The Sea Ain't Mine Alone

by Beaumont, C. L.

  “And Russell’s score?”

  “Don’t pin me down, man. Too early to tell!”

  “One thing I do know . . . Danny Moore just might be wrong—for the first time in his life!”

  ~

  Sydney clenches his fists where he stands off to the side, chest heaving as if he’s the one out there battling against the force of the ocean.

  James chickened out on that wave—there’s no other explanation for what could have happened. That or his shoulder is already starting to give out on him.

  He watches O’Brien cleanly finish his third major ride of the set, putting up a third score over 7.5 to a wild cheer from the crowd. O’Brien turns to give a wave back to the beach, huge grin on his face. James doesn’t even turn his head to see if he landed the wave.

  Sydney’s going to be sick.

  James paddles a little farther out from the main breaking point, dolphin diving under a few swells before letting himself be pushed up and over the next set. He looks small and fragile in the water—a little golden pearl pushed and rolled about by the towering waves. He looks like a ghost of the man who’d attacked the water with everything in him only just that morning. His limbs wilt off the sides of the board as he floats along in the swells, all the momentum from his first perfect ride already lost out to the sea.

  Sydney stands there helplessly, watching as James chases and misses two more waves in a row, knowing that he is the only person on earth to blame for throwing James out there, making him struggle and fail in front of everyone like he is now.

  He wants to grab his past self—the man who’d fallen off his board in LA, and told James he could win the Billabong, and sent him off with just a sandwich after stealing his precious recovery time to kiss him and selfishly hang out in the Jeep—and smack that past self upside the head. He wants to run out into the waves and cradle James’ body in his arms and carry him back to shore, away from the punishing water, away from everyone’s stares.

  James starts to paddle after a third wave, smaller than the previous two, and Sydney’s heart leaps up into his throat.

  ~

  “—but looks like Jimmy Campbell’s going after this smaller wave, right after missing two in a row.”

  “Probably trying to win back some confidence. Easy points. He’s gotta be exhausted from paddling so much in one stretch without a real break.”

  “I gotcha. Look here, Campbell’s out well ahead of this wave, digging deep into the water . . . he’s letting the wave catch the tail of his board—and he catches this one! Crowd’s giving him some encouragement as he pumps along this swell.”

  “Look at the spray coming off his turns! He isn’t wasting this ride!”

  “And a perfect nose grab before a tap off the top and a quick re-entry. He’s milking every second he can get out of this wave, not letting the shoulder taper off without a fight.”

  “It won’t be a huge score, but at least it’ll be something!”

  “Nineteen minutes left in this heat and you know he’s gotta be feeling the pressure. He may not know the scores but he’s seen O’Brien’s waves.”

  “O’Brien’s at a current three-wave score of 24.9, and with Campbell’s latest coming in at 5.9, yikes. He’s got a lot of catching up to do.”

  “He’s still in the game, though, folks! Anything can happen here at the Banzai.”

  “See there! Campbell looking to catch another wave now, paddling hard after leaping back on his board from that last ride. Man didn’t even catch his breath. And boy, this bomb’s a big one—”

  ~

  Sydney curses out loud. The woman next to him, who’d been carefully pretending not to notice his presence, shoots him an odd frown, and Sydney quickly looks down at his fingers and shakes his hand as if he just tore off a particularly deep hangnail.

  His lips are pressed so tightly together he’s sure they’re turning white. James is paddling like hell after this next wave, one of the biggest ones of the set, but O’Brien is right on his tail, chasing him with strokes twice James’ speed. Sydney actually does tear off a particularly deep hangnail and hisses through his teeth; he already knows exactly what’s going to happen in the water.

  The crowd holds their breath and starts to hesitantly cheer as James places his hands firmly on each side of his board to pop up, when suddenly O’Brien leaps to his feet and flies past him down the face of the wave, leaving James to awkwardly tuck and roll over the crest with his board flying up behind him in the spray.

  “Shit,” Sydney breathes. This time the woman beside him hums in sympathy.

  The crowd groans for the appropriate beat, then switches to wild cheering for O’Brien as he whips down the towering pipeline, riding the first full barrel of the set. Sydney knows James is well aware of the time quickly ticking down. He’s probably got a rough estimate of points in his head, same as Sydney and everyone else does when they’re out past the reach of the voices back on the beach.

  He knows James knows he only has one wave worth looking at so far—hardly enough to hold a candle to O’Brien and not even worth the embarrassing comparison to Russell, who sits off to the side near the other competitors with a towel half-covering his head and an anxious frown etched into his face.

  James paddles back out past the breaking point as O’Brien finishes his ride, dropping in the backdoor of the barrel and riding the entire tube to a booming cheer from the crowd when he emerges through the spray.

  He paddles until he’s just a speck on the vast glass sea, dwarfed by the endless blue horizon and the infinite crystal sky. Sydney squints his eyes to see as James sits up on his board, nearly unheard of in the middle of a competition round, and he calmly gazes out towards the horizon, keeping his back to O’Brien, and the rest of the waves, and the crowd, and the entire Hawaiian shoreline.

  He sits there for almost a full minute, utterly still and staring out to sea while O’Brien catches another smaller wave as a safety for his points, shooting through a small tube before cutting back across the whitewater. It’s as if the crowd has forgotten James is even in this round as O’Brien flings himself back on his board to their applause and heaves himself back out to catch the next set—smooth and unstoppable.

  Sydney watches, shamelessly shielding the sun with his hand after moving his aviators down his nose. He can just make out what’s happening as James reaches down and cups a handful of water in his palms, bringing the water close to his bent-over chest.

  Like that same rushing wave to the face that told Sydney why in hell he wiped out in Hermosa, Sydney realizes all at once what James is doing.

  He’s surfing in the Finals of the Billabong, and he has hundreds of people watching him do it, and he’s a good four rides away from even coming close to catching O’Brien.

  And James Campbell is stopping in the middle of it all to sit quietly in the waves and talk to Helen.

  Sydney quickly shoves his shades back up his nose to cover his wet eyes. The last thing he needs—the last thing James needs—is for the Banzai crowd to notice that, for some ungodly reason, Jimmy Campbell’s embarrassing grappling in the Billabong Finals is making Danny Moore cry.

  Then, just as suddenly as he’d stopped, James springs into action again, flinging himself down on his board and paddling like hell towards the shoreline as a gigantic wave surges up behind him, blacking out the sky.

  The crowd holds their breath as James chases it, buzzing with anticipation, and O’Brien looks on from the side with a grimacing scowl, and Sydney thinks he’s going to jump right out of his skin and ignite.

  James reaches the crest of the enormous, roaring wave, plants his hands firmly on both sides of his board, and pops up.

  ~

  “Just look at the monster Campbell’s dropping in on now! Perfect nose grab as he gouges into the face, using that hand to slow him and keep him inside the barrel. Judges, are you seeing this?”

  “Perfect pipeline; I could carve my own initials into that thing. Beautiful entry. Look
at the spray on that tube!”

  “Just waiting for him to emerge—”

  “And he does! Jimmy Campbell zooms out of this pipeline standing tall, and looks like he’s ending his ride with a powerful leap off the lip and into the whitewater.”

  “Whatever the hell Campbell was doing sitting on his ass out there, it worked—listen to this crowd!”

  “I’m right there with them, man. That was a thing of beauty. Powerful wave, perfect fast drop in, ample time in the body of the tube. Judges gotta award that one at least an 8.”

  “And it’s an 8.6! One of the highest waves we’ve seen today, and Jimmy Campbell just showed us all he is sure as hell still in this final. Two more waves like that and O’Brien could be in real trouble.”

  “Campbell’s already paddling out for the next one, and O’Brien’s on the chase—”

  ~

  Every muscle in James’ body looks rippling and alive. Sydney can feel his energy all the way from where he stands tensely on the beach, carried to him on the force of the crisp salt spray.

  Everything has changed. The atmosphere on the shore is electric, crackling with anticipation, the announcers are yelling and cursing at will, the other competitors watch with half-open mouths, and Terry Russell holds up his towel to hide half of his face from the view, afraid even to watch.

  Sydney feels a smug grin threatening at the corner of his mouth. He wants to turn to the random surfers lounging near him, hold his chin high, and say, “You know why Campbell’s doing so well? It’s because I gave him a good-luck blow this morning.”

  The thought alone makes him have to force down a chuckle in his chest. He’s lighter than air, fizzling along his skin, as if his body will simply float away on the wind rushing across the shore from over the tops of the thick green mountains at their backs.

  He knows now that James himself knows he can win this. So yes, of course everything has changed.

  But has everything changed?

  ~

  “O’Brien’s certainly not going down without a fight, and that wave sure proved it.”

  “Huge air on that drop in—I don’t think his board even touched the water until he was three-quarters of the way down the face!”

  “And that’s earning him another whopping score with an 8.1”

  “It’s pushed his three-wave score up to 25.3. Well within the possibility of trying to catch Russell’s Billabong record of 27.1 set in the first Final round here this afternoon, but it would require some monster effort on his part.”

  “Word, man. That mean you’re saying Campbell’s still too far back?”

  “Never say never, especially after his last ride, but with only eleven minutes left in this heat Campbell would need two waves well over a 9, and I don’t think he’s even put up more than a handful of 9’s so far in his entire career, especially not on the professional stage.”

  “You’re right there, man. Judges definitely score harsher once you’re up in the championship tour. Every up and coming pro surfer will tell you their first year pro is like a slap in the face.”

  “Not many surfers go pro by knocking Danny Moore on his ass, though, my friend!”

  “True!”

  “And look here, folks, we’ve got a hardcore battle out on the waves for this next drop in.”

  “Campbell definitely started paddling first, he has the right of way closer to the peak, but O’Brien’s trying to snake in there like he does—and Campbell’s not giving up! He won’t let O’Brien have it!”

  “O’Brien looks left, probably telling Campbell to get the hell off.”

  “Campbell keeps paddling! He’s not backing down!”

  “These two surfers are both at the crest. Someone’s gonna have to give up or the wave will be a waste for both of them.”

  “And man, it’s a bomb we’ve got coming in here.”

  “O’Brien moves to pop up—”

  “Campbell drops in! Campbell pops up barely even using his hands and he’s soaring down the face of this wave!”

  “O’Brien can’t believe it! He’s had to wipe out to the side to keep from crashing down into Campbell’s barrel.”

  “Campbell’s bending deep. He’s crouching as he pumps along this wave. Will it curve over into a pipeline?”

  “It does! Campbell knew this wave was going to be a beauty, and boy is he thanking himself he didn’t back down in that fight. This tube is a wonder—perfectly formed, crystal clear waters, rocketing spray . . .”

  “Is that—? Ladies and gentleman, Jimmy Campbell’s just exited the tube goofy foot!”

  “How did he manage that inside that barrel? How?”

  “We’re all going wild as Campbell rips up the face of the shoulder. He’s doing a floater across the whitewater along the breaking part of this wave—dude, what a way to end that ride.”

  “I can’t even guess what score that’ll get—how many techniques were in that ride? Four? Five?”

  “Five hundred? Man, Moore wasn’t kidding when he said Campbell would know to wait for the perfect wave. What a beauty!”

  “9.3! 9.3!”

  “Campbell can’t hear us but he’s pumping his fist as he makes his way out past the breaking point. He knows that was a winner.”

  “O’Brien’s only got time for one more—maybe two if he hustles.”

  “Nah, man, these waves may be gnarly but there’s no way he can paddle hard enough to fit in two.”

  “What’s he need to pull one over on Russell?”

  “At this point—looks like that would be a 9.4. Clearly not impossible, as we’ve just seen from Campbell.”

  “Two waves that much over 9 in a row, though?”

  “Well, it is the finals!”

  “And where does Campbell stand?”

  “Campbell’s surfing his ass off, but even with that 9.4, he’ll need an insane 9.5 to push himself up past Russell.”

  “That’s right, man. Campbell and O’Brien may be battling it out against each other out on these waves, but the real battle is between each of them and that massive 27.1 score put up by Russell. I bet it’s taunting them.”

  “And Russell looks like he’s about to pass out over in the competitors’ area. He definitely didn’t expect to be feeling this amount of pressure going into this heat. Think his seat is hot, or what?”

  “Look here, O’Brien’s going for his final wave of the round—”

  ~

  Sydney wants to scream at everyone on the beach to just shut up already and let James think.

  Which is ridiculous, because he knows from experience that James can’t hear a single thing aside from his own breathing out there where he is on the water. But still, Sydney’s hands are clenched into tight fists, and his eyebrows are furrowed behind his aviators, and he’s never wanted to open up his lungs and yell so badly in his life. He wants everyone to close their eyes and turn away from the shore—to let James have his final moments out in the Banzai waves in peace.

  Instead, in almost perfect unison, the entire beach rises to their feet as O’Brien gets ready to drop in on his final wave of the round, a collective gasp of anticipation hovering over the sand. Sydney rubs his palm over his mouth to hide his grimace in what he knows is a hail Mary attempt to look bored and aloof instead of scared half out of his wits.

  O’Brien drops in on the massive wave, crouching low to his board right from the start, and Sydney sees exactly what will happen two seconds before it does:

  He crouched too early, center of gravity pitched too far forward over the breaking crest of the wave, and the entire beach gasps as O’Brien tumbles forward off the lip of the fifteen-foot wave, board flying up behind him and limbs scrambling for purchase in the air before he crashes headfirst into the belly of the barrel.

  The shore is pin-drop silent as they wait for O’Brien to surface, hoping that another wave doesn’t break and force him into a double hold-down. Sydney tracks the flow of the current within the wave, watching the force of the water u
ntil his eyes pinpoint exactly where he’ll come up for air. He starts to count, flashing back painfully to just that morning when he’d had to do the same horrible countdown for James.

  Hundreds of people wait with shaking limbs for Duke O’Brien to let them all know he’s still alive. Not even the announcers are breaking the silence, and only the ocean continues to roar. The lifeguards hover in the shallows, rescue boards held over their heads in preparation to leap into action if O’Brien doesn’t show his face soon. The woman beside him shoots Sydney a pained, hopeful glance, as if he himself could somehow politely ask the waves to bring Duke to the surface.

  After ten full seconds, he appears. The crowd lets out a chorus of sighs, groans, cheers, whistles, as O’Brien climbs unsteadily back onto his board, chest heaving as he gives a quick wave to the shore with stooping shoulders.

  He knows his chance is over. All eyes turn to James.

  Sydney closes his eyes for a beat, then pushes his sunglasses up to perch in his hair. He needs to see James Campbell fully. Needs to see the true color of his skin contrasted with the waves, and track the black speck of his wetsuit bobbing through the swells, and see the flash of golden light woven through his soaked hair.

  He crosses his arms over his chest and squeezes as he watches James explode into action the second O’Brien starts paddling in to shore. James’ arms paddle like mad through the swells and the spray, pulling him towards a thirty-foot wave rushing in from the horizon, and Sydney has to use every ounce of focus he has left just to force himself to breathe.

  James turns to catch the wave, dwarfing him into a speck as it surges to hurl him up towards the heavens on its crest. The crowd holds their breath, every person on the beach deadly still, and Sydney lets out a soft moan as James prepares to drop in on the towering monster covering the sky.

  He hears himself whisper a single word as James looks over his shoulder at the breaking crest one last time.