Kook. Chris Vick

      “What?”

      “That’s the spot’s name.” She sighed, and pocketed the binocs. “I can see the waves there, that’s why it’s called Signposts. Swell’s about three foot. Do you surf, Sam?”

      “No.”

      “Shame. I do.” She jumped off the rock, leaving me holding the smouldering fag butt. And I thought, Oh, right, see you then. But…

      “Come on!” she shouted, running down the hill.

      “Surfing?” I shouted. But she’d already gone too far to hear me.

      

      AS I RAN, I was thinking, Shit, this is already nothing like London.

      The moors in the sun were nothing like the flats that filled up the sky in Westbourne Park. Running off to the beach was nothing like heading to the dog-turd littered park for a kickaround. And Jade was nothing like… any girl I’d ever met. She wasn’t just beautiful. There was something about her. Something raw and naked. Something you wanted to look at – had to look at – but felt you shouldn’t.

      We went past our place and straight to their cottage. They’d built a wooden barn-garage right next to it. It was full of junk: an old washing machine, bikes, crates of books. I clocked the surfboards stacked against the wall, but she walked past them to a ladder leading up to an attic. I was going to follow her, but she said, “No, wait here.”

      After a minute or two, she climbed back down, carrying a wetsuit and towel.

      “What’s up there?” I asked. She didn’t answer. She stood by the surfboards, eyeing them up before choosing the middle one of the three – a blue beaten-up old thing about half a foot taller than she was, with a V shaped tail.

      “Love this fish,” she said, stroking its edge. “Flies in anything.” She balanced the suit and towel over her shoulder and stuck the board under one arm. Then she took an old bike from where it leant against a fridge.

      “You can borrow Dad’s bike,” she said.

      “But I don’t surf.”

      “You said. Come anyway. Don’t be a kook.”

      “What’s a kook?”

      “It’s what you are,” she said, getting on the bike.

      “Do you want me to carry…” I started. But she was already out of the door, riding the bike with one hand, and holding the board under her arm with the other. The dog followed, jumping and wagging its tail.

      “How d’you do that?” I said.

      “Practice!” she shouted.

      It was making me dizzy. One minute we’re eating cake, then we’re up a hill, then we’re off to the beach. And she was bossy. That annoyed me. But I was dead curious, and yeah, she was that pretty, you wouldn’t not follow her. I grabbed her dad’s bike and pedalled after her.

      After ten minutes we took a path off the road and cycled down a stony trail, with the dog running behind us, stopping where the ruined towers and walls of an old tin mine hung to the cliff edge.

      We dumped the bikes. Jade led us past a ‘DANGER – KEEP OUT’ sign by the mine and down a steep path that ended by a huge granite boulder, right on the cliff edge. She walked up to the large rock, and put the board on top of it, stretching, nudging it over the top with her fingertips. She left it there, balancing. Then, placing her body tight against the rock, and still with the towel and wetsuit over her shoulder, she moved around the rock, till she disappeared. A few seconds later the board disappeared too, pulled over the rock’s edge. The dog ran up the cliff and over the boulder.

      It was like they’d just vanished.

      I stepped up to the cliff edge and looked down. The sight of the sea hit me in the gut. It must have been a thirty-foot drop. She’d shimmied around the rock, casual as anything, along a ledge inches wide. If you slipped, you’d fall. If you were lucky, you’d grab a rock and hold on. Chances were, you’d go over. And die.

      “Coming?” said her voice, from behind the rock, teasing me.

      “Sure,” I said. I knew that without the drop I could do it easy, so why not now? I wasn’t going to bottle it in front of this girl.

      I pushed my face against the cool stone and edged around the rock. The volume of life was turned up. I could hear every shuffle of my feet, every breath echoing around my head, every beat of my heart. I couldn’t see my feet; I just had to trust they were going in the right place.

      It only took about ten seconds, but they were long ones.

      When I came round, I was panting and she was smiling, with a raised eyebrow and half of her mouth curling, like she was amused.

      The path – hidden from the other side of the rock – hugged the cliff, with sheer cliff on one side and a steep drop on the other. It was no more than two feet wide. A tricky climb down. But like with the bike and carrying the board, Jade made it look easy. I guessed she’d done it a hundred times before.

      There was no beach when we reached the bottom, just a flat ledge of reef, rock pools and seaweed. Far out to sea, the wind was messing up the ocean, chasing white peaks across the bay. But here the water was still, dark glass. Somewhere between this secret cove and the open sea were two surfers, sat on their boards, still as statues.

      “Tell anyone about this place and they’ll kill you,” said Jade, pointing at them and sounding like she wasn’t kidding. Surrounding herself with the towel, she started to change. She had a swimsuit on under her hoody. She must have changed into it when she was in the garage attic.

      And there I was again. Staring. I don’t think I was dribbling, or had my mouth open or anything. But I might have been, the way she glared at me.

      “Oh, sorry,” I said, and looked away. “There’s no waves.” It was flat calm, apart from a gentle lapping at the rock’s edge.

      “Long wave period. Watch.”

      After a couple of minutes, like a clockwork doll coming to life, one of the surfers flipped his board round and started paddling towards the shore. At first I couldn’t see why, but then, behind him, hard to see against the sea-glare, was a wall of water. It jacked up, rising out of the blue till it formed a feathering edge. The surfer angled his board, paddled a stroke or two, pushed up with his arms and swung his feet beneath him, landing on the board, and in one swoop was riding down and across the wave, gliding in a long line before weaving the board in a series of snake shapes. The wave broke perfectly, carrying the surfer one step ahead of the white mess behind him. Then the other surfer did the same thing on the wave behind. Their whoops echoed around the cliff.

      And I got it. Even then, I got it.

      It looked like freedom.

      Jade appeared at my shoulder, in her wetsuit. “I’m gonna get some of that. Look after Tess,” she shouted. She ran to where the rock met the water’s edge and launched herself into the sea, landing on the board and paddling powerfully into the dark water.

      As the sun sank in the sky, I sat down with the dog at my side and watched.

      They made it look easy, carving up and down the faces of the waves, spinning their bodies and boards round like they were dancing on water.

      So yeah, I got it. And this place was part of the buzz I was feeling, this secret cove and the girl and the surfing and the sun falling into the sea. They all added up to something good. Something not-London.

      When another surfer arrived it felt wrong, like he’d invaded my own little bit of heaven. Which was crazy.