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Veiled in plum dusk light, a moon reeled the ocean. Christy recognised high tide from the crash of cyclical teal waves littering against sand as she wobbled on the slack line. She cursed, lost a foothold, right now her balance sucked. Something was seriously wrong.
Amongst scraggy coastal gums sat her ubiquitous, bashed-up surfer car – why waste money on a vehicle, it was merely a transport method to surf spots. Selection criteria included: can I put boards inside easily? Yes. Will it matter if sea water gets inside? No. Correct responses to pass any surfer-girl test. Auxiliary factor – is it possible to sleep in the car?
Henry Holden, Christy’s long suffering pack horse. More, her one enduring companion, except for Emma, of course. Inside Henry enough space to sleep beside a surfboard. If more than one board and/or person, possible to use driver’s capsule space, leaving station wagon rear for duo sleeping space. Some shut-eye, if only between waves to sand-crunch, or until light poured in over dashboards. She recalled one adventure under banksia trees down near Middleton Beach when cops shone flashlights in, telling two barely-awake girls they weren’t safe, and ought to find a spot in a nearby expensive Big 4 Park just up the road.
Back of Henry, not a hidey-hole you’d want to occupy if planning a passionate encounter. Sworn off those lately. All those surfer boys sitting out behind shore breaking waves, great chance to check them out, acquaintances remarked. As if. Ok, there were some cute ones, but minus Henry’s dependability, ease of repair and endurance factors. Surfer boys kept an eye out for sharks but were too brotherly to be good fucks.
