The Barrel
The day felt strong. He felt strong. Striding through the gilded October afternoon sunshine, his sense of power growing with every step. ‘It should be pumping. There’s a light on-shore, but there should still be plenty of shape. If the swell from this morning is still there.’
He’d seen it early that morning, flashing past the tinted windows of his mother’s car as she’d driven him to the schoolyard. A straight westerly swell, the remnants of an almighty storm that had raged across the whole of last week. A ragged, broken, lumpy, wind-torn swell that was hard to be in and harder to be away from, had beaten onto the beach near his home every day for a solid week.
And every day of that rain-sodden, windswept devil of a week, he’d made the tantalising trip straight past that swollen ocean to school, to sit exams. To wrack his brains and wrest out twelve years of learning in a few sweaty hours in a sweat-stinking gym. And in between to bury his head in books, his throat as dry as the pages he turned, imagining each to be a perfect barrel as he curled it over in his hands.
On this, the day of his last exam, the sun had ridden over a thin band of cloud in the east at dawn and leapt into a clear sky. The swell had straightened and become organised into regimented blue corduroy lines marching across the ocean as his mother had driven him those long, last miles for that last exam. That last ever exam. That final moment of schooling for a lifetime. The long awaited portal into adulthood. Now the exam was over the door out of childhood had closed behind him, and he was free. Literally free, and feeling strong.
When he got to the hilltop overlooking the beach, not a hundred metres from his house, he broke into a run. The corduroy lines were every bit as strong and thick as they had been that morning. The onshore wind was light, untroubling to the feathering peaks that lined the beach. Sprinting, he flew into the house, tore himself out his school clothes for the last time, unconcerned about flying buttons or broken zippers, pulled on a spring suit and bolted out the door with a 6’0’’ under his arm. All before his mother could finish saying, ‘is that you dear? How was your exam?’
His strength was still building as he ran hard down the stairs to the beach, across the sand and into the water. Wedging barrels rolled and thundered from a dozen peaks within the wide bay, calling him with wide open mouths. A total of eight guys out, everyone else obviously satiated by a long morning session in a lilting offshore, and sitting out the light onshore, awaiting a late afternoon glass off.
It was shallow, there was no denying that. And it was pitching, no denying that, either. But get inside one of those spinning barrels and you had a chance to make it through the deepest eye you’d ever pierced. If you were fast and strong. And he felt fast and strong.
Paddling out to the peak was a breeze. Punching through the shorebreak, he felt more powerful and in control with every stroke, till he was sitting on the peak. Sitting ready to take it on, alone on the ocean, it seemed. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.
The power, the confidence and joy welling up within him was almost too much, a physical presence inside him, swelling and heaving, as restless as the blue ocean around him. He slowed his breathing, tried to understand the source of the feeling.
‘I’m seventeen. I have just finished my physics exam, the final exam of my school career. I am officially free of the education department. Of tuck-shops and uniforms, and deputy principals with smarmy looks and incredibly efficient spies. I am not the smartest kid who ever walked the earth, but I will be a successful man because I have strength, determination, and I will work hard.
‘And right now, at this time, I feel the full power of my youth and freedom. I am here, on my surfboard, free to take any wave I choose. This wave, right here and now, is mine.’
The wave had stood up as it approached the sandbank out of deepwater, rearing and broadening like a cobra’s head, ready to strike. He turned to paddle into it, his energy growing with the adrenaline rush, confidence and power coursing through his veins.
The bowl opened up beneath him as the wave picked him up lightly, like a surfboard might pick up a grain of sand on the beach, and then he was on his feet and dropping swiftly down the jacking face. Growing speed, steepening wall, and pounding heart, he lent his strength to the wave and felt it grow in return. At just the right moment, precisely the right juncture, he moved. Threw his weight backwards into the wave, planting his back foot and jamming the tail into the meat of the thing, then throwing his weight forward again to gather speed as he pulled into the barrel.
In an instant he was engulfed in the spinning eye, threading the deepening hole deeper than ever before. Noises ceased. Exams and school evaporated. The darkness within the pit seemed to grow denser, and time stood still. The barrel enveloped him, held him like an insect in amber.
That time was passing, he knew but didn’t feel. How much time flowed beneath his board, around his powerful form, through the spinning vortex, he couldn’t tell. Nanoseconds? Or years? It didn’t matter. He was in the deepest, warmest passage of his life, deeply comfortable and profoundly at home. The barrel could go on forever, and he wouldn’t know it.
He awoke startled. His eyes flashed open and confusion blew him away. The barrel? Where was it? Just a moment ago, he was in there, glorying, now where was he?
Had he taken a head dip in the sand? Died of utter pleasure in the tube? No, it was worse than that. In a rush, he knew. He was 34 years old. Hadn’t surfed in seven years, just worked and worried. Pushed and found no place that yielded, tried and found no way out of the box he’d built around himself. Become the man he swore he’d never be, the day he’d ridden that barrel.
In the dark he rolled over, squinting at the clock radio. 4.45am. Sun up in three quarters of an hour. He sat up, started to pull on his trakky daks. His wife rolled over and in a sleepy voice asked, “What are you doing?”
“Going surfing,” he replied, suddenly feeling strong.
He’d seen it early that morning, flashing past the tinted windows of his mother’s car as she’d driven him to the schoolyard. A straight westerly swell, the remnants of an almighty storm that had raged across the whole of last week. A ragged, broken, lumpy, wind-torn swell that was hard to be in and harder to be away from, had beaten onto the beach near his home every day for a solid week.
And every day of that rain-sodden, windswept devil of a week, he’d made the tantalising trip straight past that swollen ocean to school, to sit exams. To wrack his brains and wrest out twelve years of learning in a few sweaty hours in a sweat-stinking gym. And in between to bury his head in books, his throat as dry as the pages he turned, imagining each to be a perfect barrel as he curled it over in his hands.
On this, the day of his last exam, the sun had ridden over a thin band of cloud in the east at dawn and leapt into a clear sky. The swell had straightened and become organised into regimented blue corduroy lines marching across the ocean as his mother had driven him those long, last miles for that last exam. That last ever exam. That final moment of schooling for a lifetime. The long awaited portal into adulthood. Now the exam was over the door out of childhood had closed behind him, and he was free. Literally free, and feeling strong.
When he got to the hilltop overlooking the beach, not a hundred metres from his house, he broke into a run. The corduroy lines were every bit as strong and thick as they had been that morning. The onshore wind was light, untroubling to the feathering peaks that lined the beach. Sprinting, he flew into the house, tore himself out his school clothes for the last time, unconcerned about flying buttons or broken zippers, pulled on a spring suit and bolted out the door with a 6’0’’ under his arm. All before his mother could finish saying, ‘is that you dear? How was your exam?’
His strength was still building as he ran hard down the stairs to the beach, across the sand and into the water. Wedging barrels rolled and thundered from a dozen peaks within the wide bay, calling him with wide open mouths. A total of eight guys out, everyone else obviously satiated by a long morning session in a lilting offshore, and sitting out the light onshore, awaiting a late afternoon glass off.
It was shallow, there was no denying that. And it was pitching, no denying that, either. But get inside one of those spinning barrels and you had a chance to make it through the deepest eye you’d ever pierced. If you were fast and strong. And he felt fast and strong.
Paddling out to the peak was a breeze. Punching through the shorebreak, he felt more powerful and in control with every stroke, till he was sitting on the peak. Sitting ready to take it on, alone on the ocean, it seemed. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.
The power, the confidence and joy welling up within him was almost too much, a physical presence inside him, swelling and heaving, as restless as the blue ocean around him. He slowed his breathing, tried to understand the source of the feeling.
‘I’m seventeen. I have just finished my physics exam, the final exam of my school career. I am officially free of the education department. Of tuck-shops and uniforms, and deputy principals with smarmy looks and incredibly efficient spies. I am not the smartest kid who ever walked the earth, but I will be a successful man because I have strength, determination, and I will work hard.
‘And right now, at this time, I feel the full power of my youth and freedom. I am here, on my surfboard, free to take any wave I choose. This wave, right here and now, is mine.’
The wave had stood up as it approached the sandbank out of deepwater, rearing and broadening like a cobra’s head, ready to strike. He turned to paddle into it, his energy growing with the adrenaline rush, confidence and power coursing through his veins.
The bowl opened up beneath him as the wave picked him up lightly, like a surfboard might pick up a grain of sand on the beach, and then he was on his feet and dropping swiftly down the jacking face. Growing speed, steepening wall, and pounding heart, he lent his strength to the wave and felt it grow in return. At just the right moment, precisely the right juncture, he moved. Threw his weight backwards into the wave, planting his back foot and jamming the tail into the meat of the thing, then throwing his weight forward again to gather speed as he pulled into the barrel.
In an instant he was engulfed in the spinning eye, threading the deepening hole deeper than ever before. Noises ceased. Exams and school evaporated. The darkness within the pit seemed to grow denser, and time stood still. The barrel enveloped him, held him like an insect in amber.
That time was passing, he knew but didn’t feel. How much time flowed beneath his board, around his powerful form, through the spinning vortex, he couldn’t tell. Nanoseconds? Or years? It didn’t matter. He was in the deepest, warmest passage of his life, deeply comfortable and profoundly at home. The barrel could go on forever, and he wouldn’t know it.
He awoke startled. His eyes flashed open and confusion blew him away. The barrel? Where was it? Just a moment ago, he was in there, glorying, now where was he?
Had he taken a head dip in the sand? Died of utter pleasure in the tube? No, it was worse than that. In a rush, he knew. He was 34 years old. Hadn’t surfed in seven years, just worked and worried. Pushed and found no place that yielded, tried and found no way out of the box he’d built around himself. Become the man he swore he’d never be, the day he’d ridden that barrel.
In the dark he rolled over, squinting at the clock radio. 4.45am. Sun up in three quarters of an hour. He sat up, started to pull on his trakky daks. His wife rolled over and in a sleepy voice asked, “What are you doing?”
“Going surfing,” he replied, suddenly feeling strong.