The ocean gifts me death for my birthday.
The first time, I am five; nose and hands pressed to excitement-smeared glass, elation surging like the sound of sirens as I watch the lights fly past.
Next I am thirteen. I stand in a crowd gorging itself on cake and judgement, the drowning a juicy morsel far tastier than the jam-and-cream-filled sponge. Their voices ebb and flow around me, a river of judgement that washes away any interest as I tear bright-patterned paper from presents.
Now I am twenty-nine. Summer sun sears my skin as I drowse on the scorching sand. The wind whips the water to white peaks before it tumbles towards land, running cool fingers over my back and keeping me from overheating. A shadow falls across me and I shiver as the fragile equilibrium shatters, rolling over to meet the gaze of the man looking down.
He drops to the sand next to me and smiles.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself."
His eyes crinkle as we perform the well-worn routine, step and counter-step. He pulls a small cardboard box from his backpack and hands it to me. Inside, a cupcake nestles in a bed of jewel-bright tissue paper.
"Happy birthday."
We pass it back and forth. He catches my hand as I reach to take the last bite, pulls me in for a kiss that tastes of sugar and promises, and challenges me to a race.
I can't refuse. Growing up here has made me more salt and sand than flesh. The constant pounding of the waves is the rhythm of the pulse in my veins.
I let him pull me to my feet and we drop our belongings onto the faded towel, our steps a staccato symphony as we squeak to the water. The rules are the same as always: first to make it out past the line of waiting surfers, where the blue-green water turns dark and secret.
I stride out into the waves until the sand starts to drop away beneath my feet. The water is cool against my skin as I dive deep beneath the rolling swell, the booming of the surf transforming from sound to bone-deep vibration.
The sea wraps around me, the shifting green-gloom dimness of this world comforting and familiar. I am home. He is at the edge of my vision, his long limbs pulling him easily through the water. I strain to keep pace, spurred by pride and the fear of falling behind, our rivalry as strong as the bond that twines between us.
My awareness of the space he occupies shatters as I realise I can no longer see him. He has fallen behind. I surge ahead with a new burst of speed, adrenaline-laced excitement increasing the frenzied thudding of my heart.
Gasping, I break the surface, hair streaming, breathless and exhilarated with the salty tang of victory on my tongue. Turning to face the shore, my eyes scan the herd of bobbing boards and the crowded water beyond, searching for a glimpse of that familiar dark head. Nothing.
I allow myself a spike of annoyance at the false victory. My triumph sours. I swim back to the beach and emerge dripping with irritation to find our towels empty, his bag still perched atop mine.
The first wisps of concern thread through my thoughts, then spool into something approaching fear as my gaze drifts to the sea-licked sand at the water's edge. A crowd is gathering. A steady stream of bodies forms a loose circle, phones pointed at whatever lies inside.
A distant siren starts to wail.
Somehow, I already know.
I stagger across the beach. My movements are jerky. I have made no conscious decision to move; some external force controls my body, placing one stumbling foot in front of another. The crowd parts before me and the scene beyond is revealed in horrific, noon-bright clarity.
Hair like spilled ink against the glittering sand. The redness in the cheeks of the man bent over him, hands pressed to his chest. His face... but no. It's not his face. Not this wax-white mask, this obscene imitation.
I must make some sound because eyes turn to me, and mouths shape words I cannot hear, as the dark current that has been rising swift and silent beneath the surface of my mind carries me away. I crumple, strings cut, and am lost to the pull of that tide.
I am thirty-three. I am weary.
There will be no sun today. No warmth. The sky is dread-grey and heavy, the sea brooding. It shifts restlessly as I slowly pick my way across the sand and stop at the water's edge. It has been so long that the grit between my toes feels alien. The ocean reaches for me, licks hungrily at my feet with an icy tongue. It has taken so much, yet remains unsatisfied; the feast of my lost future not enough to sate that endless hunger.
I face that implacable expanse and breathe deep, steeling myself against the panic that threatens to rise.
I have not been back here since that day. But the sharp edges of memory are finally wearing smooth from endless handling, and I have come to reclaim my sea-born self. Today, the sea will gift me nothing. I will take back what is mine.
One step, and the water laps my ankles. I am two, and ten, and twenty, splashing in the shallows and laughing.
Another, and I am twelve, standing triumphant atop a surfboard.
Then I am hip-deep, and he is with me, all cheeky grins and gentle taunts and salt-sweet kisses to ease the sting of another loss.
But he will always be ahead of me now, out of sight and uncatchable. And as I eventually dive beneath those icy waves and strike out with furious strokes, the salt on my face is not entirely of the sea.
But for the first time in years, I am finally, entirely, myself.
***
Alison Jordan, the author of this piece, is a finalist in the 2022 Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition. Read the full list of finalists in this year's Herald Short Story Competition by visiting the Newcastle Herald website.
