Page 37 of Ride the Wave

‘It wasn’t for very long and it wasn’t graceful, but it didn’t matter,’ he continues. ‘I’d done it. That elation, it was pure joy, you know? I was gliding with the water – shakily – but still. That was it. I knew as soon as I crashed into the water afterwards that there was nothing else I ever wanted to do.’

‘You were a natural.’

‘I don’t know.’ His eyes fall modestly to his feet as he scrunches his toes into the sand again. ‘Dad’s never pressured me into it – you’ve met him, he’s not like that. He loved it as a hobby and a passion, and so did I.’ He pauses, his forehead creasing in thought. ‘But it somehow also felt as though I never had a choice. I had to be out there on the water, there was nothing else for me. Does that make sense? I’m talking shit.’

‘No, I think it does make sense,’ I assure him. ‘Would it sound too much of a wanker thing to say that… you feel as though the ocean chose you? It’s part of your soul.’

He chuckles. ‘It does sound like a bit of a wanker thing to say. But yeah. Something like that. Do you feel the same about writing?’

I wasn’t expecting the question. The focus is meant to be on him.

‘Uh… I… I don’t know. Maybe. It’s something I’ve always done.’ He’s watching me intently waiting for a proper answer, so I take a moment to think about it. ‘I guess… I can’tnotwrite.’ I shoot him a look. ‘That sounds like a wanker thing to say too.’

‘It does. But hey,’ he shrugs, ‘I get it.’

He smiles in a way that makes my breath hitch. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me, his eyes softening as his smile broadens, that makes my belly pool with warmth and I realise that my tactic is working. Right here, right now, he’s not seeing me as a journalist, sent to interrogate him and ruin his image. He’s simply talking to me, Iris, about his passion in life while we sit on a beach. We’ve had a breakthrough.

I tear my eyes away from his to look out at the water.

‘It must be different surfing here to Australia, though,’ I reason, steering our conversation back on track.

‘It is. Different waves, different people, different vibe.’ He nods thoughtfully. ‘Both are good in their own ways. I have… missed Australia, though. I’ve missed it heaps, to be honest.’ For a moment, he looks pained. ‘I’m looking forward to going back next month.’

‘Do you feel like you’re going home?’

His eyes lock on mine, his eyebrows knitting together, as though I’ve asked him something he hadn’t considered before.

‘No,’ he says eventually, refusing to look away. ‘It will always mean a lot to me, but this is my home now.’

‘I can understand why. It’s…’ I raise my eyes skyward, searching for the right word ‘…calm here.’

‘Definitely calmer than London,’ he comments.

‘Most places tend to be. I like that it’s busy, though.’

‘You always want to live in a city?’

‘I don’t know. London is all I’ve ever known.’ I hesitate and then decide to divulge more information, if only to continue the connection we’re forging. ‘My parents wanted me to buy a small flat somewhere – I’ve been saving up the deposit and they were happy to help too. But… it didn’t seem right. I don’t know why.’

He digs his heels into the sand, pushing his feet out to straighten his legs. ‘You can’t settle for somewhere if you don’t have the gut instinct that it’s the right place for you.’

‘Is that how you feel about Burgau?’

‘Yeah. I always felt restless in Australia. My life was different. Here I feel like… I can breathe. Do my own thing. No pressure.’

‘As in, no one expects anything of you here? Is that how you felt when you were living in Australia?’ I ask cautiously. ‘Like you had to live up to something? Maybe because of who your mum was, or because you were successful so young?’

His expression darkens. ‘That sounds like an interview question.’ Suddenly, his eyes widen. ‘You record on your phone.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You record on your phone,’ he repeats. ‘It was that other thing that you turned off and put in your bag, but not your phone.’

As he spots it still lying in the sand between us, he moves to reach for it but I snatch it up before he can get it.

‘You’ve been recording this conversation this whole time?’ he asks angrily.

‘Yes, I have,’ I tell him honestly, pressing stop and saving it.

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