Sydney tracks the next two waves rolling in to shore and spots his opening—an incoming swell that’ll be at least thirty feet. Forty if he’s lucky. But probably more like thirty-two.
It isn’t the record; it wouldn’t even be close. It would be a small blip on the radar of Big Wave surfing history—nothing for anyone to remember or note down. And even as Sydney registers this fact in his mind, suddenly, as if it blew right into his face with the fresh breeze, the record isn’t important to him anymore. It has been blown away without fanfare, lost to the distant foggy tides.
The record doesn’t matter when he still has the scent of a sleeping James Campbell hidden in the crevices of his skin. Not when he’s just opened his mouth back on the shore and said the most terrifying three words he ever has in his life without fear. Not when James brought his bags.
It’s time.
He takes a deep breath to slow down his racing heart, steadfastly ignoring the fresh bursts of fear and adrenaline pumping through his veins. Without meaning to, he looks quickly back to the shore, and immediately his eyes find James, standing frozen in the sand with the wind blowing his golden hair back from his face. Looking like sunrise light pooling across a soft, cashmere beach. Looking like the crystal clear waters, rippling with glittering light, in which Sydney had looked into through angry tears and first seen the jellyfish bobbing gently by his feet.
Looking like the feeling of opening the door to his little house and seeing someone else’s shoes already sitting just inside. James’ shoes.
He sees only James Campbell, who looks back at Sydney with such steadfast focus that Sydney wants to say “fuck it” and race back into shore as fast as he can. Abandon his board in the shallows, and sprint madly towards James, and tell him that saying “I love you” was the easiest thing Sydney has ever done in his life. The most poignant moment of clarity—more deeply felt in his bones than the moment he’d first stood up on a surfboard on trembling, fifteen-year-old legs.
James nods from the shore. Sydney can see his lips just barely moving, whispering something to himself in the breeze. He hears James’ voice clear as day in his head, crisp and warm over the sound of the roaring waves.
“Don’t you dare not come back to me.”
Now it’s time.
Sydney swallows hard against the lurch of fear in his chest and turns back to that perfect wave barreling towards him from the smooth horizon. He looks quickly down at the water pooling over his board and around his legs, cups a palmful of it in his hands and thinks of his momma. Thinks of her God. Thinks of survival.
Then he’s paddling like hell out in front of the heaving mass of water, vision blocking out everything but the sight of his hands sinking again and again into the blue, pulling himself steadily along. His breathing echoes off his board, amplified across the vibrating surface of the water.
The salt tangs on his lips and tongue. The spray coats his face in foam, pulling strands of his hair down into his eyes. It feels strange to see the brilliant blue of the waves without the cover of his sunglasses—the way the sand glows like a blinking pool of pure light beaming from the edges of the waves. The way the sunlight ripples through the whitewater, surrounding his body in shimmering blue as he tugs himself towards the shore. Towards James.
The wave starts lifting him up towards the sky by the tail of his board. The ocean surges beneath him, rumbling and churning as it gains rushing speed. Sydney blinks, and he sees the speed and the height hovering over the waters like he always does. Sees the angles and drop in, the perfect path to take and the precise moment to stand up on his board and drop in.
He is alone in the ocean. Alone in the world.
Except, he isn’t, because James Campbell is in the water, the sky, the sea. And the molecules of his blood poured into the Vietnam foam are here, now, wrapping snuggly around Sydney’s shaking skin and guiding his way.
He grips the sides of his board with unsteady fingers right at the crest, and he peers over the massive drop towering down from the cliff of pure water. His heart screams and beats like a war drum in his chest, echoing until it is the only sound against the rest of the silent, muffled earth.
Sydney sucks in a wet, salty breath through his lips, thinks of the color of James Campbell’s eyes in the earliest morning light, and then leaps up to standing, ready to fly straight over the edge.
He soars down the face of the wave in near free-fall, zooming straight down the three-story drop with nothing but the screaming wind at his front and the ripping force of the ocean beneath his legs. His knees tremble with energy, his thighs ache and grasp at his board, desperate to stay standing so the sea doesn’t fling and pitch him away.
He feels one-thousand feet high in the air. As if he could angle his board just so and soar off, carried on the wind into the sky. Like he could spread out his arms and fly across the island through the clouds. And he could land back in his home, slipping straight between the sheets, James Campbell already waiting for him with a warm smile on his lips and no fear left in his eyes.
Sydney grunts against the force of the wave pummeling him from all sides. He hunkers down against his board, arms flying out to catch his balance, fighting against the wild, thrashing current beneath him. He’s almost to the foot of the wave, just barely ahead of the breaking crest. He needs to pick up a little more speed to make it out from under the crushing force of the barrel. If he doesn’t, he’ll be pummeled down into the deep, cast off like the smallest piece of seaweed thrown limply across the spray.
He bends his knees deeper and sucks in a breath, fighting like hell to reach the bottom without flying off into the spray, or being bucked from his board. He hears the wave crash in a screaming roar behind him, feels the slapping rush of spray and foam slam at his back with the force of a moving train. It shoots him forward like a rocket across the surface of the water, blinding him in a cloud of whitewater that slaps at his bare skin and burns in his eyes. He can’t tell if he’s up on his board or hurtling through the water. If he’s breathing in oxygen or salt. If he’s traveling towards the shore or being sucked back down into the claws of the deep.
Sydney’s heart pangs in his chest. He needs to reach the shore. Needs to reach James. Needs to live . . .
Suddenly, like the brilliant sun piercing through the clouds, Sydney’s lungs suck in a gulp of pure, dry air. His eyes catch a glimpse of dark green mountain backed by an open blue sky.
The deafening roar in his ears subsides. He can hear himself breathe again, and the droplets of water from his curls drip into his eyes in little splashes. He can tell that he’s standing upright, still clinging to his board with numb and shaking legs. His stomach is on fire, abs clenched so tightly he thinks he’ll never draw in a full breath again.
And he’s alive.
Suddenly, he laughs. A smile and a sigh and a sob all at once as the pent-up fear in his body escapes from his muscles in a rush. He looks up once towards the bursting blue sky, noting one solitary egret flying across the sea of soft, white clouds, and then he looks back towards the shore, running his fingers through his curls to see.
James Campbell stands tall and sturdy in the crowd, illuminated on the beach by a ray of sunlight that seems to shine directly onto his body, and his alone. The rest of the people on the beach are waving their arms and cheering, calling out and clapping and rushing in closer to the water to celebrate his ride. But James stands silent and unmoving among them all, arms clasped tightly behind his neck, with hints of a brilliant smile illuminating the corners of his face.
Sydney smiles back, breathless and panting. He thanks his momma’s God who separated the sky from the sea, thanks the ocean for carrying him safely to shore, and then leaps off his board into the swirling shallows, the cool water like a kiss across his aching skin.
He waits underwater for the bulk of the wave to pass over him, then surfaces into the calm between the swells. The bubbles of foam sizzle and pop in his ears, and his hair falls limply into his eyes with sti
nging salt. Like a madman, he paddles farther into the shore, catching the smaller breaks to propel him forward, then he rips off his ankle strap and leaves his board to coast up to the sand.
He runs in the soft shallows, shins slapping against the receding waves. The other surfers are running towards him in a group—Don and Dickie and Willis and the rest, Hank with a wet towel still around his neck, never having made it past the punishing break during the round. They’re calling his name and cupping their palms around their mouths, looking at him like he’s the goddamn sun.
Sydney makes his way on numb legs into the warmth and noise and bright light of the real world, where the earth doesn’t heave and roll beneath his feet, and he isn’t left floating on the hazy, intangible tips of the open sky. He walks towards the small crowd like he’s hearing the entire earth for the very first time.
“Fucking primo ride, Danny!”
“Largest wave of the day, dude!”
“Shit, Moore, you just showed us how it’s done! That’s how it’s fucking done, man!”
The ocean continues to pound at his back, rushing in over and over again onto the sand, covering his feet with tingling foam. He lets them pat his back and reach out to touch his board bobbing in the shallows like a trophy. He hears their words and cheers as one giant sound, crackling in his ears and blowing heat against his face.
Sydney isn’t even sure what he says back, or how he looks. If he smiles or waves or says, “I know, man, didn’t think I was gonna make it out of that one without needing one of your sorry asses to come out and do the rescuing this time.”
Then the crowd parts, and the sound fades away, and all he can see is James.
James, who has his hands clasped behind his straight back as if he’s standing watch on the deck of a ship. James, whose eyes are sparkling like the sunlight dappling the surface of the sea.
James, who is walking towards him slowly, eyes locked on to his.
Sydney runs to him like he’s never known what it is to truly run until this moment. The saltwater stings his eyes, and the sunlight blares, and his curls fall down into his face over and over, and still he runs towards James Campbell like a clear beacon of guiding light, clearing his path across the shore.
His toes trip in the sand, his calves and thighs burn, and James’ calm face breaks just before Sydney reaches him and crushes him into his arms, feeling James’ hands grip hard enough at his bare, wet back to leave a mark—a brand new tattoo of the memory of James’ touch on his skin.
James’ back is shaking, and his face is buried deep into Sydney’s neck. Sydney holds him tight against himself, breathing in the sunlight from his hair, cupping the back of his neck in his palm.
They are the only two souls in Waimea Bay.
And then James huffs out a breath and moans. “Who the hell are you?” he whispers into Sydney’s quivering skin. He grips him even tighter. “God, Sydney . . . I love you.”
Sydney wants to take a deep breath and dive under and drown in James’ words. Wants to breathe them in and keep them down in the pit of his lungs so they can never escape from him out in the wind across the ocean.
The water from his skin is seeping into James’ clothes, making them cling to his body. Sydney wants to pick James up and fucking carry him back across the island to their home. Let James throw him down onto the bed and take him. Have him. Let James cover him with his lips and fingers and tongue and let Sydney know that he belongs to him until the day a force of nature kicks down the door and physically drags them apart.
He wants to hold James’ face in his hands in front of everyone and kiss him on the shore, letting James taste the fresh saltwater on his lips. Wants to pick him up and feel James’ legs wrap around his waist like the girlfriends of the other surfers do when they’re kissing in the sand after they’ve won, kissing to the sounds of cheers and whistles echoing down the beach.
Their embrace lasts less than five seconds—just short enough to be two surfing buddies, champions of the Billabong congratulating each other in the sand.
James sucks in a deep breath when he pulls back, like he’s really breathing for the first time all day. His eyes are shining and clear, and Sydney nearly gasps. The darkness always lurking in the corners of James’ eyes is suddenly gone—eradicated completely and replaced by a warm, glowing pride. By relief. A strange sense of security washes over Sydney as he looks down into James’ open face, more thoroughly than the waves that just crashed over every inch of his skin when he was alone out in the bay.
And the bravest man on earth just said that he loved him. His body and his voice and his home and his mind and his surfing. Him. And Sydney just happened to look up from his feet and find him on a crowded pier.
James holds his gaze for another second before he pats his arm once and takes a step away, putting empty space between them again. “You are something else,” he whispers, then, with a tilt of his head, “Later.” Sydney glances up at the crowded shore and reluctantly understands.
Then James grins one last time at him, his beautiful lips curving up just at the corners in a smile meant for him and him alone, and then he steps just barely to the side, and Sydney absolutely freezes.
It cannot be her. It absolutely cannot.
But it is.
Sydney blinks hard then gapes at James, making sure that what he’s seeing isn’t just some dehydrated hallucination in the middle of the hot beach. He can feel his mouth hanging half-open, his face slack. James looks at him with eyes as deep as the sea and nods gently, his face carefully blank.
Sydney can sense the surfers behind him retreating back to their own groups—going over the best waves of the day, making plans to go grab a drink, passing along the latest news and gossip from the circuit beyond Oahu. The wind from the waves rushes in streams across Sydney’s back, pushing him closer to where Lahela stands motionless in the sand, her silk skirt billowing in a ripple across the grains while the breeze whips through the loose strands of her braid.
She looks back at Sydney with watering eyes, and her hands hang helplessly at her sides. Sydney takes one hesitant step forward, toes sinking blindly into the sand.
She whispers in a thin voice into the breeze. “Oh, Danny.”
Sydney takes another step closer and shakes his head. “I don’t understand,” he whispers back. His voice is nearly lost in the wind.
She smiles, and her mouth trembles at the corners. She holds out her hands, fingers shaking. “Can I see you?” she asks.
Sydney feels that if he does take three steps forward and hold her hands in his, she’ll disappear into mist. He hasn’t touched those hands since he was newly fifteen, walking down a hot sidewalk with a trash bag slung over his shoulder and his father’s yells still echoing in his ears.
He’s afraid they’ll be thinner than he remembers. More frail. He’s afraid they’ll feel like his momma’s hands did gripping at his shirt on their Arizona porch with a half-empty liquor bottle spilling over onto the splintered wood. And he’s afraid that if he touches her, and feels the bones of her hands, then maybe it will be James who vanishes into thin air. One good thing gained, another taken.
He’s suddenly more afraid than he was twenty minutes ago at the crest of the wave.
James clears his throat and speaks gently at his side. “Sydney,” he says. It travels through the tense muscles in Sydney’s shaking body like a salve, loosening the icy stiffness in each joint.
With a rush of air, Sydney moves forward in the sand and reaches out his hands to take her outstretched fingers. She immediately grips him with a surprising, frantic strength.
“My boy,” she says, voice shaking.
Her voice sounds just like he always remembered it—deep and fragile, gently lilting over the vowels like flower petals bending under the weight of a warm, soft breeze.
Sydney doesn’t even know what comes over him. He blinks hard, letting the sight of her sink crisply into his vision, not fading away into a ghost after all. Then he steps for
ward and lets her wrap him in her arms, feeling her thin bones under his hands as she stretches up on her toes to reach her arms around his bent neck and shoulders. Her long braid rests against his cheek—the same way she’d always worn it for the five years that she had made his lunches and sent him off to school and held ice to his cheek all the evenings he came home with bloody noses or black eyes.
Her hair smells like flowers. It’s the smell of mornings when Sydney would wake up at three o’clock and make his way on silent bare feet down the hallway to the kitchen, only to see her standing there in her nightgown drinking tea. The smell of the fragile chamomile on those special silent nights they sat across from each other at the kitchen table, doing nothing at all. The smell of her perfume that had wafted over to Sydney across the tense air when she had chased him down on the sidewalk, grabbed his wrist hard, and begged him not to turn his back on the Lord.
Her hair smells like burned wax candles and sand. The citrus of his father’s sharp aftershave, and the slightest hint of fried fish from dinner the night before—a dinner which Sydney hadn’t been at to help eat the leftovers.
And her hair somehow smells like the time his momma took him out of school in the middle of the day, and drove him to town to see West Side Story, and bought him his own box of Good and Plenty to eat. And she had left him there at the theater, accidentally, and his father came by with red in his eyes to pick him up four hours later, but that hadn’t mattered at all. Not to Sydney.
Lahela pulls back from him with wet eyes, smoothing out the front of her now damp blouse. Sydney opens his mouth to apologize, but instead hears himself ask, “How did you know where to find me?”
Lahela smiles with sad eyes. Sydney finds he can’t tear his gaze away from her, not even to blink. If he does, she’ll disappear into the sand, vanishing forever and never to return. He can still feel James’ presence standing calmly at his side, grounding and safe.
He gazes into the face of the past he’d screamed “fuck you” to out across the surface of the waves early that one morning, and he tries desperately to convince himself that the past two hours—the past two weeks, the past seven years—have been real.
The Sea Ain't Mine Alone Page 48
