Swell by Lauren Davies Read Free Book Online Page A

marketplace as its centre, selling everything from black pearls to carved wooden Tiki Gods and surfboards. The sweet local delicacy was shave ice; a huge cone of crushed ice atop a dollop of ice cream and soft beans covered in a rainbow of sugar syrups. I ate so many on the third day I gave myself a multi-coloured nosebleed.
    Every second shop in Haleiwa was a surf shop and it soon became clear I was in the very heart of the history of the sport. I wandered around the local surf museum run by a man who had enjoyed the Sixties to such an extent he had decided to stay there. He reminded me of Garth from
Wayne’s World
. Although the museum was no larger than my mother’s front room, he managed to string the tour out to an incredible three hours, largely because he spoke so slowly I could have fitted whole sentences between each word. I did, however relish the opportunity to view the surfing memorabilia that dated back to the 1900s. I learned every detail of the evolution of the surfboard, from the first bulky wooden door-like boards that were twelve-feet long, to the boards with a single fin as their rudder, on to the twin-fins, the three-finned modern board known as the ‘thruster’ and four-finned ‘quads’.
    The island vibe was so relaxed I met people as mellow as the museum curator everywhere I went. There was no unnecessary rushing around. The speed limit everywhere except on the one freeway into Honolulu was thirty-five miles an hour. The freeway limit itself was fifty-five. People surfed before and after work and talked about surfing when they weren’t doing it. Of course stress existed in Hawaii but the NorthShore locals seemed to either have the time or they made the time to enjoy life. The Aloha spirit was infectious and I soon realised my own reality was almost a distant memory. I hardly looked at my watch anymore and at one point I had to stop and think what day it was. However, I knew I was in danger of becoming too complacent and complacency did not produce bestselling books. Jason may have earned his break but I had not. I had work to do before the Christmas break with or without him.
    Back home at the beach house I looked out my trusty notebook that had a pleasant crêpe feel to the pages. I had always enjoyed the sensation of pen on paper and still favoured this method for my note taking and first drafts. I grabbed a pen and my i-Phone and threw them in my beach bag. I then stood in front of the bathroom mirror and studied my reflection.
    My face suited a tan and the sand and salty air had naturally exfoliated my skin. I was what one would call an English rose. My skin was usually chalk white in direct contrast to the deep black of my hair, which was my crowning glory. I had an oval face and big eyes that were as green as a leprechaun’s jacket. Not having been blessed with thick eyelashes, I applied two coats of waterproof mascara and stepped back, stretching out my already wide mouth. I was neither pretty nor particularly beautiful but, as my father had always said, I had striking features in all the right places.
    ‘Lip-gloss,’ I muttered and applied a layer thick enough to catch flies.
    My outfit was understated. A pair of denim shorts skimming my mid-thigh and a bright white vest top that clung to my breasts. I pulled my hair back into a knot tied at the nape of my neck and finished the look with a pair of thin silver hoop earrings.
    ‘Not bad,’ I said to myself.
    I slung my bag over my shoulder, stepped into my sandals and strode confidently out of the house.
    My confidence wavered somewhat when I walked up the path to the Tiger Sharks’ house and my flip-flops noisily announced my arrival.
    ‘Chick!’ shouted a brute with a shaved head whose hair had been replaced by jet-black tattoos.
    ‘Good observation,’ I muttered. ‘So are you the genius of the operation?’
    ‘Huh?’ he sniffed before returning to screwing the fins into his surfboard.
    I stepped boldly onto the terrace at the