Ocean's Daughter
one.
It all goes zero to one hundred really fucking quick.
It's a Saturday night in the middle of July and Branson had shown up at my house with the boards in the back of his pickup, a hand thumping on the horn until I could be fucked enough to drag myself from bed. Eleven at night after a days work and the kid still wants to surf - you had to give him some credit. I shake my head, roll my eyes, but within 10 minutes I'm sitting in the passenger seat and cruising along to Brick Cove while Branson rambles on about some girl or another.
"She's smoking, man. Like. 'Call the fire department' level smoking, y'know?" He looks over at me, eyebrows raised high. He doesn't wait for an answer before he continues. "But Luke, mate, she's a fucking cougar, is what she is. Mark said she's thirty and with like, three kids. It should be fucking illegal, right? No mom has the right to look like that be be like that ." His waves his hands in some wild type of gesture that I can't be bothered to understand, and I nod in hopes it might shut him up. The guy doesn't understand the concept of a peaceful night drive.
The moon is bright above the car and the stars are out in the hundreds, and if I wasn't running an four hours of sleep in the past two days, I'd probably be foaming out the mouth at the prospect of catching a few waves. But, fuck , they say being sleep deprived is like taking a few shots and it isn't a fucking joke. I actually might be in better shape with fireball running through my blood.
Still, when we arrive at the cove, a small bit of excitement stirs in my stomach. Branson hops a curb with his truck and drives all the way through the sand until the bed of the pickup in inches from frothing waves. He grins at me when we hop out, bumps his shoulder into mine. "Check that swell, man," he whistles, nodding towards the waves. True to his words, it's actually fucking ripping out there. "Can I get a 'Thank you, Branson, for getting my lazy ass out of bed so I can witness the shreddies?'"
I punch him in the gut and leave him rubbing his stomach while I grab my board and wade in. When the boards at my hip level, I wrestle myself against the waves and lay my body on the board, paddling out as best as I could with exhausted arms and in the raging surf.
I said it all happened quick and fuck, it was like the blink of an eye. One second I'm lifting myself to my feet and the next it all comes crashing down; I'm tumbling and the boards gone and I can't find the surface and the rocks from the overlook must be getting close and fuck, I don't even know if Branson saw and it must be too dark for him to see me and I'm going to die , there's no doubt in my mind that I'm going to fucking die. My lungs are screaming and my limbs aren't fighting anymore it's all getting hazy and I'm sinking under when she decides, 'hey, I suppose now it's a good enough time to save him.'
It's a Saturday night in the middle of July and Branson had shown up at my house with the boards in the back of his pickup, a hand thumping on the horn until I could be fucked enough to drag myself from bed. Eleven at night after a days work and the kid still wants to surf - you had to give him some credit. I shake my head, roll my eyes, but within 10 minutes I'm sitting in the passenger seat and cruising along to Brick Cove while Branson rambles on about some girl or another.
"She's smoking, man. Like. 'Call the fire department' level smoking, y'know?" He looks over at me, eyebrows raised high. He doesn't wait for an answer before he continues. "But Luke, mate, she's a fucking cougar, is what she is. Mark said she's thirty and with like, three kids. It should be fucking illegal, right? No mom has the right to look like that be be like that ." His waves his hands in some wild type of gesture that I can't be bothered to understand, and I nod in hopes it might shut him up. The guy doesn't understand the concept of a peaceful night drive.
The moon is bright above the car and the stars are out in the hundreds, and if I wasn't running an four hours of sleep in the past two days, I'd probably be foaming out the mouth at the prospect of catching a few waves. But, fuck , they say being sleep deprived is like taking a few shots and it isn't a fucking joke. I actually might be in better shape with fireball running through my blood.
Still, when we arrive at the cove, a small bit of excitement stirs in my stomach. Branson hops a curb with his truck and drives all the way through the sand until the bed of the pickup in inches from frothing waves. He grins at me when we hop out, bumps his shoulder into mine. "Check that swell, man," he whistles, nodding towards the waves. True to his words, it's actually fucking ripping out there. "Can I get a 'Thank you, Branson, for getting my lazy ass out of bed so I can witness the shreddies?'"
I punch him in the gut and leave him rubbing his stomach while I grab my board and wade in. When the boards at my hip level, I wrestle myself against the waves and lay my body on the board, paddling out as best as I could with exhausted arms and in the raging surf.
I said it all happened quick and fuck, it was like the blink of an eye. One second I'm lifting myself to my feet and the next it all comes crashing down; I'm tumbling and the boards gone and I can't find the surface and the rocks from the overlook must be getting close and fuck, I don't even know if Branson saw and it must be too dark for him to see me and I'm going to die , there's no doubt in my mind that I'm going to fucking die. My lungs are screaming and my limbs aren't fighting anymore it's all getting hazy and I'm sinking under when she decides, 'hey, I suppose now it's a good enough time to save him.'
♠ ♠ ♠
this has been a thought for like 2 years and it's come out shitter than I could have ever imagined. bare with me while I remember how to write? this is the longest writing hiatus I've ever gotten over.