The Burnout(38)

Every day, groups of kids would eagerly line up on the sand, ready to learn. I can still remember the warm-up routine: the running on the spot, the lunges, the arm whirls. Experienced surfers—all old pupils of Terry’s—would often join in the warm-up routine, laughing and bantering with Terry while he pretended to get cross and called them “freeloaders.”

The grown-up surfers were always a chill bunch, endlessly generous to the kids. They’d applaud a success or commiserate after a disastrous wipeout. Dad never surfed, but he watched and applauded us too. And he always had a chat with Terry. They got on well, Dad and Terry. Maybe that’s another reason I remember this place so fondly.

As I draw near, though, I realize it’s not the same building. It’s a similar wooden structure but more sturdy, with different signage. Well, what was I expecting? I guess whoever bought the business from Terry rebuilt it. There’s a sign on the door: Closed. For surfboard hire, call number below. And then a mobile number.

Instinctively, I turn to check the swell. The sea’s pretty flat this afternoon. Maybe when it rises, the new owner will come along and open up shop. But for now it’s just a silent, lifeless building on an empty beach.

Except …

Oh, great. The beach isn’t empty. Finn is approaching over the sand in his padded jacket and shades. And he’s seen me notice him now, so I can’t turn away; it would seem too weird. Maybe he’ll walk straight past.

But he doesn’t. He comes to a halt about a meter away from me, pushes his shades up, and stares at the building for a few silent seconds. Just like I did a moment ago.

“Sorry to disturb your solitude yet again,” he says at last, with an exaggerated politeness that makes my hackles rise. “I used to have surf lessons here when I was a kid. Just wanted to have a look.”

“Really?” I say before I can stop myself. “Me too.”

“You had surf lessons with Terry?” He sounds skeptical, and I prickle at his tone. What’s he implying? That he’s surprised I’ve had surf lessons at all, or that he’s surprised I had surf lessons with Terry?

“Well, I didn’t have them with Pete Huston,” I say tartly, and get a small, appreciative smile out of him.

“Glad to hear it. Or else we could never have spoken again.”

I want to retort, That wouldn’t exactly be a hardship, or something equally snippy, but something stops me. He had surf lessons with Terry. He’s Team Terry. Which means I can’t help softening toward him, just a smidgen.

Now he’s surveying me as though for the first time. “I don’t recognize you,” he says at last, flatly. “Were you a regular?”

“Yes!” I reply, stiffening at the implied insult. “And I don’t recognize you either.”

“I’m thirty-six.” He peers at me as though trying to gauge my age from my freckles. “I’m guessing you’re, what, thirty?”

“I’m thirty-three.”

“Did you come here every year?”

“We stopped coming when I was thirteen. But every year before then. We probably just stayed here on different weeks.”

“Must have done.” He shifts his gaze back to the Surf Shack. “Terry Connolly,” he says at last. “What a man. Pretty much everything I’ve learned in life, I learned from Terry.”

“I know what you mean,” I say, slightly stunned that we’re in agreement about something. “I asked if Terry still does surf lessons, but apparently he’s retired. He sold this place to someone else.”

“I know. And they told me at the hotel that Sandra died three years ago.” He grimaces. “Wasn’t expecting to hear that.”

“Everything moves on, I suppose. Pete’s place doesn’t even exist anymore.” I look at where the Surftime shack used to be, five meters away.

“He left after there was an accident,” says Finn. “There was a problem with a dodgy kayak. A boy nearly drowned and they found out Pete was to blame.”

“I know,” I say. “I was on the beach when it happened.”

“So was I.” Finn frowns as though putting this together. “So … we did overlap.”

There’s a pause while I reassess things slightly. We were both here on this same beach, all those years ago. Do I remember him? Mentally I scan my memories of all Terry’s pupils for a boy like Finn. But there’s nothing.

“We left Rilston the next day,” I say at last, and he nods.

“We’d just arrived. First day of the holiday, and the lifeguards order everyone out of the water. I was in another kayak at the time, actually. I tried to swim over and help, but they yelled at me, told me to get back to shore.” He rolls his eyes. “Great start to the week.”

“We went bowling,” I volunteer. “Did you hang around?”

He nods again. “It was a pretty big deal.”

“I know it was,” I say pointedly. “I remember.”

I’m trying to sound as authoritative as he does. But truthfully, I don’t remember much about that day except a kind of mayhem, screaming, people clustering on the sand, pointing out to sea, and lifeguards running. I’m not even sure how accurate my memories are. Maybe I’ve invented seeing the lifeguards running. When Dad was diagnosed, our life was thrown into such turmoil that everything else slid into unimportance.