Standing between the buff young surfer girls, Lucy wondered what she felt she had to prove—why she’d decided she had to go out there and shoot stills from the water. They had a video camcorder guy up on the judges’ stand with enough digital telephoto power to see the whites of their eyes, two hundred yards offshore; Leslie and Bobby could easily grab stills from his tape. They had another camera guy with full telephoto power patrolling the beach, and a third in a waverunner cruising outside the break.
And yet she’d volunteered to get out there in the swim to shoot. Macho Lucy in action, planting herself in the middle of things because she felt compelled to compete with these girls yet didn’t know how to surf well enough. She’d only surfed half a dozen times and these were far bigger than any waves she’d ever paddled into. Pushing her limits, taking that risk, that’s what it was all about. She did want to get good pictures, but ultimately the camera was just an excuse.
And she knew her own subtext; her backstory, as they called it in Hollywood. This was also about her anger at Marcia for sleeping with the panther, even though Lucy had turned him down earlier in the evening. She hated pushing 35. She hated even thinking about feeling old, and she hated herself for letting it get to her. But it did.
Yet on the other hand she knew that it would help with plot-writing if she could see how they interacted out there, how it played out in the waves, with their reputations, twenty-five grand, and God knew what else on the line, and there was some truth in that. It would be great, intense fun to stick herself in the line-up and get some close-ups.
She glanced back. A sunny, windless, eighty degree late spring morning in Sayulita. Several hundred people sat on lounge chairs beneath umbrellas, or stood in the sand near the judges’ stand, or roamed the beach, all digging the fact that simply by being on vacation this particular week they’d stumbled into a television surf-circus featuring a dozen bodacious babes and a real life Hollyweird vibe. Up on the judges’ stand Lucy could see Judy, El Pantero, and Ruben Dario, clipboards in hand and binoculars at the ready, with a couple of assistants close by—and a cameraman on a stepladder above them all, his camcorder roving from the contestants, to the crowds, to the waves cracking and roaring two hundred yards offshore. The four other competing girls, already suited up in their numbered rash-guard shirts, loitered by the judge stand waiting for the second heat. As expected the four ringers hadn’t even bothered to put on rash-guards. Per instructions from Leslie, they were hanging around the pavilion in thong-style bikinis, exposing major butt and boob and reveling in their fabulous fifteen minutes while being interviewed by a guy from Mexican TV news while Hector taped them. In their divers charming accents each explained why she couldn’t possibly go out in such crazy, dangerous surf. Lucy and Teresa had fed them their lines after breakfast.
Lucy could be up there now with Teresa, monitoring the action, self-importantly playing the writer on location, but instead she had talked herself right into the thick of it. She was about to paddle a longboard out into the biggest waves she’d ever seen. Teresa, at the edge of the pavilion, gave her the thumbs up, and then the airhorn sounded again.
“This is it, girls,” said Sandra. “Good luck out there,” she said to Marcia. “And keep your longboard butt out of my way, Lucy,” she added, smiling as she said it.
“Chaaaarge,” screamed Marcia, dashing for the water and leaping onto her board to start her frantic paddle to the outside, where the breaking waves awaited them. Sandra was right behind her. Up the beach, Bev and Martina dashed and leaped onto their boards. The race was on to see who would get out and grab the first wave of the contest.
Lucy took a slightly more cautious approach, moving a little farther into the water, then waiting for a wall of whitewater to rush around her legs. She slung her camera onto her back, laid down on the board, and began a fast, steady paddle out, using the receding whitewater, so powerful it almost qualified as a riptide, to push her along.
Fifteen of the longest minutes of her life later, Lucy, wasted to the point of near-unconsciousness, lunged over the top of an eight-foot wave and thanked Jesus, Buddha, and Lord Krishna too that she made it over that one, and she thanked her divers deities as well for the momentarily calm sea before her: that was the last wave of the set. She had made it! Only shoving under, over, or through six major walls of whitewater, and at least twenty minor ones, had taken every last ounce of her strength, and now she verged on a physical melt-down. She paddle-dragged herself a dozen yards further out, and a moment later was joined by Sandra.
“Did you shoot my first wave?” Sandra said. “It was awesome.”
“Are you crazy? I barely survived getting out here,” Lucy panted.
“Like Marcia said, it’s all timing, Lucy. Hey, chickie, I think I just scored a ten,” she called out to Martina, “and I didn’t even have to take my top off.” Martina ignored her, not getting the insult in English. “Oh oh, Luce,” said Sandra, “Here’s comes another set. And it looks like a big one.” She shook her head. “Damn,” she said. “My energy’s really low this morning. I musta had one too many shots of sauza last night.” She shook her head again as she paddled towards the rising horizon, with Lucy, Martina, and now Marcia and Bev behind them, racing to get in position to grab one of the next waves.
Lucy felt wiped out. Usually a minute’s rest after a burn would bring her back, but she was feeling slower, less responsive, as she paddled the longboard, camera on the deck in front of her. Beyond the waves, she could hear the buzz of the waverunner, a higher tone above the roaring surf. She angled to her left, towards the waves’ shoulders, while the competitors paddled to the right, to get in better position to catch one in the steeper section.
As the first set wave moved over the rocky reef on the bottom it pitched up to about ten feet high, and steepened radically. Marcia, closest to the break, whipped her board around and with a single stroke caught it, stood, and dropped in. Lucy, forty yards down the line, started shooting. Marcia hit the bottom of the wave at full speed and then using that speed threw a fast turn and flew up the face at a sharp angle towards the lip and then when she hit the lip instead of carving back she went airborne, grabbed a rail, and somehow, impossibly, she whipped her board around and completed an aerial 360 and landed on her feet on the board on the face of the wave. She dropped to the bottom and as the wave began to close out ahead of her raced back to the top and flew over and out.
Lucy had captured maybe fifteen images in ten endless seconds, and so she knew that regardless of what had been taped from the beach, she had still photographs of what had to be one of the most amazing surfing maneuvers she had ever seen pulled off by anyone, male or female. Lucy had watched plenty of footage and no one did 360 aerials on waves that large. No one except the half-drunk speed-abusing star-fucking wannabe artist, Marcia Hobgood. What she had just done was nothing short of miraculous, athletically-speaking.
Then the next wave came and Lucy, busily shooting, barely cleared the lip as she paddled over. She was narrowly missed by Bev, who caught it, dropped into a bottom turn, raced down the line and then slashed a huge cutback close enough to shower Lucy with a rainbow spray. And then the next, and biggest wave, rose up, and Sandra Darwin, in perfect position, paddled twice and caught it. As she slipped down the face, instead of leaping to her feet, her hands slid out from under her as she tried to push up off the board and she headed straight down at full speed into a pearl dive, face planted on the board deck. The wave crashed and she disappeared under it. Lucy had it all on camera, shot from the lip down the line. The board bobbed up, twenty yards closer to shore. Sandra popped up a few seconds later. She was maybe a hundred feet away by then, and so Lucy couldn’t be sure if Sandra looked over at her, and meekly called out the word, “help,” or if she, Lucy, only imagined it. Then Sandra slowly flopped over, and went face down. “Help! We need help here,” Lucy cried out. “Sandra’s down,” she yelled, but there was no one near enough to hear. Martina blasted by on the next wave, the whi
te water behind her slamming Sandra and her board, sending her under again. Flopping on her longboard, Lucy barely cleared the wave. Behind it there was another, larger one; charging in front of that next wave, the wave runner, with two guys on it—pilot and cameraman—raced furiously towards Sandra, intent on a rescue. Lucy watched, firing away even as she felt herself sliding up the face of the wave, afloat on her longboard and trying to paddle as she realized that she was not going to get over the top—and that she was losing consciousness. She watched helplessly as the wave that was about to throw her over the falls and down to the bottom of the sea lifted the waverunner with two men and a large video camera up on its breaking crest and then it tumbled down directly upon the floating body and board of Sandra Darwin, and then Lucy too was gone into darkness.
CHAPTER SIX
LET’S GO TO THE VIDEO
Upon awakening alive and comfortable in a cushy bed, Lucy murmured, “Ouch. My head hurts.” Then she heard the cries of seagulls above the soft call of the surf. She opened her eyes. She lay atop the covers on her hotel room bed, her hotel bathrobe draped over her body. Terry sat on one side, Marcia on the other, both looking concerned. Warm sunset light angled in the open doors, and a faint breeze swayed the white curtains. “Jesus, what happened? What time is it? How did I get here?”
“It’s almost five o’clock,” Terry said. “You’ve been out for like six or seven hours.”
“Out? What do you mean, out? I was in the water, and—Oh my God, what happened? What happened to Sandra?”
Terry and Marcia exchanged glances. “I was able to get to you, Lucy,” said Marcia. “But not her. I was paddling back out and both you and Sandra had wiped out. It was insane out there. I was closer to you and you were going under after that wave threw you over the falls so I came after you. I think Sandra must have gotten hit by her board because she was face-down in the water like she was unconscious. Those poor fools on the wave runner tried to get to her, and instead, they got snatched up by that giant wave and crashed right down on top of her.”
“People think she may have already drowned,” said Terry. “But it looked like the collision fractured her skull as well. It was a total disaster. The wave runner guys barely made it to the beach alive, and they lost a ten thousand dollar camera and the wave runner. They got them both back when the waves finally backed down and the tide went out this afternoon but both are completely ruined, and the camera guy broke his arm.”
“Jesus Christ,” Lucy whispered. “God, thanks for saving my ass, Marcia. I don’t know what happened out there, but—”
“You shouldn’t have been out in that surf, Luce,” Terry said. “It was too big.”
“But what about the contest? What happened to the contest?”
“That crazy fuck Bobby insisted that they keep going,” Terry said. “First Marcia hauled you onto your board and somehow she got the two of you in by riding this giant wall of whitewater sideways on the longboard, then we dragged you up on the beach, and after a few seconds of mouth-to-mouth you woke up, tossed about a quart of saltwater, took a deep breath, and looked at me. God I was so happy to see you open your eyes I cried. Jesus, Lucy, that was way too close.”
“Then you looked at me,” said Marcia. “And said ‘what the hell happened?’ and passed back out. But you were breathing normally so we laid you down in the shade and Terry sat with you to make sure you were OK. Then Martina brought Sandra in like five minutes later, and Bobby and Dario scooped her up and wrapped her in a towel and Townsend volunteered to take her away to the hospital in Puerto Vallarta but a couple of us saw her, and her head looked really bad. Like smashed in. I swear to God to me it looked like she was already dead, Lucy. I don’t know, but…” her voice quavered. Then she took a deep breath and went on. “Dario’s her fucking boyfriend, and he saw her too, and he didn’t even want to go to the hospital.” She hesitated. “But he’s a heartless bastard and I think your friend Bobby’s a Hollywood psycho so after we got both of you onto the beach, I couldn’t believe it, Bobby was like, on with the show. We didn’t know what to say or do at that point, to tell the truth I was kind of in shock, but anyways me and Martina paddled back out like trained dogs and got some more waves. Since Bev wasn’t quite at our level, at least in those big waves, me and Martina made the finals.
“Then Henrietta and Moki Sue took the second heat over Charlene and Erica, no problem, no accidents, no weird shit. Then we all sat on the beach for half an hour not saying a word.”
Teresa cut in: “Bobby and Judy and the X Dames people were walking around all solemn, playing up how the drama of the contest had been heightened by the “accident” and shit, I mean they were just feeding off the tragedy like jackals, Lucy, it was disgusting. And I know that’s exactly what he wants us to do with whatever the fuck else we write, too. I tell you I’m ready to walk.”
Marcia said, “Anyways me and the other girls were all too freaked out to do anything except what they told us, I swear to God we were numb and dumb—so then the four of us went back into the waves for the final.”
“And Marcia simply kicked ass,” Terry said. “She won hands down.”
“You won? That’s great!”
“Fuck it. It isn’t great at all. Not with what happened to Sandra.”
“But still, as they say, the show must go on.”
“I guess. Yeah. Right,” said Marcia. “The show. Fuck the show.”
“Well, think of the 25 grand, and art school, and…”
“It’s blood money, Lucy.”
“Come on, Marcia, don’t say that. You didn’t do anything…”
“Other than save Lucy’s life, win the contest, and prove yourself a major heroine, girl,” said Terry. “Me and Lucy were ready to spank your bottom after you dragged that horndog panther back here last night, but now you’re like, queen of the X Dames.”
“Queen of the Dead’s more like it,” said Marcia. “God, I still can’t believe what happened.” Tears came into her eyes. “It was so surreal and scary. One minute it’s a great contest, I was in a total groove, just dominating out there, and the next minute it’s a nightmare at sea.”
“Hey,” said Lucy. “Be quiet a minute. I need to think.” She sat up in bed, then put a hand to her forehead. “Oi, my head hurts. But some things are coming back to me now.” She looked around. “Did you happen to save my camera along with me, Marcia?”
“I did. It’s in your bag.”
“Good job. Thanks.” She stopped. “Now what I’m wondering is why would I pass out again for six hours if I was unconscious for like one or two minutes, or whatever, and then you brought me back. Is that normal?”
“What do you mean, normal?” Terry asked. “There’s nothing normal about almost drowning, Luce.”
“I know, I know, but still.” She paused. “So where did they end up taking Sandra?”
“To the hospital in PV.”
“Have they declared a cause of death?”
They both shrugged. “Not to us,” said Terry. “In fact I can’t say—at least not for sure—that she’s dead. But we’ve been here keeping an eye on you since Marcia got her photo and video op collecting her prop winner’s check from Judy and Bobby, who both smiled for the camera while Marcia looked like she was at a funeral.”
“Well I was, kind of, wasn’t I?” Marcia said.
“Yeah. You were,” Terry said succinctly. “Then it was lunchtime. We weren’t even remotely hungry so we borrowed a car and hauled you up here and haven’t heard anything from anybody since.”
“Poor Sandra,” Lucy said. “She was a sweetheart, wasn’t she? I mean, kinda tough, but really goodhearted. She just wanted to hang down here and spread the surf gospel. God damn.” Lucy’s eyes welled with tears. She wiped them with the edge of her bedsheet, and focused her still wavery brain: “Hey, listen, now that I’m up and OK, let’s see if we can find out if they said yet how she died—and I’d like to see if we can get them to do a blood test on her, OK?”
“Whoa, Lucy, slow down. A blood test? Why?” asked Terry. “She drowned and got her head bashed in. Take your choice.”
“Hey, you saved my ass and dragged me out of the water and woke me up and then I pass out for six hours. So what’s up with that?” She looked at Marcia.
“What?”
“Sound like drugs to you?”
“Drugs? What do you mean, do you think I drugged her—and you?”
“No, not you, of course not. But maybe somebody did.”
“But why?” Terry said. “What would be the point of—” It dawned on her. “What, one of the other competitors?”
“Moki Sue?” Marcia said. “No way. She was totally bummed out. That’s half the reason I won. After what happened she could hardly paddle out, much less surf the way she needed to, to beat me. Same with Martina. As for me, I was pissed that they even continued with the contest, and I guess it’s lucky for me that when I surf mad I surf really well. Comes from fighting the crowds at Malibu and Topanga, where you have to battle for every wave.”
Lucy looked at her. “Listen, Marcia, I don’t know how you surf when you’re mad but I can tell you that I got a bunch of images of that first wave you got, when you did the aerial 360, and that was one spectacular maneuver, I have to say.”
X Dames: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 3) Page 9
