Larry and Viv are standing side by side inside what looks like a temple. In front of them is a white altar covered with white statues, and behind them a crowd of people are seated. He is wearing his smart olive green soldier’s uniform with the red tie and he looks extremely handsome. She is wearing an intricate white lace dress, adorned by dazzling jewellery and she looks absolutely stunning. An old man who appears to be some sort of priest stands before them, swinging a small silver pot on the end of a chain and something like smouldering incense wafts around them. Larry and Viv look at each other, smile nervously, clutch each other by the hand and turn to face the priest. He clears his throat, gestures for silence from the crowd, turns towards Larry and asks “Do you, Larry, take this sheila Viv to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.” smiles Larry.
“Do you promise not to let Mr Fluffy off the chain unless you really have to? Do you promise not to chuck a sickie too often, and make sure you earn a decent crust? Do you promise not to whip the cat whenever things go down the gurgler?”
“I do.”
Then the man turns towards Viv. “Do you, Viv, take this bloke Larry to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.”
“Do you promise to bang him like a dunny door in a storm, even when he’s got a veranda over the toolshed? Do you promise not to stir the possum whenever he bends the elbow too much, gets crook and ends up calling for George? Do you promise to not give a fat rat’s clacker if anything comes a gutzer and he doesn’t suss it, even if blind Freddy could see it?”
“I do.”
“Well, in that case I reckon I can pronounce you man and wife”.
They turn to face their audience, whose polite applause generates a noisy clapping, cheering and whistling (though it actually only sounds like three or four people are making the noise) and the happy couple walk out of the temple. Waiting outside are a number of other soldiers who have formed a guard of honour. They stand in two lines, facing each other with their swords held high and joined in pairs at the tips. Larry and Viv skip through this tunnel, arm in arm, smile in smile, love in love. When they emerge at the other end, Viv beams ecstatically, looks up at Larry and says “Oh Larry. I’m so happy right now. I reckon you and me fit together like a bum and a bucket!”
He looks down at her, also smiles and replies “Well sprinkle me with bulldust! Oh Viv, you’re hotter than a piss in a sauna!”
Life in the small, isolated coastal town of Santa Domingo in California runs at the pace of a slow snail on a long journey. It’s the sort of place where a fight between two stray dogs out on the street makes front page headlines in next week’s local newspaper. There’s only one road in or out of the town, and this is simply a track that isn’t asphalted or signposted. It’s as though the rest of America has passed it by, and even the major television networks somehow managed to miss it. The sole provider is a small public broadcasting station which ekes out such a poor living that it regularly closes its door shut and its transmitter down when donations run dry and times get hard. Not that most of the local population would either notice or care.
After Marvin Hopkins Progressive College, the next largest building in the town is a rest home for senior citizens, and that just about sums the place up – a convenient spot to crawl away and quietly die.
Although there are plenty of reasons for the townsfolk of Santa Domingo to put guns to heads and blow either their own or each other’s brains out, there are two good reasons for staying alive and sticking around. The first is the beach. Call it sucky, chewy, way sick or call it what you will, it all boils down to a long, empty expanse of sand which also happens to be perfect for surfing. A shallow run off produces a line up two hundred feet out and a five foot swell, rising to six feet on a good day or up to seven feet when it's really pumping.
The citizens have long regarded themselves as custodians of this beach, so sometime ago the city council unilaterally designated their coastal area as a state park to protect it from development. They would have sought government approval for the action, but this would have meant letting the government know their beach existed. The only access to it is via a single unmarked dirt path which runs through the surrounding swampy woodland. Given that Santa Domingo is far away from the tourist trail, the locals have largely managed to keep their beach a secret between themselves and nature.
The second reason to be happy is the nearby marijuana farm. This produces an abundant harvest of cheer that helps keep everyone in the town chilled out and sane. Thanks to the mediation skills of Eli Levenson, the only lawyer in town, the local police department turns a blind eye to the farm. This is because, as Eli pointed out, its magical harvest helps keep crime levels down to a figure which barely registers at the state law department. Thus the farm, the townsfolk and the sheriff's office get to run their own affairs without any cumbersome outside interference. And in the spirit of collectivisation, the farm also counts on the police force and judiciary as valued customers.
Kenny Savage, Neil Petit and Brian Lovett were twelfth grade students at Marvin Hopkins Progressive College. They were even more unfortunate than most of the unfortunates trapped in Santa Domingo, for they fetched up and got stranded there without having any connection to the town. When they were younger their wealthy, socially ambitious parents had expected each of them to follow the family traditions of attending an Ivy League college. But by the time they staggered towards their eighteenth year and the educational finishing line was in sight, it became apparent that these sons were feckless, inept and hopeless disappointments. So instead of preparing to send them to New England, they exiled them to this boarding school for the socially challenged on the other side of the country. Initially none of the boys knew each other, but it didn’t take long for the flotsam and jetsam of their characters to drift into one another.
When founding the school, Marcia Givens appropriated the Latin phrase Foveo Factum to serve as its motto. This roughly translates as “To Encourage Achievement”, and the ethos behind this is that encouragement is the basic solution to life's young problems. However, she soon became aware none of these boys were interested in achieving anything more than visiting the marijuana farm and speaking in an obscure surfing dialect. In the meantime, not only were their school grades a regular F, but their assignment scores were a regular zero per cent. Marcia was reduced to encourage them by awarding a percentage point if they wrote the correct date on an assignment, and another one if they spelt their own names correctly. This resulted in an immediate improvement, and in some notable cases the boys attained a score of as much as two per cent. The monthly sessions with Heather Surning were quickly increased in frequency to weekly ones.
Doctor Surning sat with Principal Givens in her office. They were working their way through the latest progress review.
“Marcia,” she began. “After a number of discussions with these three boys, I’m convinced they’ve been absolutely crushed by the unrealistic weight of expectation their parents have placed upon their shoulders. They've been tutored, crammed and force-fed a diet of extra curricula on top of all the different education systems they've received at a variety of schools. In response they've given up. They now reject everything, and I mean pretty much everything, which might require them to think for themselves, apply themselves or learn. Put simply, they’ve just stopped trying. It seems to me the only bright spot on the horizon is – and I realize it's not an academic subject - they all seem to have acquired a genuine interest in surfing”.
Marcia Givens held a sheaf of letters in one hand and a gently burning marijuana joint in the other. She took a drag and replied “Well what do you advise me to do about it then? I've gotten a whole heap of letters here from their parents, complaining about the lack of progress they perceive their sons to be making”.
She then glanced down, pondered for a moment, and looked back up. “As you know Heather, I’m into creating solutions but we’re dealing with powerful people here. De
pending on how they react, they could make or break this school. And the fact is, try as hard as we might, Marvin Hopkins College hasn't really been able to encourage these boys to achieve anything at all. I know I shouldn’t say this, but I’m tempted to let them go and then they can become somebody else’s problem”.
She handed the joint over to Doctor Surning, who in turn also took a thoughtful puff before saying “I don't think that helps solve any problems, other than the school's own performance ratings. I mean none of these boys are retarded; in fact their intelligence levels are surprisingly normal. And it's not like their behavior is anti social, or psychotic, or even disturbed. In fact, surprisingly, they exhibit evidence of creative talent. The real problem here is they've become so disillusioned. I'd have to say the intensity of their education, the resultant lack of success, and the fact they weren’t allowed to take any part in the decision making process has lead them to suffer from a form of depression. They've created this imaginary world of their own where surfing represents a total freedom, yet not one of them has even been out on a surfboard. If I were to prescribe a course of treatment for them, I'd be tempted to focus on this surfing aspect. They already seem to have assimilated some of the theoretical concepts without any outside help, particularly this surfing slang they've picked up, so I'd be inclined to let them go through the process of applying this to a practical situation. Hopefully they can reaffirm that not all teaching is bad, and in due process it might help them rediscover some of the joys of learning. Of course, I'd also make the surfing conditional on them achieving and maintaining better grades”.
She glanced through their academic records and muttered “Which shouldn’t be difficult”.
“It sounds to me like your advice is to let them off the hook and give them special treatment.” tutted Marcia. Then she stared at Heather incredulously, because she still remembered her as the solitary girl at college who kept herself to herself and never showed much in the way of emotional contact with anyone. In one cruel joke the class had voted for Heather as the likeliest to succeed and, to be honest, it hadn’t been a great surprise to read about her finally flipping out on the airplane. But when Marcia saw what was happening in the media and online, she instinctively decided it was time to create another solution. And in the meantime Heather didn’t need to know she’d been rescued. Marcia smiled at her teasingly and asked “Are you forming some kind of emotional connection with these boys? I never had you down as the maternal type”.
“Sometimes it’s part of the treatment.” sighed Heather. “Somebody somewhere has got to show them some love. Dear Lord, they don’t appear to have received any from anyone else”. Then she mumbled “And I know myself what that feels like”.
Marcia Givens looked long and hard at both the letters of complaint and Heather Surning. “Well, there is another motto somewhere or other at this school that we don't give up on our students.” she sighed. It also occurred to her that kudos might be inherited from any form of success, and there were three wealthy and potentially grateful families who could become a rich source of alumni funding in years to come. She took one last hit and stubbed the joint out.
Over the coming days Principal Givens considered the problem and decided the school motto was, if you considered it for long enough, open to various translations. “Cherish the Deed” was her own particular favourite. It might as well have been “Whatever It Takes”. After first obtaining the consent of the aforementioned parents, she encouraged the boys to invest in a surfboard each. She then allowed them to take as much time as they wanted to surf during school hours instead of attending classes. Kenny rushed to buy his surfboard from a website but Neil and Brian held back, reasoning they could make a wiser investment of their parents’ cash at the marijuana farm, and in the meantime they could all share Kenny's board for the surfing.
A week later the day finally arrived when the board was delivered and they were ready for action. They loaded up Principal Givens’ car, strapped the board to the roof with some lengths of elastic cord, and drove off unsteadily to experience the thrill of the real surf, on a real beach, for the first time.
Many people imagine the world of surfing as a paradise where the sun shines endlessly through a cloudless blue sky. The sea is warm and crystal clear. Huge waves rise, race towards the shore, peter out and calmly lap up against a sandy beach. This in turn consists of fine white granules that turn into a soft, sugary texture beneath wet feet. The surfers themselves are a mass of young, tanned and toned skin topped by silky blond hair. It is a carefree existence, where the answer to any of life's traumas or dilemmas is to pick up a surfboard, cry “Surf’s up!” and dash down to the sea to catch a wave.
However, surfers themselves know that for the vast majority of them the reality is far from exotic. The norm is a grey sky and grey water which is so cold they resort to pissing themselves in their wetsuit to try and keep warm. Perpetual nipple rub and festering sores on knees and elbows are the souvenirs of hours spent lying on the board, desperately paddling up and down trying to catch peaks as the sea attempts to throw them off, like some kind of primeval monster swatting at an irritating fly. And the classic, continuous runny nose which comes from having seawater relentlessly forced up their nostrils for hours at a time.
Pictures of Heaven and hell aside, the truth is no matter where the surf is, it’s the surf itself that really counts. For surfers everywhere are consumed by mastering this challenge thrown down by nature, the stimulation of the thrill of the chase and the exhilarating, addictive reward of a short ride on the back of a wave. And that's why they keep returning for more.
Anyone who thinks surfing culture is simply a bunch of beach bums hanging out together to go ride the waves whatever the weather, should think again Fred (or Wilma for the ladies). For not only does the surfing world have its own language, it also has divisive states of mind. The classic school of surfing is an elite establishment akin to a gentleman’s club and it dates back to the days when being up for the surf wasn’t just a hobby, it was a lifestyle. It says if you can't at least duck dive properly or you either don't know or don't follow the etiquette of no snaking, no stink eye and so on, then you should not be allowed out to ride the surf with other surfers. The other school is far more forgiving. It maintains the world is a free place and you can do what the hell you like so long as you can afford a board. And those other dudes had better get used to it. Resentment between them surfaces in the slang, even if the insults are as mild as calling people Fred, Barney or Wilma. Betty is the exception but hey, she always was a looker. Using the Flintstones as a source of this slang also says something about surfers’ television viewing habits or, maybe more pertinently, about when they stopped watching television.
This quiet sunny afternoon, the purist crowd would doubtless have pointed at the three boys trudging along the Santa Domingo beach, and named and shamed them as kooks. After all, they were wearing belted up bathrobes, carried their towels in shopping bags and were sharing a single surfboard. On the other hand, the open house club would have hardly stirred themselves to notice them at all. The boys wouldn't have really cared either way, seeing as they weren't the type of people to try to ingratiate themselves with their neighbours or buy their way into a radical lifestyle. It wasn’t that they were bohemian spirits who would spurn the opportunity to join any club which would offer them membership. They simply wouldn't know how to go about filling in the application form.
The three of them wandered along the empty sands, taking turns to carry Kenny's surfboard until they found a secluded spot. It was fringed by shallow dunes on either side and a line of palm trees to the rear. The salty air was tinged with the smell of fauna all around, mixed with the dash of a washed up rotting fish carcass lying a short distance away. They dropped the board, disrobed and sat down on their towels amongst the warm shade. Brian rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a sandwich bag which contained a grassy bundle of marijuana, a packet of cigarette papers and a lighter. H
e carefully rolled a joint, lit it up, took a couple of hits and passed it over to Neil.
“Surf's up today, dudes.” murmured Kenny, looking out to sea. “Six foot swell breaking right to left, landing zone about a hundred yards out. Totally sick, bro. Totally sick”.
Brian was now lying on his back, his neck clasped in his hands, his elbows stretched out and his eyes shut beneath the rims of his glasses as he relaxed in the sun. “Yo, Kenny” he murmured. “No need for the surfspeak dude. We're not in school now”.
Kenny glanced back down at him with an angry stare which accused him of half hearted betrayal. “Surfspeak isn't a joke Brian. Not to me anyhow. When I say we've gotta learn the talk before we can learn the walk I mean it”.
Then he sullenly got up, pushed Brian's feet and Neil's arm aside from the board, picked it up and carried it down the beach to the sea. He gingerly picked his way through the bands of driftwood, seaweed, shells and various skeletal and jelly-like remains which had been gradually collected from the far-flung depths of the ocean by the currents, then dumped on the beach by the strongest tides.
When he got to the water’s edge he laid the board on the ground and tied the leash to his left foot. He picked the board up again and tried to find a comfortable position to hold it, eventually settling for carrying it balanced on his head. Then he started to make his gladiatorial entrance into the amphitheater that is the surf. He managed to reach a depth where his stomach was getting splashed when, from out of nowhere came what seemed like a massive wave which knocked him off his feet and backwards into the cloudy water.
His glasses went flying, and in the confusion of rescuing them he dropped the board. He felt his leashed foot being dragged from under him as the board, which floated to the surface, haphazardly lurched back towards the shore like a riderless horse running along a racetrack. He eventually managed to stay underwater long enough to untie his ankle and reined the board back in by pulling on the leash. He picked it up and staggered breathlessly back onto the beach, then collapsed on the sand, coughing and spluttering. As he lay there cursing his lack of knowledge, ability and prowess at performing even the most rudimentary exercises in this sport which had devoured him, he heard an unfamiliar voice above his head.
“G’day mate?” it said, in a strange accent that sounded more like a question than a statement. “Nice wipeout. Ever thought about trying duckdiving?”
The athletic, tanned, blond haired stranger bent down and proffered a helping hand and pulled Kenny up. He continued. “Or are you a shark biscuit?”
Kenny stared blankly at him. What the hell was a shark biscuit?
“You new to surfing?” he explained.
“Yeah, I'm new to this game and I don't know how to duck dive.” Kenny admitted shamefully. “I’ve read up on it and it seemed easy enough, but actually doing it is like something totally different”.
As he spoke he quietly wondered to himself how it was he'd never heard of the phrase shark biscuit before. After all, he prided himself on the reputation that he talked the talk better than anyone else.
The stranger nodded sympathetically as he helped Kenny pick up his board while simultaneously holding his own. “Yeah, it takes a while to get the hang of it, alright. Basically you've got to lie down on your board and paddle it out past the point where the waves are breaking, but a lot of people get pulled back in when they get there. The secret is to get both the front and back ends of the board under those broken waves, and to do that you've gotta paddle flat out like a lizard drinking. It's the one thing which makes the difference between a nice long ripper ride or a quick wipeout”.
Kenny was mystified. This guy was obviously a surfer, but the language he spoke wasn't surf speak at all. And he'd hardly understood a word of the strange accent. “Um, I think I understand. Whereabouts are you from?” he asked.
“I'm from Oz, as in Australia mate. The lucky country. I've been travelling around for a while now, just me on my own with the old board for company”.
Kenny's mystification quickly turned to pure, wide-eyed admiration. “Are you a soul surfer, mate?” he asked, already worshipping at the altar of this new speak.
“I been called a lot worse, but yep, I guess I am, mate. Whenever I hear the word about any decent surf, well that's where I'm headed. Though this place is in the middle of bloody woop-woop even by my standards”.
Kenny immediately sensed he'd found a messiah. “I've got… two surf buddies who'd be… way stoked to meet you.” he stuttered, trying to control his excitement. “Would you mind if I... introduce you?”
The stranger looked up towards the trees behind the dunes where Brian and Neil were lying in the sun, the thin plume of smoke giving away their position. “Are they up there, where the herbal aroma is coming from?”
Kenny nodded and in return the stranger gestured him to lead the way up. Kenny ran up ahead as the stranger followed, and after shaking hands and nodding heads the four of them sat cross legged in a square as Brian constructed another perfect joint. The stranger exhaled the marijuana smoke slowly and purposefully. “This is really top gear. If you blokes have got this stuff on tap I can see the attraction of this place, even if it is way beyond Bullamanka”. He passed the toke onto Brian.
“Like, what language are you speaking, dude?” quizzed Neil.
“English, mate. Dinkum English”.
“But that's just it dude – there ain't no Bullamanka or dinkum in any English I ever heard”.
“Oh, right. I guess you'd call it Strine then.” replied the stranger.
Neil looked at him blankly, no closer to understanding.
The stranger continued. “Us Ozzies like to cut our words down to size. Australian becomes 'Stralian when you get rid of the front bit and 'Stralian becomes strine when you flatten it out and say it real fast in a strine accent”.
He shrugged his shoulders. “That's all there is to it”.
As Kenny passed the joint to him the stranger asked. “So what brings you three to the beach at this time of day, during the week?”
They told him their story, of how they'd connived and contrived to get official permission to bunk off school whenever they felt like it, and how they’d convinced the school principal to let Kenny drive her car, but ‘kinda forgot’ to tell her he didn’t have a driving licence.
The stranger chortled. “You lot are pulling my chain! Jeez, but you're as slick as greased snake shit!”
They looked at each other, puzzled. “Er, does that mean we're good or bad?” Brian asked hopefully.
“It means you lot are ridgy didge, which is better than good”.
“But,” interrupted Kenny. “That doesn't mean we're not way serious about the surfing, dude. We're just having to wade through so much crap trying to learn from books man. It ain't nowhere near as easy as it looks”.
“It's easy enough to fall off the damned board” muttered Neil. “I'm getting sick of the taste of friggin’ salt water”.
“We should be experts by now, but we're way fuckin' nowhere” sighed Brian, his face vaguely ticking. “We're never going to crack this thing”.
“Whoah now!” exclaimed the stranger. “The trouble with you Seppos is you're about as patient as a dog trying to get its leg over a lamppost, and you want everything yesterday. And you're all such a bunch of bludgers – strikes me your main problem is you blokes can't be bothered to put in the hard yakka. Instead you want it all served up to you on a plate”.
The three boys looked at each other again. “Er, are we still good or are we bad now?” asked Neil.
“It means a good root and a fart would kill you, which is worse than bad”.
He paused as he puffed out and sucked in the joint, waited and exhaled. Having achieved a relaxed state of mind once again he continued. “You blokes should be more like us Ozzies; we're a laid back, kinda relaxed breed of people most of the time. Do you know what the most popular sayings are back home down under?”
They all shook t
heir heads.
“Well I’ll tell you. 'No worries' and 'She'll be sweet'. They both mean much the same thing. You shouldn't worry about things that don't need to be worried over. But for the things in life you really want, that really matter to you, you should give it a right fair go. Take me for example. I arrived here yesterday morning and I still haven't been out into the waves yet. You know why?”
Once again the three of them shook their heads.
“Because I spent the whole day looking out at the surf, trying to figure it out before I make a splash. Now I reckon I've pretty much sussed it before I even get in the water”.
He pointed towards a local surfer who was already in the sea. “Look where that bloke is lined up, about a hundred yards out”.
“Yep.” agreed Kenny. “It's breaking over there, right to left”.
“Aha!” smiled the stranger. “Everyone thinks the waves are breaking there, but I know the moon is passing overhead right now and the tide is turning. If you look another hundred yards further out you'll see that for every seventh wave coming in, a flash of foam appears. That's because there's a sand bank out there and the seventh wave is a bit bigger than the rest. It becomes unstable and breaks earlier because of the shallow the sandbank creates. So you can get a ride twice as long if you wait for the right moment. And you see how the biggest bit of foam on the seventh one is towards the left end of the beach?”
They all looked out, waited for the seventh wave and nodded as he pointed.
“Well that means the waves out there are breaking left to right and then switching right to left when they hit that landing zone a hundred yards out, so you get a beaut chance to do some big time trimming as you come in”.
The stranger picked up his surfboard. “Well I'm off to do some surfing now. Nice meeting you blokes”.
He held his board by his side and walked towards the sea. As he trudged along he turned back towards them and shouted up “Just remember to think like an Ozzie when you’re surfing and you’ll get there!”
Then he jogged down and into the sea. When he reached a shallow wading depth he dropped the board flat onto the water, gave it a delicate shove and fell onto it, gripping the rails and laying flat on it. He then shifted his body forward so his chin was resting on the nose of the board, lifted his feet until they were up in the air at right angles to his knees, dipped his hands into the water either side of the board and paddled out at a frantic speed. The board skimmed over the water, the nose just above the sea level.
An approaching wave was breaking up and about to flail itself against the beach. He paddled until the set was almost upon him. Then he took hold of either side of the front of the board with each hand, and pushed the nose down and under the foaming white water. As he disappeared beneath the surface, his right foot was visible as he used his knee to push the tail end of the board down, so it didn't get caught and pulled ashore by the surging power of this wave he had now dived beneath.
As soon as the wave passed over him he lifted up the board by pulling up on the nose and pushing down with his knee on the tail and then once the board was positioned, he kicked his legs to propel himself out of the water.
He relaxed into the prone position and lay back on the board, paddling out once more with his feet in the air until he met the next wave and duck dived again. Pretty soon he was in open water and paddled until he was a distant figure, further out to sea than the line up the other surfer was drifting around.
He then sat up with his legs akimbo and bobbed up and down, as he looked out to peruse the incoming waves for the one that looked likeliest to serve his purpose. After a minute or two of what seemed like an aimless idleness, he quickly resumed the prone position and paddled furiously towards the shore to match the speed of the rushing wave he had selected. He allowed it to catch him up at precisely the spot where he previously estimated it would start breaking up and - as he mentally calculated - it took hold of the board and he was now lying down on the wave and hurtling in tandem with it as its life cycle clock started ticking down. Maintaining a precarious balance he picked himself up, positioning his back foot at the tail end of the board and his front foot towards the middle while remaining bent over, holding onto the sides. Then almost instantaneously he lifted himself up, freed his arms and jerkily held them out sideways, groping for and finding a balanced equilibrium, riding the wave in towards the shore.
He dropped through the wave which, unexpectedly, had still not broken fully and he trimmed forward for a few seconds. Then he turned and span back up to the peak of it, as he waited for the break to start in earnest. As he reached the summit of the peak for the second time, the lip of the wave started to crash over at the point where he was, and he then knelt down within the tube and angled along the peak as it roared along. When he reached the end of the tube it broke up completely into bubbling foam. He calmly stood up on the board and allowed the latent energy to carry him towards the shore. He eventually came to a standing rest at the water's edge, a couple of hundred yards away from the boys.
He stepped off of the board as the three figures in the near distance jumped up and down, whistling and clapping and hollering their admiration and approval. He bowed ceremonially and waved back towards them. Then he picked up his board, turned and walked away down the beach, off into the distance.
“That.. was.. totally awesome dudes.” stuttered Kenny excitedly. “One day… we're gonna… surf like him, but first… we've gotta… learn a new talk. We’ve gotta start talking… Strine”.
“Wow! That was like something spiritual dudes!” yelled Brian, his face twitching. “We have totally got to think like an Ozzie if we want to surf professionally!”
“Dudes,” added Neil laconically. “If we want to surf professionally we’d better get two more surfboards”.
Kenny glanced at Neil with a baffled look in his face. “Hey dude?” he asked. “Don’t you need.. to visit the… bathroom?”
Neil looked back at him with surprise in his own eyes and smiled. “No dude, I don’t think I do”.
Chaos theory is a principle which, amongst other things, attempts to describe global weather patterns. It has produced the notion that the fluttering of a butterfly's wings could, through a twisting chain of events, eventually cause a storm on the other side of the world. It is possibly truer to suggest that each of the billions of souls on our planet is fated by moments of destiny which are released every second of every day, and these flutter up like spiritual butterflies. The overwhelming majority of these will fade and die the instant they are created. But, from time to time, one will have the strength or the good fortune to set itself free and gently soar up towards the ether. Then at some later time and place, it will float towards the fluttering destiny of a spiritual butterfly which has been released by another person. Having been drawn together and attracted to each other and danced a ritual courtship they will then join to produce a new destiny of their own.
The three boys didn't know it and the Australian stranger certainly didn't know it, but between them they had just set loose a spiritual butterfly which would join with another released half way around the world. These would then create a trail of destinies that would profoundly alter the lives of all of those they touched. And the moment it was released there was nothing anyone anywhere could do to change anything. For once the future has started to unravel it is as irreversible as the past.
Heather Surning had become aware she was spending too much time trying to piece together the missing memories of her fall from grace, and that it wasn’t doing her any good. The voice inside her, the one which always drove her on, had fallen silent lately and all that remained was an empty, hollow feeling. She felt as though she was abandoning herself.
So one afternoon, on the spur of a moment, she decided her next appointment was going to be an inaugural visit to Neil’s perfect beach. She put on her flip-flops and sunglasses, and walked along the coast road with a shoulder bag containing her laptop, a towel and su
n lotion. She had the presence of mind to wear her swimsuit beneath a sarong so she wouldn’t have to change in public. It felt good to get out of the stuffy office, away from the couch and breathe in the fresh salty air for a change. It also felt good to be bathed by the soothing heat of the sun on her back. She came to the dirt track, turned down it and walked through the cooler swampy forest until she reached the small car park, enclosed by a wooden fence with a gate in the corner. She trudged along the empty beach, spread out her towel and lay down on her back. Then she smoked a joint and closed her eyes. As if from nowhere the voice inside her returned, urging her to let her mind run free once again. So she did, and as usual it kept sniffing around and digging up her single memory of the chaos in the airplane, but going no further. She turned over onto her stomach and wriggled her body into the sand to fit her shape. The sun shone down on her, the light warm wind rustled through her hair and her mind drifted backwards and forwards along with the waves brushing the shore. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. She felt herself falling into the depths of her mind, and the drug inside her started to collect together a daisy chain of memories she’d never seen before.
She was waiting in an airport terminal building. Her flight home had been delayed for hours without explanation and there was still no news. She’d tried to check-in so she could claim her customary aisle seat at the rear of the plane, but the staff wouldn’t let her. In an agitated state, she tried to explain that she was an extremely nervous flier, but they told her it was company policy to only check in baggage for confirmed flights. She asked what was the reason for the delay and was met with shrugged shoulders. She sat fretting nervously in a seat nearby. She got up, wandered around, sat back down again. She worried about what might be wrong with the plane. Was it an engine? The flaps? The landing gear? Any of those could mean disaster. Why weren’t they making any announcements? She got up again and went back to the check-in desk to find out. She was told it was company policy to not discuss such issues, and when there was something to say, all would be revealed. She again tried to check-in, and again she was rebuffed. She was close to exploding, but rather than make a scene she tried to control herself. It was suggested, somewhat forcefully, that she might find a visit to the bar to be a calming experience, and they’d call her back when it was time. She wasn’t much of a drinker but she moved to the bar as suggested, where she was comforted by liberal doses of bourbon.
There was a brief flash of black in her mind, then more new memories sprang forth. She remembered returning to the check-in desk to find that, without announcing it, everyone else had checked in and gone to the boarding gate. She was allocated the last available seat, near the front by a window. Putting her in the front was bad enough, but by a window as well? Hadn’t she just told them she was a nervous flier? Waves of nausea passed through her, and with her mind loosened by the alcohol, she was close to screaming at someone. But instead she took a deep breath and marched back to the bar to quaff some more soothing magic bourbon.
Next she was boarding the plane. She asked an air hostess if she might swap her seat with someone else. No, smiled the hostess. When pressed as to why not, she simply raised her eyebrows and murmured that it was company policy.
Heather’s mind went blank again and then a nightmarish memory began to unravel. Half of her fought to retrieve it but the other half fought to throw it back.
The plane was finally about to take off and she was ignoring the man sitting next to her who was trying to make polite conversation. Television screens built into the backs of seats all around her were playing various channels. Then the jet engines whooshed into life and the plane jolted forwards. All the screens simultaneously tuned into a channel which was relaying live footage from a camera fitted into the nose cone. It showed the runway rushing past and a fence at the end with traffic crossing behind it looming closer and closer, faster and faster. She remembered shutting her eyes tight and firmly gripping the armrests until she felt the aircraft lift off the ground. Then she tentatively opened them again, only to find the screens were now tuned into another camera installed underneath the plane. She stared at the world passing beneath hundreds, then thousands of feet below, separated from her by a mere thin sheet of metal. Surning felt herself sobbing hysterically that she was having a panic attack. Alarmed, her fellow passenger rang and called for assistance. A hostess promptly arrived and Surning screamed that unless the screens were all turned off immediately she didn't know what she might do. The hostess smiled patronisingly and said this wasn’t possible. She did, however have something which might help. She reached into her pocket and pulled out two pills. Surning desperately popped them into her mouth and the recollection abruptly ended in another flash of black.
Then another memory slowly arrived. She was drowsily waking up. It was daytime, yet it was strangely dark outside. A storm raged, generating lightning flashes like atomic explosions and huge raindrops which crashed down like rocks. The plane was preparing to land and that damned camera in the nose cone was filming again. On the multitude of monitor screens, their destination lay ahead in the distance. As the plane wobbled in the air the approaching runway lights moved up and down, down and up, left and right, right and left. Then the whole plane started rocking and shaking, and with a rush of terror surging through her, she leapt up from her seat and pushed past her neighbour. She ran down the aisle, screaming that everyone should kneel down and say their final prayers because they were all about to die. Suddenly alarms were howling and a screaming, yelling crowd of passengers was upon her.
Her startled eyes opened and blinked in the sunshine. She’d finally remembered what happened on her fateful flight. Why had there been such a long, unexplained delay, and what on earth was in those pills they gave her? Angered, she considered what she should do with this new information and it didn’t take long to come to a conclusion. Throughout her life, if she ever encountered trouble she always took the supposedly correct course of action by ignoring or avoiding it. But where had that attitude ever gotten her? And now her good reputation, which had taken years to build, had been utterly destroyed in the flash of a moment by the callous actions of an airport and airline. She decided she’d had enough of being passive, avoiding conflict and showing the other cheek. This time she was going to stand her ground and fight back. She was going to sue the sons of bitches.
Chapter Four
Performing Shakesbeard