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chapter two / aboard the paikea
A summer routine for Ilyshah Tūrei veered far from replication, always a disarrayed supercut. You would find her either sleeping in between silks with the shutters drawn until close to midday, or bursting with life at five am. The only thing separating those days? Uncle Kahu and his reggae tunes blasting through the house as his girls' personal alarm. After chores were done and she finished contorting into downward dogs and birds of paradise, it was time to listen to the oceans call.
Something about the currents on this coastline connected her spirit back home. She convinced herself that maybe a pint of the sea water drifted from the sweet shores of Aotearoa—leaving licks of salt on every mile of uncovered skin as she paddled on her mango shortboard to the dawn patrol lineup.
Her rules for surfing: be on the shore at the same time as the awakening sun, or late in the afternoon and your skin will thank you for it. Don't forget to stretch beforehand less you cramp up again on an aerial and finally for the love of God, don't stare at JJ Maybank for too long or you will never catch a wave.
Him and John B Routledge were the only two people her age in the foamy line up at this time of day, unfortunate kismet given that one was left on a ferry dock, the other rejected under a palm tree. Still, she couldn't let that faze her into looking like a Kook between waves—awkward smiles exchanged in contact as they let her cut through into the impact zone to observe her from calmer tides.
"Not a bad surfer, almost like she's not a Kook at all," John B remarked, slapping the front of JJ's board to snap him out of his trance. "How's that plan coming along, JJ?"
JJ wiggled his finger, his other arm holding him steady on the board. "You don't trust me enough bro. I've got it on lock."
"Oh yeah sure, definitely seems like it," John B hummed laced with sarcasm, taking off to paddle for a second before turning back to JJ. "Coming in or you just gonna to keep staring?" He taunted, spurring on a boyish smile from JJ as he broke out into a paddle.
By the end of the twelfth wave, Ilyshah was gone. Back to a side of the island she saw as less of a home than the one she resided in of the mornings.
Back to Figure Eight.
Where the white picket fence American dream capsuled its essence, through it's perfectly manicured lawns and star-spangled banners ribboned off porches of humble abodes to ivy strung estates. A grandiose facade greeted Ilyshah at every turn here. Even the air she breathed tasted of money old and new. It all blurred into disorientation when she first arrived nine months ago, and it still did right into breakfast with her family.
As Ilyshah returned fresh from the sea clad in her crotchet bikini top and mismatched board shorts, Lani Tūrei came dripping with sweat off the tennis court at The Island Club in perfectly co-ordinated sets of pretty in pink from alo yoga. She downed a chilled bottle of voss before joining Ilyshah at the table laden with avocado, a loaf of sliced sourdough and Aunt Claire bustling in carrying a bowl of hard boiled eggs.
