The Burnout(111)

“You’ve been listening!” he says at last, and there’s a huge laugh. “Well. This is encouraging. I might make surfers of you yet. The ride is it.” He nods. “So. Remember that. And now let’s begin our warm-ups.”

It’s quite a sight. Several hundred people, all lined up on the beach, all following Terry’s warm-up exercises. New people keep joining in at the edges, holidaymakers and passersby and children holding lollies, until it seems that the whole endless stretch of sand is one big class, with Terry calling out instructions from the stage.

As everyone starts practicing getting up on their boards, Terry looks tetchy again.

“I can’t correct them all,” he says to Sean. “I can’t get round to them all.”

“Leave it to me, mate,” Sean assures him. “I’ll have a word with a few of them.”

And he roams around the crowd, greeting people and high-fiving and constantly glancing back up at Terry with a thumbs-up.

Soon after that, it becomes apparent that Terry is flagging in energy, and Sean leaps back onto the stage, taking a handheld microphone from Finn.

“Surfers,” he greets the crowd. “I’m Sean Knowles, the new owner of the Surf Shack, trying to follow in the footsteps of the giant, Terry Connolly!” Again the cheers ring out over the beach, and I exchange smiles with Finn.

I’m finally breathing out, I realize. I’m relaxing. My plan worked. Terry has given one last, epic surf lesson.

“There are lots of thank-yous to give,” says Sean. “And I’m sure there’ll be a speech or two later on. But for now, one very special person needs special thanks, for pulling this all together. Sasha Worth, get onstage!”

The roar from the beach almost deafens me as I step onto the stage, and I feel my eyes welling. I’ll never forget this moment, looking out to the blue horizon, with a sea of joyous people in front of me. The love on this beach feels as real as the salt in the air.

“I’m so thrilled you could all be here,” I say into the microphone. “Thank you all for coming. This is so much bigger than I ever thought it would be, and that’s down to Terry. As Sean says, there’ll be speeches later, but now I just want to thank one other person who did a huge amount of work putting this on.” I glance at him. “Finn Birchall.”

Finn makes a show of reluctance, then comes onto stage, grinning, and nods at the deafening applause which greets him. “I have only one thing to say,” he deadpans into the microphone. “Seize that wave.” Another roar goes up, and Finn laughs. “Over to Terry.”

We make way for Terry, and he stands silently for a moment as the hubbub dies to a respectful hush. His eyes look momentarily bewildered as he surveys the crowd—then they snap into focus.

“Well, what are you all still doing here?” he says sharply, his familiar, hoarse voice traveling across the sands. “You won’t catch a wave by standing on the beach! Enough talk.” He points to the sea. “Go get it.”





Thirty



There are so many surfers that the sea soon becomes ridiculously crowded. But after a while, only the hardcore surfers are still out there, and the others are paddling or sitting on the beach, drinking beers, catching up.

I surf for a bit, then come in, get changed into shorts, and check up on the food. There’s a smell of charcoal in the air, and the barbecues are already churning out burgers. There are picnic rugs everywhere on the sand, and someone’s playing guitar. Keith Hardy is doing some kind of Mr. Poppit set with his puppet to an audience of children, and he gives me a cheery wave, which I return while walking firmly straight past.

I collect a “Rilston cocktail” from the drinks tent, reassuring Nikolai that I don’t need an extra kale shot in it, then take it onto the beach and sip it, watching Ben dig blissfully in the sand.

“We need to come here every year,” I say to Kirsten.

“Oh, I’m ahead of you,” she says. “Already booked the cottage for next summer. And Pam wants to bring her menopause lot. Dunk them in the sea, sort out their hot flushes.” I catch Kirsten’s eye and we both start giggling helplessly. “So,” she adds as we come to a pause. “Finn. What’s that situation?”

“Bringing his girlfriend.”

“Huh.” She removes a tangled piece of seaweed from Ben’s fingers. “Well. You’re not short of hot surfing types here.” She surveys the beach, which, to be fair, is full of athletic guys. “Are you sure this wasn’t just you organizing yourself a speed-dating event?”

“Busted.” I grin, and she nods.

“Nicely done. No one would suspect.”

She has a point. There are loads of eligible men here, all strapping and cheerful and charming. But I can’t seem to focus on any of them. I start conversations with a few guys about random topics … but I’m constantly aware of Finn’s presence. He doesn’t seem to be with his girlfriend, but maybe she’s here and I just can’t spot her, or maybe she’s at the hotel changing into her super-hot bikini, or maybe she hasn’t arrived yet. Anyway. No big deal.

The afternoon slowly drifts into evening, and the party settles into a relaxed vibe. I chat to as many people as I can, including Gabrielle and Mavis and Lev, who says every five minutes that he has to leave, then shakes someone else’s hand. Terry says a final goodbye at the microphone, and the responding cheer sounds as though it’s reaching right round town. A few speeches are made and some songs are sung. Now, as the sun drops lower in the sky, there are fires appearing here and there on the beach. Three guitars are playing, and a few people are dancing.