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Back Under the Wave at Waimea Save as PDF
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. Copyright
  3. Epigraph
  4. Part I
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. Part II
  18. 1
  19. 2
  20. 3
  21. 4
  22. 5
  23. 6
  24. 7
  25. 8
  26. 9
  27. 10
  28. 11
  29. 12
  30. 13
  31. 14
  32. 15
  33. 16
  34. 17
  35. 18
  36. 19
  37. Part III
  38. 1
  39. 2
  40. 3
  41. 4
  42. 5
  43. 6
  44. 7
  45. 8
  46. 9
  47. 10
  48. 11
  49. 12
  50. 13
  51. An Excerpt from THE BAD ANGEL BROTHERS
  52. 1The Rejection Ritual
  53. About the Author
  54. Connect on Social Media

For fifteen or twenty minutes Sharkey straddled his board, wondering if the sets were diminishing but keeping to the back of the wave, slipping away when it built and rolled beneath him. He was content in the lift and push of the swell, and unobserved he felt a great stillness, buoyant in the black water, too small to be seen, calm in his smallness.

But he felt himself lifted higher and higher now with each successive wave, the sets rising and giving him a better view of the cliff at Sitio—the crowd had dispersed—and of the ocean. He saw a bulge at sea, like a whale surfacing, its enormous gray head emerging, losing its roundness, its mouth opening, its jaws widening , becoming cavernous, resolving into a formal wave, still rising as it neared him. He recognized it as his longed-for wish; he smiled in greeting, thinking, Yes.

This was the wave he’d been yearning for, finally reaching him from the far ocean, long awaited, the wave at last coming to meet him. He was glad to be alone for this, the intimacy of this rendezvous, relieved that no one was watching, liberated by being no more than a speck in the sea.

No one saw him being hoisted and flattening himself on his board, no one saw him paddling like mad into the spume on its crest at the edge of its lip, no one saw him make the final push and drop in. No spectator stood on the cliff as he drove left down the face of the wave, using all the strength in his legs to steer himself across the sudden ridges and creases of steep water toward the thickness of yellowy froth and sea scum on the shore—only small boys on the high cliff, kicking a football, but they were looking at their bouncing ball. And then he was tumbled, blinded, fighting for air.

19

The Kiss of Life

Sharkey’s whole back smarted like a blistered sunburn with his fresh tattoo, UNDER THE WAVE, his skin still hot, stinging with the welts of a mass of unhealed needle punctures and bright ink. He stifled a gasp as he was nudged by someone pushing behind him. He stepped aside on the lanai to let the young chattering surfers pass by, and he growled in annoyance at their clumsiness, bumping him, oafishly and unlikely, unsteady in their gait, pigeon-toed and toppling, like amphibians—so sleek in the water, so awkward, stumbling on solid and unforgiving wood planks.