Kook. Chris Vick
equinox storm?” I said.
Silence.
“What?” said G.
“Equinox,” I explained. “The midpoint between the summer and winter solstices. You get a lot of big storms then, or that’s what’s believed, as the Earth turns on its axis…” I suddenly wished I’d kept my mouth shut.
“You some kind of geek?” said Big G.
“No,” I said, lying. “What’s this ghost storm?”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Big G, pointing at me, sounding just as narky as he had on the shore. “It’s a bullshit myth they put in books for tourists, a load of shit about a storm that raises ghosts from shipwrecks. What is true is that storms come out of the blue. Or a bad storm gets ten times worse for no reason. They’re called ghost storms. They’re violent. They kick up big waves that catch people off guard…”
“Like the one that creamed you today?” said Rag, taking off his ridiculous hat and letting his long blond hair fall out. They laughed. I joined in, but the look Big G gave me shut me up quickly.
“What about you? What do you do for kicks?” said Big G.
“Bit of footy. Xbox.”
This got them shaking their heads. “Don’t get it, man,” said Big G, stroking his wispy beard.
“You think I should be out surfing, waiting for the ghost storm?” I didn’t mean to sound like I was taking the piss, but that’s how it came out of my stupid mouth.
Big G picked up a stick and poked the fire. “Last year two miles off the Scillies,” he said, “there was this tiny island with this old dude living on it. Nothing there but one fisherman’s cottage, a small harbour and a smokery. Ghost storm came out of nowhere. A massive wave swept through, north of the island, ripped open a cargo ship like a sardine can, trashed two fishing boats. Then it hit this little island where this guy lived. All gone. The house, boat, everything. No body found neither…”
“How can water do that?” I said. I was curious. Again, I didn’t mean it to come out like it did. I really wanted to know about it. I had reasons to want to know. Good ones. I knew what water could do. But it sounded like I was having a go.
“You know anything about the power of water?” said Big G.
“No, not really,” I said, lying again.
“I’ll show you,” said Big G. He stood, picked up the near- empty plastic container, and poured the last of the beer into his mug …
Then threw the empty demijohn straight at me.
I caught it, but only just. Drops of beer splashed over my jeans.
“What you do that for?” I said. I looked to Jade, seeing what she’d do, but she smiled, like it was no biggy.
“Easy, right? Nice and light,” said Big G, then he picked up the other full one, with both hands and threw it over the flames. I caught that one too, but I fell backwards, with the weight of it. The others froze. No one spoke for a bit. Jade stared at the ground, embarrassed.
“Steady,” said Rag, “the kid only asked.”
Big G sat back down. “Yeah, sorry, mate,” he said. “Just making a point.”
He’d done that all right. That was four gallons. It was nothing. Even a small wave was hundreds of times heavier than what I’d just felt. But I didn’t like how he’d made his point.
“Maybe we’ll get a storm big enough for the Devil’s Horns,” said Jade, changing the subject. They all got stuck into a long conversation then, about surfing these legendary offshore islands when the big winter storms came. I drank more beer. It seemed every time I was halfway through my mug, Rag would fill it up.
I listened, not really able to join in. But I was fascinated. Not so much by what they said, but by them. They were different from London kids. I’d imagined the Cornish would be right hicks, kind of innocent. But this lot seemed… what? I couldn’t say streetwise. But like they’d seen a few things. Done a few things. As they were Jade’s mates, I guessed they were her age. My age. But they seemed older.
“Do a lot of surfers go to these islands?” I said, trying to join in. Rag disappeared into the mine entrance and came back with a surf mag, which he put in front of me, tapping the picture on the cover.
On the cover was an old black and white photo showing a small island, with a lighthouse on it. And in the corner of the picture, in scrawled writing: ‘Devil’s Horns, 1927’. Behind the lighthouse, rising out of the sea, was a giant wave. A dark tower of water curling and breaking, topped by a white froth. It was about to hit the island. Maybe even swallow it. In white letters, against the dark black of the wave’s face, it read:
“No one’s surfed it,” Skip explained. “That’s the point. It’s like the Holy Grail. There’s this old myth about this big wave spot and all the ships that have gone down there. It’s calm most of the time, but in the right conditions it goes off. But there are a dozen islands it could be. More. And who wants to go looking when a storm kicks in? It’s an old fishermen’s legend, you see. No one knows where it is. So no one’s surfed it…”
“No one’s surfed it and lived,” said Big G. “There were two surfers from Porthtowan went missing two years back. Their car was found in Marazion. Some reckoned they’d headed out to the Horns.”
“And you’re going to surf this place?” I asked.
“Why not?” said Jade. “If we could find it. We’ll film it with GoPro cameras, stick it on YouTube. We’ll be fucking legends. Every surf mag in the country will want a piece of us!” She was all attitude and bravado, laughing like it was a joke, but kind of believing herself too.
“But you don’t even know where it is,” I said.
“Detail, Sam! You kook killjoy,” she said, grinning.
My skin was tingling from the sun and fresh air, and the beer and smoke were giving me this lazy, glowing feeling. It was cool, but when another spliff did the rounds it all piled up on me quick and I began to get dizzy.
“I’m going,” I said, standing, staggering a bit.
“Was it something we said?” said Rag.
“No, just got to get home. I’m in enough shit as it is.”
“Might as well make it worth the bollocking, mate,” said Rag. But I had to go, and Jade didn’t argue.
I cycled in front, watching the ground race towards us in the cycle light, with Jade following behind. The moon was up, bathing the moors and sea in silver-blue light. There were no cars or streetlights, just this place, with me and Jade whooshing along on our bikes. I can’t remember what we said exactly – I think she was more wrecked than I was – but I know we held this messed up conversation, her bragging about how she was going to surf the Devil’s Horns, and become this famous surfer. Me taking the piss. Then she sang this old Moby song. A slow, haunting tune. Something about being lost in the water, about fighting a tide.
It was like the theme tune of that night. It filled up my head as I raced along, with Jade behind me, the dog following, watching the bike lights eating up the road.
It was pretty perfect, that bike ride to my new home.
Bye, London, I thought. See you later. Or not.
*
When I got back, Mum was on her knees in the lounge, pulling out Victorian cups and framed pictures from a box with ‘ornaments’ written on the side. The place was a mess of boxes and newspaper. And stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. I couldn’t see where it was all going to go.
It