Thicker Than Water

Thicker Than Water By Nickie Jamison The warm tropical water flowed over Drew’s arms as he paddled his surfboard to the reef. Runoff from last night’s storm had begun to abate and the unusually murky water in Ala Moana was returning to its normal blue-green glassiness. The chest-high swells brought out the dawn patrol—early morning surfers who didn’t mind paddling the two-hundred-yard distance to the breakers. They floated on their boards, bobbing up and down with the surf, watching the waves, and waiting. One of the surfers greeted Drew with a shaka, the universal surfer sign—extended thumb and pinky finger with the three middle fingers curled toward the palm—hang loose. Drew’s twin sister, Dee, had Skyped Drew last night to school him on the history of surfer culture in Hawaii and to wish him luck in the quarterfinals tomorrow. He’d known what the gesture meant, but it was one of Dee’s weird quirks to know random facts. His sister was great at parties. The early morning surfing on easy waves gave Drew the time he needed to clear his head. He couldn’t afford to get distracted in the pipe again this year. In the first round of the competition, Drew had felt kind of sick surfing the same heat as Shawn Kennedy. Shawn was sexy as hell out of the ocean and in it, with sparkling droplets of water cascading from his long blond curls, down over his bronzed skin, taut with lean muscle, and the slicked down hairs of his happy trail. Oh, my God. Last year during the semifinals of the Hawaii competition, Drew had caught a glimpse of Shawn on his board, skimming the barrel, riding the pipe up in a spray of seafoam. Shawn’s sculpted thigh muscles flexed as he steered his board. Drew had been so enamored that he wiped on a tiny-ass swell—effectively eliminating himself and lowering his overall score enough that he topped out at fourth in the league for the year. Drew cupped his hands, dipped them into the water, and poured it over his close clipped black hair. He scrubbed his face with his palms, the coolness dripping through the unshaven stubble on his jaw refreshing him. Drew licked his lips, tasting the salt. The ocean was part of his soul. Floating on his longboard—white with green trim—the favorite from his collection, he watched and waited for the peace to settle into his bones. He heard shouts and whistles and looked up. A guy in bright red board shorts was standing in a boat about fifty yards off, waving one arm over his head. Drew squinted at sunlight reflecting off the lens of the man’s binoculars. Drew turned away just in time to see the grey fin dip below the water. Shark. Drew brought his fingers to his lips and whistled sharply, flagging the other surfers in the water. “Manō. Shark,” he shouted, waving the others to the shore. The two hundred yards from the reef to the beach felt like kilometers as Drew’s arms burned from pulling himself through the water. When he got back to shore, Drew had noodle-arms. He tucked his board against his side and headed for his rental truck. So much for a relaxing surf. Maybe he should do what everyone else in the quarters who didn’t have to surf a heat in round five was doing and take a day off. Drew looped the bungee cords over the board to secure it in the bed of the rusted old pick-up. Sharks weren’t uncommon in Hawaiian waters, in an hour or so the other surfers who’d decided to stay at the beach would either be back on the reef or would move on to one of the other beaches. He stroked the surface of his board, feeling the gritty knots where sand clung to clumps of wax. It needed cleaning, but this wasn’t his competition board and TSA had seized the wax comb from his carry on. Combs were one of those tools that he seemed to have a million of, but could never find one when he wanted to use it. It shouldn’t be hard to find a surf shop, dude. You’re in f*****g Hawaii. The white Billabong T-shirt he’d left on the front seat stuck to Drew’s damp skin when he pulled it over his head. He’d rented an old rattle-trap of a truck on purpose so he wouldn’t have to worry about getting sand and salt everywhere. The vehicle was at least ten years old and rusted in places that were probably integral to keeping the thing running, but it worked well enough. Drew didn’t have enough fingers and toes on him to count the number of times rental places had hit him with damage charges on newer vehicles, because even if he was gentle with the rental, salt, sea water, and seasoned boards weren’t. Drew smirked, recalling the Enterprise guy in Mali. What was his name? That was a fun f**k, it was a much more enjoyable way to get out of extra charges than arguing with a manager.