I didn't get my short story published in the Newcastle Herald short story comp this year. I'd had some success after the previous two, in successive years, were published. I thought this had a bit more "oomph" than the last two, but the judges didn't agree! Here it is anyway. (the photo prompt was a dolphin breaching in the surf line). Cassy came up with the clever title after I'd made several clumsy attempts!
Wavering
Thick brushstrokes of cerulean on a wide canvas stretched overhead, daubed by cotton-wool clouds. Traffic snaked in slow lines round the coastal roads, cars waiting to pounce on an open spot. Heat haze shimmered above the footpath, and a clamour of families headed beachward from the carpark, younger members peeking from trailers stacked high with boogie boards, towels and umbrellas, as they were chauffeured, in a princely fashion, towards the sand. Mid-morning on a weekend summer's day held a latent energy, a frisson in the air.
Max negotiated the distinctive, white post and rail stairway down to the beach, kicking off thongs and depositing them and his cap and towel near the lifeguard’s dune buggy. He curled his toes into the gritty granules, warm, but not yet scorching under the mid-morning sun, before meandering his way through the striped cabanas and pop-up shelters down to the water’s edge. The surf club had set up camp near the flags, cardinal and canary livery on every accessory in sight, including their own vehicle, rescue boards and clothing. Members were actively shepherding swimmers back into the flagged area if they strayed beyond, occasionally with a sharp blow on a whistle to grab the bather’s attention. He moved about ten metres to the right of the nearest flag where a narrow, outward-towing rip was indicated by the lack of surging waves and waded into the water.
It never ceased to intrigue Max how utterly restorative being first immersed in the ocean could be. As soon as his torso was about waist deep and he’d splashed his eyes and goggles with water, he snapped his goggles in place and struck out for outer banks, straight towards the horizon, scything through with crisp clean strokes, counting to 60 before skewing left to head down the beach, parallel to shore, beyond the breaking waves. He had long given up trying to breathe on both sides, so easily fell into the rhythm of breathing to the right, looking out to sea, and orientating his field of view to the meeting of sky and water. It was comforting to spot the ubiquitous coal ships queued far out to sea, ready to enter the harbour, their hungry Plimsoll lines etched above the water.
He eased into his familiar, languid rhythm, alternating his breaths and strokes, calming his heart rate and beginning to allow the ocean to do its work. He found himself drifting into contemplation, a method he’d practiced lately to try to sort out his problems as he relaxed in the moment, a practice that had been quite effective. He’d been wrestling with a delicate conundrum lately, trying to make an important career decision. His boss had been gently suggesting a possible move to middle management, a promotion in terms of skills and responsibility but it would entail a shift to head office in the western suburbs of Sydney.
Max was in a dilemma. He settled into his stroke and watched the sand eddies flow beneath him, little maelstroms stirred by ocean currents mirroring his thoughts as he moved north, far from shore and away from the security of the flags. The city move would no doubt be exciting and “rich in the tapestry of life”, as his boss put it. He was heartened that the managers at work were so taken with his potential that they were encouraging him to seek advancement, yet wary to leap into the unknown. No matter what veneer of sophistication they thought they had seen on him at work, he still felt like a big town kid in his heart of hearts!
Would the bright lights negate the traffic snarls, high density living, expensive costs and the general press of thousands more humans? Could career advancement outweigh the town vibe, familiar faces, favourite bars and restaurants and wide-open spaces of his hometown? These were the big questions he pondered as he worked his way up to his goal of, at least, the flags of Dixon Park but quite possibly beyond them to The Cliff.
Max continued to plough through a gentle, rising swell, eyes alternating now between the line of ships to the right and aiming himself straight ahead to the bluff, which allowed him to remain in a relatively straight line and just a hundred metres or so from the beach. He exaggerated his breathing into the water, providing a satisfying crescendo of bubbles between each stroke and noted how remarkably smooth the water had become. A zephyr of a north-west breeze was now dusting the ocean lightly and as he reached his turning point at The Cliff and started his run south, the view was dazzling.
The ocean ahead was pierced by a steady line of surf skis being muscled seaward towards an orange turning buoy, so Max turned out to give them space, intending to arc around them before returning to his path. He marvelled at the power and speed of the impossibly narrow craft as their pilots thwacked the water rhythmically with flailing paddles. It was what he discovered beyond this scene, however, that really left him flabbergasted.
A cache of sparkling diamonds in the water, way out to sea? Moving towards him slowly, smooth bodies glistening in the sun as they rose and dipped, puffs of mist from blowholes catching the light, the pod of dolphins spread in equal portions around his body. As Max stopped, treading water, one magnificent creature breached and seemed to give him a knowing look, before splashing down and continuing with his mates.
Max, duly thrilled, swam back to shore to retrieve his cap and towel before leaning on the railing taking in the scene and calming his racing heart. He even spotted the pod, way out the back, arching back along the beach. As much as he was tempted by the big city pulse, the path ahead was now clear.
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