Diego from what I hear, but beyond that, he hasn’t surfed outside that circuit. And we all know it’s a whole different ballgame surfing international waters.”
“Makes it hard to talk about what we’ll see from him here. He’s definitely on the older side for the surfers we see here on the Pipeline—it’s a punishing stretch of beach we got here for the old bones. He’s shown he can use some killer strategy against his opponents, and he sure as hell can hold his own against the big wave surf we’ve got here along the Banzai, but beyond that I have no idea what to expect from him up against a competitor like O’Brien, and, like you said, he’s gotta be feeling the ache from that first round . . .”
“Sheer tenacity from O’Brien—that’s what we’re gonna see.”
“He’s had a wild last two seasons leading up to that Virginia Beach victory—”
~
“So this is it,” Sydney thinks to himself. “This is how I’m going to die.”
There can’t possibly be a way for him to survive the nerves roiling through his body—that his heart was somehow made to withstand the beats currently thudding explosions through his chest.
He tunes out the droning, pointless babble coming from the announcers and tries to eliminate everything but the sound of the waves, desperate for the steady rhythm of the breaks to try and slow his racing heart. The incoming swells are some of the largest they’ve seen all weekend, booming across the shore and roaring with whitewater and spray. Once, the sight would have thrilled him, burning with adrenaline through his core. But now it only serves to make his skin feel too tight for his bones, his throat aching and dry. Those waves aren’t meant for him.
His eyes find James where he stands next to O’Brien near the starting line. To any one of the hundreds of spectators flocking to the beach to see this Finals heat, James Campbell probably appears utterly calm. He stands ready in his full wetsuit with his waxed board by his side and a wet towel around his neck, leaning forward to hang in a stretch between his open legs and calmly bobbing up and down like he has all the time in the world.
To Sydney, he looks anything but calm.
From the moment
they’d stepped out of the Jeep and started walking towards the sand, James a careful fifty feet in front of him, Sydney had watched helplessly as each step closer to the beach brought a little more tension back into James’ frame. The body that had been so strong and open as they’d held each other and kissed in the shade. Those same arms that had held him close in loose, sleepy warmth just that morning in the quiet comfort of his bed.
There’s an undeniable thrill in the back of his mind at the realization that he alone in this sea of people knows the clues to reading the secrets hidden in the lines of James’ body. That he alone has felt the raw power of those arms against his own skin, and that he alone knows that this man standing calmly on the shoreline, like he’s simply waiting in line to buy groceries, holds a dangerous, conquering strength in every inch of his limbs.
That he alone knows the texture of the scar hiding beneath his wetsuit. That he alone can call him simply “James.”
In a flash of panic, he realizes that James can’t easily see him from where he’s standing. He quickly scans the beach, knowing he only has a matter of minutes to find the perfect spot so that James can easily find him from the waves, when he hears his name cackle across the sand over the mic.
“—get Danny Moore up here to tell us his predictions for the Final!”
“Wouldn’t be a Billabong without our reigning Champion!”
Dread settles in Sydney’s gut with a sickening lurch as he looks over his shoulder and sees that half the beach is expectantly staring at him, stuck in an awkward standstill between wanting him to do something and wanting the heat to finally begin.
Sydney’s just about to raise up a hand and simply shake his head no when he realizes that this is his last chance to speak to James in the two minutes before he’ll run out into the waves. That this may be the last time he’ll ever see James Campbell surf while knowing that James would actually want to hear Sydney’s voice.
With a sharp nod, he walks back towards the announcers, zigzagging through the sea of lounging crowds and beach towels. He stands stiffly beside the two guys he recognizes from last year and shoves his hands in his pockets.
“So Danny, care to settle the rumors?”
“Yeah, man, fill us in. Why aren’t you surfing here this year?”
Sydney takes a deep breath and clears his throat, fighting with himself not to stare across the crowds at the back of James’ head where he waits for the airhorn to start his heat.
“Timing just wasn’t right. I need to focus on Waimea.”
“You heard it here, folks, looks like Danny Moore really is going for that world record!”
“Well, obviously. Everybody surfing Waimea is going for the record.”
“Right, of course, but—”
“That’s the whole point of doing it.”
The second announcer awkwardly clears his throat, and Sydney wants to kick himself for not being able to act cool and casual for just once in his life.
The announcer tries again. “Maybe later we can go over how funky those Waimea waves are gonna be. You can convince O’Brien over there to join you. But, for now . . . thoughts for this Final? You know these waves better than anyone.”
Sydney appreciates being thrown a bone, but can also still hear the faint insincerity hiding behind their cheerful words—the wavering undertone of disappointment that they aren’t currently chatting with literally any other top surfer on the beach. Sydney flashes a desperate glance towards the starting line and sees that James is entirely in his own head, gazing out at the waves with seemingly no idea that Sydney’s voice is even echoing across the sand.
He clears his throat again and bends over to make his voice louder in the mic, sending up a silent prayer to who-knows-what that this plan will somehow work. To his momma’s God.
“You’ve asked me to predict the surf and the round, but I’ll skip all that and tell you the winner of the whole thing.”
The announcer’s brows raise. “Oh, right on, man. Ok, give it to us!”
“Jimmy Campbell. Obviously,” Sydney says in his clearest voice.
He watches James’ head perk up at the sound of his name.
“Alright, dude, you can’t leave us hanging. Gotta explain that one!”
“Yeah, man, I don’t think any of us is doing him a disservice to still call Campbell the underdog here. I mean, he’s gotta beat both O’Brien and Russell’s massive score.”
“This just because he beat you back in Hermosa?”
Sydney fights with himself not to audibly scoff. “Of course not. Russell put up an alright score, but he got all his points just by throwing in tricks at the very end of his rides. O’Brien’s gonna chase after everything that comes at him, whether it’s a smooth barrel or not. Campbell’s the only surfer here today with enough experience to know when to wait.”
“Enough experience you say—but he hasn’t even been pro a whole season.”
“Yeah man, he only came on the scene two years ago, so—”
“That doesn’t mean he hadn’t touched a surfboard before then,” Sydney cuts in. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”
He can read in every inch of James’ body that he’s listening. Intently. The clock ticks down to thirty more seconds before the airhorn, and desperation floods Sydney’s mind. He hasn’t said enough. Hasn’t done enough. Hasn’t told James Campbell what he fiercely needs him to know.
Didn’t kiss him one last time back in the Jeep before it was too late.
“Look at that, thirty seconds! We’re just about ready to start here, folks. Moore, last thoughts on your underdog choice today?”
Sydney clears his throat and allows himself to look directly at James, remembering the feel of his warm, firm skin against the pads of his fingertips. The blue of his eyes juxtaposed with the white sheets of Sydney’s bed.
“My prediction isn’t wrong,” Sydney says, hoping no one else can hear the shaking in his voice. “I’m more confident of this than any competition I’ve even surfed in.”
“Wild claims, Moore. Keepin’ it real, that’s for s—”
“Far out! What makes you say that?”
Sydney takes a precious few seconds and closes his eyes. He sees the man he saw that day on the pier, so small and lost compared to the man standing now on the starting line, exuding a steady, fierce strength. He opens his eyes just as the back of his throat starts to close up, and he wants . . . God, he wants to reach out across the sand towards James Campbell with his fingers, hoping to grasp just a ghostly wisp of his same air.
“Jimmy Campbell will be the next Billabong champion,” he answers, voice steady. “It’s simple. O’Brien’s going out there today to get his spot at World’s, and we all saw Russell lay down his usual tricks, but Ja—Jimmy Campbell is . . . Campbell is treating this like a whole lot more than a game.”
“Man, well there you have it folks. Danny Moore keeping it real, predicting underdog Jimmy Campbell for the win. I don’t think I’m the only one shocked! We’ll just have to see if he’s—”
And the announcers go on blabbering about how Danny’s gone and said another one of his ridiculous, cryptic one-liners, and the crowd has turned breathlessly to the starting line where the two surfers are lined up ready to race with their boards held under their arms, and Danny Moore is well and forgotten, lost in the hum of energy across the beach.
And in the last five seconds before the airhorn blares that will inevitably rip James away from him for good, James turns back and finds Sydney immediately with his eyes, and Sydney gasps at the realization that crashes through his body.
Sydney knows, more strongly than anything he’s ever known in his life, that he is in love with James Campbell.
The horn sounds, blasting across the waves, and James doesn’t even flinch this time as he sprints out into the ocean to a roaring cheer from the crowd. Sydney stands alone in the middle of the chaos, salty wind rushing at his back, and the spray on his face, and he feels a piece of his chest be dr
agged out to sea towards the largest swells on the face of the earth, kept safe and secure in the warm patch of skin over James Campbell’s steady, pulsing heart.
~
“Two wild first-wave scores from both of these surfers!”
“They’re not playing around out there today, man. The championship is on the line, and they’ve both just shown that they more than deserve to be here with those first rides of the heat.”
“Duke O’Brien’s chasing after this next wave. Campbell’s letting him have it.”
“It’s a beauty—he’s letting himself be pushed up to the crest . . . and what a drop in! Look at the speed! O’Brien cuts down the face and he’s pumping like crazy along the foot of this wave.”
“He’s searching for an open part of the face to fit in some turns . . . And look at this rad spray!”
“He’s smart not hanging back for that barrel—pipeline on this one is far too small. You’d get caved in on, for sure.”
“And after two cutbacks, looks like he’s ending his ride with a tap on the lip and one last shower of spray. He’s gotta be pleased with that one as he dives back into the water.”
“What a ride!”
“Tell it, man. Ace!”
“Look here folks, Campbell’s getting ready to answer. I’m not sure if he can get in front of this wave in time. It’s a monster . . .”
“Paddling like hell but it might be too late. He’s pushing after it, straining to catch the crest. Oh! And this swell gets away from him. What a bummer!”
“He’s disappointed. He could’ve caught that one if he started sooner, and he knows it.”
“It’s wicked hard to watch O’Brien take a wave like that and then answer to it—you think he’s feeling the pressure?”
“With O’Brien looking like he’s gonna catch this next one, three scores to Campbell’s one is not gonna put Campbell in a great place to do well in this heat.”
The Sea Ain't Mine Alone Page 31
