The Ninth Wave (50 page)

Mike and Georgia were almost at the end of the path. Mike was wearing
swimming shorts and was barefooted. They were standing still, watching
him. Hank waved his hand and they came the rest of the way to the beach.
They stood for a moment talking. They looked out to sea and then at the
surfboard. Georgia spoke once, looked again at the waves and then, it
seemed to Hank, she became silent. She put her hands in the pockets of
her coat and leaned against a rock.
Mike walked to the edge of the water and put a foot in the next wave. He
hopped back, pounding his hands across his chest and shouting something
to Georgia. She did not reply. Mike picked up the surfboard and walked
into the water. With the same skillful, swinging motion that Hank had
used, he swung the board down and forward and while it was still moving
he slid onto it. Then he disappeared as he entered the surf. Hank saw
the tip of the board occasionally as it went up over a wave. Once he saw
Mike clinging to the board as it whiplashed over a wave. Then as another
hump of water gathered itself, heaved into the sky and narrowed out,
its powerful green impeccable back was shattered as if a boulder had
been thrown through it. It was Mike and his board. They shot through
the body of the wave. They came like a sailfish, sharp and flashing,
spray flying, cleanly slicing the wave. They slid past the surf line
and out into the smooth water beyond.
Hank watched quietly, not moving from his squatting position except to
straighten his board occasionally by putting his hand in the water. He
felt withered, dried out. His mind was empty and blank. He was aware of
the thin warmth of the sun, the swelling of the waves, the sound.of the
surf and unconsciously he counted the waves and waited for a ninth wave.
Mike's board slid across the water.
"You sure picked a day for surfing," Mike said. "You don't go surfing
for ten years and then you pick a day like this."
"You didn't have to come. I just told them at your office that I was
going and if you wanted to come I'd have a board for you," Hank said.
"Don't get touchy. I wanted to come. Haven't been surfing for ten years.
But this is some surf. I never remember it like this. There must be some
hell of a storm somewhere."
"They're humping all right And they're getting bigger. There'll be a
really big one along pretty soon."
"Old Hankus, the medicine man of the sea," Mike said. He brought his
board close to Hank's. "Just like old days, eh?"
Hank looked down between his knees. The middle of the board was drying
out, leaving a thin film of salt. It was cold. The breeze off the ocean
was stronger than the sun. Hank looked up at Mike.
"Just like the old days, only a little bit different," Hank said.
"What's different?" Mike asked. He was grinning; the old, tough, confident,
independent, knowing grin. "You're the same. I'm the same. Ocean's just the
same; maybe the waves are bigger, but everything else is the same."
"You're not the same. You're different."
Hank did not know where his words came from. He did not think them with his
mind or phrase them before he spoke. They seemed to be manufactured by his
lungs and lips quite independently. In the withered, brown, desiccated
interior of his head, Hank felt nothing; he was blank, waiting for
some signal.
"You're wrong," Mike said. "I'm just the same. Hank, I haven't changed
a bit since the last day we were out here on the boards. Maybe you have,
but I haven't. Not the least little bit."
The boards rose on the swell of a wave, dropped into the trough. Hank
saw that Georgia had climbed up onto a rock and was sitting with her
hands clasped around her knees.
"I guess you haven't changed, Mike," Hank said. "You're just the same.
But I didn't really know you before. And then maybe the world changed
around you."
Some old long-forgotten sensitivities came alive in Hank. Because of the
depth of the trough and the shape of the waves and impulses that came
through the board, he knew a big hump was coming. He turned and looked
over his shoulder.
They both saw it at the same time. It was a long dark blue line that
blotted out the horizon. It rose so high above the other waves that it
caught the wind and was laced with veins of white foam. Because of its
bulk it seemed to move slowly, deliberately, reducing the waves in front
of it and absorbing the waves that followed.
"My God," Mike whispered. "It's huge. It's the biggest I ever saw."
Hank backed his board toward the wave, sensing that it would break
farther out than the other waves. The big hump was only four waves away
when Hank stopped and waited. Mike was beside him.
They watched the color of the wave change. The deep blue faded and it
became green and translucent. A delicate filigree of kelp was visible
in the wave; the nodules black and solid, the strands as distinct as
rope. To one side was a sting ray, caught in the wave. It was like a
scarab; motionless, its wings spread, its ugly short tail straight out
behind it. In the taut amber of the wave, the ray was entombed, harmless.
Then all the other waves were gone and the big hump was all that was
left. They lay flat on their boards, looking over their shoulders. Deep
in the wave they could see the sea grass trembling, the sharp tips
reaching up from the bottom of the ocean and fluttering in the base of
the wave. Then they heard the rumbling noise.
They started to paddle. Hank looked over at Mike.
"Don't take it, Mike," Hank called. "Let it go. It's too big for you.
You can't ride it."
And Mike grinned. His arms kept pumping. They felt the sea rise beneath
them, push against the boards, lift them high. Flecks of foam shot past
their boards. Then, just at the tip of the wave, the mass of water
gripped them and they started to shoot forward. For a split second they
slid forward and upward as the wave continued to gather itself. The roar,
the grinding, tearing, rumbling, fundamental sound, grew louder. They
could see the tattered surf in front of them, the smaller, minor waves
that had gone before and been ruined. They rose still higher and the
drop seemed incredible, unbelievable, staggering.
Hank looked down at the beach and he could see Georgia's white face
turned toward them. He felt the wave start to break and he looked at Mike.
Mike was getting to his feet. He grinned over at Hank. He was going to
ride down the crash.
Numbly, with relief, Hank felt that he had received the signal; been
given permission. He started to stand too.
And then the wave broke. The board was hurled forward and in the same
instant it slid down the front of the wave. The foam rose around Hank's
knees. The board chittered under his feet and his toes worked for a
better grip. He looked over his shoulder and saw the mountain of foam
and green tossing water behind them.
Hank pressed with his foot and his board angled across the foam, slid
toward Mike. Mike saw him coming. Mike did not angle away, he did not
look down. He watched Hank's slanting. Hank sensed that Mike knew what
it was about; what had to happen; what was coming. And again the relief
deepened and Hank felt reassured, decisive.
When his board was a few feet from Mike's he straightened it. Hank stared
at Mike for a moment and then he dove at Mike's knees. He felt his ankles
slap hard on Mike's board and then they were both in the water.
The broken wave snatched at them eagerly. It was the grip of the entire
ocean: ancient, massive, stern. They were swept forward, but were held
so tightly they could not move even their fingers. The wave threw them
to the bottom and swept them through a patch of sea grass. The tough
strands whipped at their bodies. They rolled over and smashed into a
great slime-covered rock. The slime was rubbed off instantly and Hank
felt the sharp edge of sea rock slice the flesh from his ribs. He was
held against the rock and then drawn slowly across the cutting edges.
Then the pressure was gone and they swirled through the green water. Mike
reached down and twisted Hank's middle finger loose. He bent it back,
almost to the' breaking point. Then, quite deliberately, he let go of
the finger. Hank tightened his grip.
Hank opened his eyes. Under the wave the world was filled with raging
clouds of sand, the black shape of rocks, the twisting blades of sea
grass. Closer, just before his eyes, was the solid muscle of Mike's
leg. Digging into the flesh were his own fingers.
In the green uneven light he saw Mike's hand come down, grasp his finger
and bend it. He threw his head back and there, inches away, was Mike's
face. The face was softly distorted by the few inches of water. But Mike's
eyes were open and the grin was clean and distinct. Hank closed his eyes.
The finger bent straight back from his hand, a sharp pain came from a
great distance, sped down his arm and exploded in his brain. He screamed
and bubbles slid from his mouth and floated away. Then, just before the
finger broke, Mike let go.
He could have broken my grip, Hank thought. He could have gotten loose.
He made his mind blank, for this was temptation. He dug his fingers into
Mike's legs and held more tightly.
They were swirled upward, almost to the surface and then whipped downward.
They smashed into rocks again, swept across a layer of sand that quickly,
in a few short licks, rubbed the skin from Hank's legs.
Suddenly Mike jerked his legs up and almost tore loose. Hank tightened
his grip and with a peculiar distinctness felt the sharp wiry hairs of
Mike's leg brush against his cheek.
The wave held them motionless for a moment and then brushed them flat
against a shoal of barnacles. Hank felt the sharp, painless slice of
the shells as they cut into his back. His lungs were hot and he knew
that soon he would open his mouth and the salt water would pour into
his throat. He opened his eyes and far away he saw the lively bouncing
sunlit surface. Just above him a layer of green water was rushing swiftly
past, pierced with beads of foam, flecked white. But, by some oceanic
trick, they were held motionless, paralyzed by the great pressures into
immobility. The shells sliced his flesh soundlessly.
It's not for you, Hank shouted in his mind. Not for all you stupid
cloddish ignorant bastards, walking the face of the earth with plenty of
air and sun and clouds. I'm doing it for myself. For selfish reasons. For
my own reasons. Not for you.
And then the wave released them. They were lifted up and Mike jerked
again, pulling them almost to the green foamy surface. It grew
brighter, but at the edge of his vision a black circle was growing,
narrowing the light to a contracting circle. Hank knew he was close
to unconsciousness. He sobbed and took a mouthful of water down his
throat. He clamped his mouth shut. The area of blackness grew.
The wave moved them forward and slammed them against a single rock. There
was the sound of a crack, a dull unnatural muted crack. Mike went soft
in Hank's arms, collapsed downward upon him. Mike's fingers slid down
Hank's back, his head bounced limply from his shoulder. In the center
of the tiny circle of vislon still remaining to him, Hank saw Mike's
face. The eyes were open and staring.
Hank let go. He ran his hands over Mike's limp body. Hank pushed upward,
very weakly.
His head broke through the surface, but only slightly. The surface was
covered with leaping fleck and gobbets of foam. Hank gasped and got a
mouthful of foam and some air and was pulled under again. He was pushed
to his knees and swept forward, He pushed upward again and this time
got more air.
He did not believe he could reach the shore and he did not want to,
but he could not control his body. It fought toward the shallow water;
weakly, grotesquely, without his help. He came to the surface, snatched
a breath of air and swallowed it along with bitter foam. Then he was
pulled under. He crawled over rough. rocks, patches of sand, the dead
sharp bodies of crabs and old shells. Above him the water still rushed
and tossed. He sobbed as he crawled and wondered, dully, with a black
lassitude, how much his tears would salten the water. The sea rumbled
at him; talked of death and oceanic peace and somehow it made him sob
more. He got to his feet and found that he was in the shallows. But
another wave smashed at him and he went under again, He slid along the
bottom, helpless.
Then something caught him by the wrist, held firm, He staggered to his
knees. The water was very shallow, He looked up. Georgia was standing
in the water and holding him by the wrist. She pulled him to the edge
of the water and rolled him on his back.
"Poor Hank," she whispered and her fingers ran over the cuts on his arms
and chest, gently touched a long neat slice that was just starting to
ooze bright red. "Poor, poor Hank."
Hank tried to speak, but salt water foamed between his lips. He spat. Then
he could talk.
"He could have gotten loose," Hank said. "By breaking my fingers he could
have gotten loose. But he didn't." He coughed and warm vomit and salt water
spilled in a gush on his chest. He whispered, "Why didn't he, Georgia? Why
didn't he break my fingers and free himself?"
"Poor, desperate Hank," she said.
His eyes blinked away the salt water. The sun now seemed bright and
huge. He could see Georgia. Her face was tight with pity and despair,
but also with understanding.
She put her arm around him and pulled him upright. He coughed again.
She held him in a sitting position.
They sat there for a long time, waiting for Mike to drift in.
CHAPTER 32
Along the Shore
Hank and Georgia drove to La Jolla in Hank's Ford. They left in the early
afternoon, just after Hank came from surgery. He smelled of alcohol and
surgical soap. The odor hung about him like something not easily dispelled;
tough, penetrating and clean. The odor was dissipated by the gas and oil
smells of the Ford, however, by the time they reached Laguna Beach.
They did not talk during the drive. Most of the time Georgia slept. Hank
drove very fast and carefully, picking his way in and out of the traffic.
The traffic thickened as they went through the Spanish buildings of
Laguna Beach. They drove past the abandoned subdivisions on Dana Point. At
San Onofre there was a circle of cars with surfboard racks on their
roofs and neither of them looked toward the ocean. They went past the
great sweeping emptiness of Camp Pendleton with the long barbed fences
broken only by an occasional Marine sentry. On the dunes a few Alligators
clawed their way, spewing sand behind in rhythmical spasms. Out to sea
a dozen LCVP's circled slowly and helmeted heads showed sharply over
the bulwarks. A jet plane slanted down from the sky, and a few hundred
feet from the ocean it fired a signal rocket with a fierce sound and then
banked sharply away. The LCVP's speeded up, formed a line and moved toward
the shore, and the highway turned inland and the sea suddenly vanished.