by Paul Haines
'She'll come,' he says, as if he knows what I'm thinking. 'Both of them will come. They'll want to kiss me when this is over.'
'They'll come, sure.'
The tarmac is hot. I can feel it cooking the soles of my jandals.
'When did they put in a bridge?' I ask, shifting the bags to my other shoulder. 'Or, for that matter, a path?'
Sam laughed. 'Remember that first time we came here, Toby? I was about eight, you must have been going on six. I think that was the first time I ever saw a woman's breasts.'
'Yeah, me, too.'
'Remember Uncle Andy hanging shit on Mum and Aunty Jane and Aunty Elizabeth for not getting their tops off?'
I nod, though I don't remember that. All I remember is Uncle Andy's big hairy penis flapping in the waves as we tried to splash it and our Aunties yelling at him as they sunbathed. 'Geez, he had a big dick, didn't he?'
We both laugh. 'And a different girlfriend every Christmas.'
'I remember the sunburn, too. Our bums peeled for days.'
There are perhaps fifty people on the beach. Half will be support people like me. Many of the rest have almost finished digging shallow troughs in the wet sand, not far from where the surf crashes to shore. Several already lie in their holes, as the sand is piled back over them. I place the bags at our allotment, open the beach bag, and remove a small spade. Sam undresses, and swaps his clothes for the spade. He kneels, naked, and begins to dig in the sand. If he is to have any chance at all, he must dig his own hole, or that's what everyone believes. His body is emaciated, the sinew and muscle stretched taut across his limbs. His elbows and knees jut uncomfortably, all knobbly bone and calluses. Scars stretch from his pubis to his sternum, bisected across the abdomen just above the navel. A cross carved in skin. It has healed badly, a ridge of purple tissue riding proud through the hair on his belly.
'Water's warm,' he says, digging deeper into sand wet with hot springs.
His ribs run like corrugated iron up his torso towards shoulder blades protruding like chicken wings from his back. He's lost a quarter of his original body weight. Every muscle flexes in sharp relief beneath the skin as he digs his hole, all fat long since burned off his body.
I remove the laptop from its bag. It blinks from hibernation mode, the screen difficult to see in the sunlight. I receive the signal broadcasting from the nearby cafes and arrange the windows on the screen. Newsfeeds stream in, betting agencies list odds—I can't help but look, and Sam is listed at 15:1, roughly middle of the pack—and I initiate the communication channels Sam and I will use for the duration of the tide. I mute the volume on the noise coming in from the newsfeeds, then take Sam's earpiece from the bag. It resembles a hearing aid, with a spur of moulded plastic that holds a miniature camera. I'll be able to see what Sam sees as the surf rolls in. I point the earpiece at Sam, and his skinny body shows up on the screen. I blow into the earpiece and adjust the volume levels on the laptop.
'You ready for this?'
Sam looks up, sweat on his face. 'When I've finished the hole.'
On my screen, one of the newsfeeds shows a reporter interviewing the obese man. I turn and see them standing thirty metres up the beach from us. A cameraman stands nearby filming. The man resumes his digging, and the reporter and cameraman head towards us, stopping to interview the woman sprawled in the sand at the base of her wheelchair. Her support person crouches next to her. Even from here, I can see him glare angrily at them. The reporter kneels and thrusts his microphone towards her. Back on the screen, she smiles politely. Her face is sheen with sweat. She clearly mouths the words 'fuck off' to the reporter. I consider turning up the volume on the feed as the reporter says something else, and then the support person is between them, forcing them back with his chest. As they tussle, she jabs her spade back into the sand. It's obvious to me she hasn't the strength to finish the job in time. I wonder if she'll let her support take over the hole.
Statistically, that would be a bad move, but if she's not inside before the tide rises, she'll have even less chance. If you're not in the hole, you'll lose your soul, or so they say.
'Reporters coming our way,' I tell Sam. 'You want me to intervene?'
'I've got nothing to hide.'
'You know how they are.'
'I don't care. About them or what anyone thinks.' He pauses and rests the spade on his knees. He looks at me; his eyes are clear and untroubled. 'This is my last chance.'
We watch as they approach.
'Hi, Steve Moki, iNet. We're interviewing the contestants. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, please sir?'
'It's not a competition,' Sam says.
'Sorry, I meant participants,' Steve says. 'Your name, sir?'
'Sam Sawyer.'
'Pleasure to meet you, Sam.' Steve scans the screen on his phone, no doubt looking up Sam's online profile. 'You have metastatic cancer in your lymph node system, Sam. Sorry to hear that. What do you think your chances are?'
'For beating the cancer? Or for beating the tide?' Sam laughs. 'How many people on this beach, Steve?'
'Thirty-six. Participants.'
'So far, someone has successfully walked back up this beach and into the rest of their life every single year. Why not me? Better odds than chemo. Better than the lotto. I'd say my chances are good.' Sam laughs. 'Unless this is the year that no one does.'
'Are you afraid of dying, Mr Sawyer?'
Sam pauses for a second, casts a glance at me, then faces Steve again. 'I'm not afraid of dying. I'm afraid of leaving my wife a widow in the prime of her life. I'm afraid of leaving my three-year old daughter without a father. I'm afraid of my death ripping my family apart. Dying? That part is easy.'
Steve indicates the crowd in the stands and along the ridge overlooking the beach. 'And are your family here today?'
Sam stares up at the crowds and shakes his head. 'No.'
'Is that because they don't believe that you'll win today, Mr Sawyer? Or that you don't believe?'
Sam turns his back on the camera. The spade is back in his hand.
He scoops out sand and piles it next to the hole.
'Mr Sawyer?'
'I think that's enough,' I say.
Steve nods and backs off, then faces the camera. 'Not too optimistic there, folks. A statement like that might just affect his odds. Over to Carrie at iNetBet for the latest update and our panel of experts. This is Steve Moki, for iNet.'
Steve gives me a nod, his offsider downs the camera, and they stroll back towards the path leading towards the bars, cafes, and betting agencies.
Sam is crying.
'You okay, bro?'
'Yeah.' He places the spade next to the hole and climbs in. It's deeper than it has to be. 'Give me the earpiece.'
I insert it into his ear and attach the clips so it won't work loose in the surf.
'How's that?' he asks.
The window on my laptop clearly shows my head staring away off camera. He's watching me watch the screen. His voice comes through clearly on the speakers, distortion free. The mic is waterproof, and I've been assured it offers the best underwater sound available.
'Good,' I say. 'Perfect.'
'Then fill me in.'
I pack the sand in around his body. There is a heat there already, infused in every grain from the thermal springs running beneath Hot Water Beach.
'Make sure you get my arms tight. I don't want to be able to get out if I change my mind.'
I bury his stick-like arms as he holds them beneath his back.
'You can always change your mind. You just say. I'm right here. I can get you out.'
'Come on, Toby. What would be the point of that?' He doesn't look at me as he says this, instead he stares at the sea. The waves are rolling in now. Low tide has passed. A tear rolls down his cheek.
'I'm just saying, that's all. I'll be sitting up just past the high tide mark. Just in case.'
He says nothing. I finish packing the sand in tight around him until only his head rest
s upon the sand. His thin hair is wet with sweat that beads down his forehead, disguising the last of the tears.
I take a tube of sun block from the beach bag, squeeze out a handful of cream, and smear it over his face.
'Wouldn't want your blistered noggin all over the media when you come out of this, eh?'
We try to laugh. I pack the bags, then press my nose to his scalp, breathing in for what might be the last time the smell of my brother's sweat, chemical-free and born of the sun. I kiss him, and then take our gear up to the shade beyond the high tide mark.
As soon as I'm out of earshot I hear him sob. He's forgotten I have him on audio feed. I sit, arrange the bags and the laptop, and listen to Sam's deep breathing exercises. He's meditating.
All we can do now is wait.
The waves gather momentum, crashing against the shore. Each surge of froth inches closer than the one before. The noise of the crowd is steady, a constant barrage against the day, while the helicopters hover above, rotors throbbing. I count off thirty-six heads, sitting on the sand. Thirty-six bodies buried in sand heated by thermal springs. A human hangi, a veritable feast offered up to the Gods. The betting agencies have been keeping official survival records for a decade. In that time 63 people quit before the tide came in, 57 people cooked to death, and 185 people drowned. Sixteen people have walked back up that beach. There has never been a year when no one survived.
Statistics. Everywhere. iNetBet lists everything you need to know in order to maximise your winnings. Age. Weight. Sex. Race. Religion. Disease. Positive and negative weightings. Statistics. They are only good for telling you what happened in the past, for the group, not the individual. They can't predict the future, they can't predict the now. You're either on or off. Dead or alive.
The odds on Samuel surviving the tide are now sitting on 60:1.
The fact that his family are not here has weighed heavily against him. I have $10,000 riding on Samuel. In this game, no one cares about match-fixing. At least Sam's interview has worked in our favour.
The crash of the surf is louder now, as it breaks closer and closer.
I check the camera. The waves appear enormous from this angle, the foam bubbling in the sun as the water sucks back to the sea.
It's only metres away. The microphone picks up Sam's steady respiration, barely audible beneath the muted roar of the ocean. It won't be long now. Five minutes, maybe less.
'Toby?' Sam's voice over the microphone.
'I'm here, Sam.'
'No word from Tina or Izzy?'
'Nothing, Sam.'
'I just thought ...' He trails off.
'You can stop this. You've got three more months, at least. All the doctors say so.'
'I know what they say.'
'That's ninety more days to watch your daughter grow, ninety more days of love, of guidance.'
'I'm dying, Toby. I can feel it.' He laughs. 'I'm not burying my head in the sand because I'm scared of facing reality!'
'Let me come down, dig you out.'
'If I walk off this beach today, Toby, it's after the tide has worked its magic. Whatever it is, whatever fucking miracle that happens here, I'm going to be part of it. I don't have three months left. And I want so much more than that.'
'Please, Sam.' My throat burns and I'm struggling to swallow. 'Please. Don't—'
'Don't you fucking pull out on me now! You told me, you fucking swore as my brother, you'd do this with me. Don't you fucking dare!'
'I won't, Sam, I won't. I'm with you, bro, all the way. To the end.'
We say nothing for a little while, and listen to the ocean. The crowd is quietening. As the tide creeps in, the tension blankets those crowded in the stands.
One of the participants screams from the far end of the beach.
It doesn't stop, a hoarse ululating acceptance of pain. The cameras for the newsfeeds zoom in. An elderly woman, her face a rictus, in between screams she sucks in breath, panting '... it burns it burns ...' and then the screams continue. Her friend runs from her position above high tide, but is sent back by the woman screaming in the sand. She knows the stakes.
Sam hasn't even moved his head. For a second I'm terrified he's already dead. I increase the volume on the laptop, finding instant relief in the sound of his breathing. Foam is now settling around his head. Some of it has splattered the lens of the camera, but it is washed away as the next wave rolls in to lap at his face.
There's a roar from the crowd. The obese man has clawed his way from the sand. He staggers up towards the path. People clap and cheer and boo. His skin is burnt red. He collapses short of the tarmac, face first into the sand. His massive frame wobbles and shudders as he howls in dismay. Medics appear on the path and head towards him. The crowd roars again. A woman rises from the beach, water and sand dripping from her body. Her feet splash in the foam washed up by the surf. Her support person rushes to greet her and they enfold in each other's arms.
'What's going on?' Sam's voice, followed by crackling against his mic. I hear him spitting out water.
'The first to leave. Three, no, now four.'
If no more follow suit, that will be the last of the quitters for this year. The waves now buffet the remaining heads. It is too late now to repent, to dig your way out of your grave.
I know this. Sam knows this. So do the punters, as the odds are recalculated onscreen.
He gasps between the waves, his head tilted back, trying to keep his airways free. 'Have they ... are they here?'
Should I lie to him? Would that make him feel better? Would it make me feel better? I choose my words carefully.
'We're with you, Sam. All of us. We love you.'
Only the top of his head can be seen. His hair drifts in the tide like seaweed clinging to a rock. Others, those who chose to dig closer to the water in the hope that it may affect their outcome, are completely submerged. The crowd has fallen silent. The crash of surf and the intrusive buzz of the helicopters are the only sounds that remain.
I feel sick. My fingers leave a slick of sweat over the control pad on the laptop.
A call comes in.
'Toby?' Tina's voice is almost calm, although I can hear a dam close to bursting behind her words. 'Where are you guys? Is he okay?'
'We're to the far right of the path. The last ones.' I can no longer see the head of my brother. The waves are surging now. Foam and sand churn as they hit the beach. A huge rip has formed and drags water back into the sea. 'He's just gone under.'
'Oh, God, we're too late, we're too late.' Tina sobs, then manages to control herself. 'The traffic, Toby ... we didn't think it would be ... the traffic.' I hear Izzy in the background asking what's wrong.
'He might still be able to hear. I can connect you,' I say.
Sam's camera shows a swirling mess of cloudy water. The roar of the ocean pounds his microphone.
Tina pauses. 'Okay.'
'You're on.'
'Hi, Daddy.' Izzy says, loud and clear. Each word a delicate helium bubble, her voice so little, full of life and promise. 'Daddy?'
She pauses, then her voice is quieter, distant. 'He's not talking to me, Mummy.'
'Keep talking, honey, he can hear you. He just can't talk back right now,' says Tina.
'I hope the swim makes your tummy all better, Daddy. I made a picture for you.' Another pause. 'He's still not talking to me, Mummy, why's he—'
Tina says something, but I cannot make out the words.
And then Izzy is back on the line. 'Bye, Daddy, I love you.'
I'm watching the camera to see if Sam acknowledges any of this.
Some last gasp, a flurry of bubbles escaping his lungs, perhaps. I hear nothing but the water wrapped around the microphone, see nothing but the murkiness of the ocean as the surf rolls up Hot Water Beach, racing towards the high tide.
'Sam, I love you.' Tina's voice breaks. 'We'll see you soon, we'll—' She finishes the sentence with a half-swallowed sob. Izzy begins to cry. Tina hangs up.
&nbs
p; I sit there in the shade, watching the screen, watching the waves.
The crowd sits in silence. I turn off the laptop. There is nothing more to be seen there.
The rocks where Uncle Andy used to take us at low tide are now beaten with surf. He taught us how to shuck oysters fresh off the rocks, lending us his fishing knife to help pry open the jagged shells. I'd cut my finger and Sam had held it tight in his palm as he led me back up towards Mum, while blood poured down our wrists. She had scolded us and Uncle Andy both, but we were back on the rocks the following day with his knife hunting for more oysters.
I look up the beach. The nearest support person has their head buried in their hands, rocking slowly back and forth on their knees. I stand and walk towards the edge of the water, letting the Pacific Ocean wash over my feet. The water is cool. At least that's something.
Where there is life there is always hope, I tell myself.
We wait for the tide to turn. Eventually we walk down the wet sand to dig up the dead, our hearts in our hands, the crowd poised to applaud.
***
Afterword: High Tide at Hot Water Beach
I was born in Thames, the town that masquerades as a city on the Coromandel Peninsula in New Zealand. My grandparents helped raise me in those first two years in Tairua, a sleepy fishing village, until we eventually moved to the Big Smoke that was South Auckland. I spent every summer back there with my grandparents, cousins, uncles, and aunties until I was twenty-years old. By then, I wanted to go off and get drunk, take drugs, and hopefully get laid, and that was pretty tough to do if my entire extended family was around, so my trips back to the Coromandel became less frequent come summertime.
I loved the beaches there, both the bay and the surf at Tairua and Pauanui, which were close by, and every now and then we'd get to go to Hot Water Beach. As a boy, I felt intimated by the nudity of some bathers (excited, sure, but I was far too shy to ogle like my uncles were sure to be doing), but I loved the beach itself and digging yourself into the hot wet sands. Unlike Australia, where you can stay in the water until you are exhausted, in New Zealand, you stay in the water until you become too cold. At Hot Water Beach though, you could stay warm forever.
