Page 123 of The King Contract
On Oahu’s North Shore, a small stretch of reef travels up the shoreline to create the most beautiful barrels surfers will ever have the opportunity to ride. But as exquisite as they are, if you mess up, it can have dire consequences.
Beneath the shallow water are enormous stumps, a mix of rock and coral that have led to some gnarly injuries for surfers over the years. Surfing legends have lost their lives here. The riskof hitting the reef is high, and every time I surf here I shit myself. Figuratively. There’s always fear. Fear I’m going to fuck myself up, fear I’m going to fail. But in my years as a surfer, I’ve learned to navigate through that fear. If you let fear paralyse you, you might as well hang up your board.
This competition has been a bit different already. Usually heats and rounds are compressed into a couple of days, but bad weather has meant everything’s been spread out. After days of heats, the quarterfinals and the semi-finals, the day of the men’s final is here, and I’m one of the two fighting to be crowned this year’s winner. My competitor, Zachary Ryan, is an eighteen-year-old up and comer, whose daredevil instincts mimic mine from ten years ago. He takes more risks than others, pushes himself that little bit further. He’s known for dropping in on surfers who have priority in competitions, but even though that means losing points, he’s cocky enough to take the risk. Losing points for not playing fair is sometimes worth it when you have the skill to make up for it on the wave.
There’s a break in the waves and both of us are sitting on our boards out the back, watching as the surf comes in, waiting to see which wave is going to be the one to increase our points, and make us the winner.
Zachary is ahead on points, so he has priority. I can’t cut in on his wave without receiving a penalty, and with how the points are stacked, it’s not worth taking the risk. Right now, we’re in a game I’m all too familiar with. He’ll make it look like he’s going to go and then fake out, or sees I’m going to take one and cuts in. It’s a strategy a lot of surfers use, me included, but it’s annoying as hell when it’s someone so obnoxious.
He’s a younger version of you.My mind knows this to be true. I’ve been a cocky, rude, cheeky risk taker on the surfing circuit, more than I’d care to admit.
When the wind blows in this direction, you can hear the roar of the crowd, the cheers and the cries and the claps. Sometimes it’s as if they’re on the water with you. I stare out at the crowd as I bob in the water, every so often hearing the voiceover announcements and commentators sharing thoughts. Dan flew in this morning with my folks and Gabby. They’d be on shore by now, watching. My mum’s probably already hiding behind her hands in panic.
I wonder if Millie is watching at home. If she’s shut me out or if she’s keeping tabs. I’d like to think she’s watching, annoyed at herself for taking an interest, but watching anyway. I know I hurt her, but Millie’s not malicious. She might always resent me and be angry, but she’s not hateful.
I want to fight for her but also want to respect her boundaries. I know Dan’s seen her a couple of times, but that man’s a safe locked in a vault inside a chamber. He’s said nothing, except for a few brief updates to Mack for PR purposes. The main thing is she’s okay and that’s the very least I want for her.
The commentators’ voices blow in my direction, and I hear them announce we have less than seven minutes before time is up. Our best two waves count to win, and I’m behind. I need to score an absolute ripper of a wave to snag this. Which means, right now, I have to focus.
I turn my attention to the waves of water rolling in behind me, sizing up the cleft of the wave and the curve of the drop. The short reef means there’s limited time to pull off the score you need. You’ve got to stay upright, get high points, and not get yourself killed in the process.
Zachary is several feet away, floating on his board. He looks over his shoulder at me, a smug grin on his face. “Wanna call it a day, old man?” He’s half-joking, but he knows he’s got this if I don’t do something drastic.
“No fucking way.”
The minutes tick down, and I watch him size up each wave as they roll in. He goes to take a couple, but pulls out each time, either on purpose or to psych me out. When he finally does take another, he has to exit before the end and doesn’t improve his total score, which is a small relief.
When there’s less than ninety seconds remaining, Zachary grins at me and shouts, “See you in there, old man!” and takes his final wave, disappearing over the lip and out of my line of sight. I watch the big screen from my vantage point but can’t make out what he achieves. The wind blows the audio my way and informs me, I’ve got to get damn-near close to a perfect ten to beat him.
The adrenaline and motion of the waves set my entire body alight. The nerves, the excitement, the smell of sea salt and sunscreen, the hundreds of people watching from the shore. This makes me feel most alive. This is when I know I’m where I need to be, doing what I was born to do. My dad’s voice sounds in my mind, taking me back to when I was a kid and he taught me how to catch tiny waves at the beach near our house in New South Wales.You don’t know, unless you go.
It’s a common term in the surf world, particularly when teaching and learning. I love the simplicity of it and how it not only applies to the water, but everyday life as well.
You don’t know, unless you go.
Fuck it.Here goes nothing.
I go through the backdoor, dropping into the wave from the top of the crest. My stomach drops with a familiar lurch as I steer my board to the left, tucking my body in. The roar of the water deafens me as it rises over my head, my left hand skimming across the wave as it curves into a thick barrel. I charge through it, bending my knees as deep as I can and praying to whatever God exists I can stay on. That I make it out the other side.
For a split-second, I smile to myself, realising I’m slicing across one of the deepest waves I’ve ever ridden. I wish I could bottle up this moment to taste whenever I want.
The wave surges over my head, the circle of light at the end of the wave tunnel shrinking to a pinhead. I steady my core and keep my head down as the inevitable clash of water starts and grit my teeth as the wall of blue fills my line of vision.
I’m not going to make it.
Any minute now I’ll catch the edge of my board and get smashed off. I squeeze my eyes shut and duck even lower, hoping to whatever sea god is listening I don’t get whipped off and collide with the reef. The roar in my ears is deafening as darkness envelops me.
And then, the darkness dissipates.
The roar softens.
I snap my eyes open and whip hair out of my eyes, thrusting my hands into the air as I fly out the end of the barrel. I turn towards the shoreline and pump my fists, the rumble of the crowd confirming what I already know.
“Oh my god! Did you see that? A perfect ten for the King!”
I did it.
I won the Pipe Pro.
