Take Me Away

Sandy Feet & Buckwheat Pancakes

I wake in the early hours of the morning. The sun is lingering just below the horizon, casting a faint glow into the sky. Despite the hour I get out of bed and open the windows, filling the room with cool air. I stride out onto the balcony, breathing in deep the salty air, cleansing my soul. I love mornings. Especially after a rainy night. There's just something about the way the sky gleams, like the world has been washed overnight. No one else is ever up, which suits me just fine.
It's not like you have any friends to hang out with anyway.
I shake the thought from my head like water. No need to ruin a blank canvas. The whole day, stretched out ahead of me. The past forgotten. 

I squeeze yesterday's surf from my wetsuit, let the water drip through my fingers, watch as it pools on the deck. I strip off, throw my pyjamas onto the bed and pull the damp wetsuit over my hips, hopping clumsily to get my arms through the tight, soaked fabric. Taking my long, blonde hair from between the zip, I reach over and pull up the tail. I sling my leg over the balcony and shimmy down, reaching out a foot for the familiar branch. Never once lose my footing. It's not the first time I've done this. Truthfully, it's become a bit of a regular thing. Mum knows, I reckon, but she doesn't mind. She also knows how shit school is for me. She lets me go a bit to make up for it. 

I grab my board from the patio, wax it up and wrap the leg rope so it doesn't drag in the sand, start walking. We live right out front of the beach, the best surfing beach in Byron Bay. People come from all over just to surf here. That's what I want to do when I get out of school. Travel the world searching for renowned surf spots. Mum once asked me why I didn't want to go to uni and I almost laughed.                                                                                                                                                              "Why would uni be any different to school?" I said. "Explain to me how it would be any better than this hellhole."  She let the subject go after that. I felt bad. I guess she was just asking, making conversation, but the question caught me. It's a touchy subject, uni.

When I get to the beach I look out across the water under the shade of my hand, taking in the swell. The waves are big, but I'm not too daunted. I like a challenge. I scrunch my toes deeper in the cool, wet sand. The water licks at my legs as I wade through the deeper water, determinedly ignoring every shadow that quickens my heartbeat, every menacing patch of seaweed that could be something else lurking in the gloom. I focus on the waves, beautiful curling monsters, just what I need to take my mind off...everything. The bigger sets up the back call me; I disobey my mind, running wild as it is. It's not usually this bad. I grasp my board by the slippery rails with difficulty, thinking I probably should have waxed it more. Too late now. I'm coming up to the set now, staring up at the waves. One curves high above me, arcing up to crash down. I duck dive through the cool wall of unbroken wave and emerge from the other side dripping wet. I see through a film of sea the new wave, rolling towards me, and leap onto my board, taking long, deep slices from the water with my strokes, tensing for that moment. Then I feel it. The wave, pulsing beneath me. I feel it take hold of the board and direct it like a toy boat. I keep paddling and push myself up to the crest of the wave, jumping to my feet as the board rides smoothly down the face of the wave and turns at the slight lean of my body. I ride the wave right to shore, then begin the long paddle back to the set.

*

I sneak through the back door, sandy feet leaving scuffs of the beach on the hand woven carpet. The lights are all off, the kitchen silent. Hopefully, mum is still sleeping. I go through to my room, tiptoeing on the creaky wooden floors. Open the door, close it behind me, wincing at the loud creak before the lock clicks. I let out my breath and start getting ready for school.                           I'm drying off on the towel hanging on my balcony when I hear the whistling of the kettle. Mum's up. I hurriedly climb into my school clothes, a stiff white blouse and tie with a pleated skirt. Ugly as all hell, but I have no choice. Sadly. It would be a wetsuit if it was up to me. Oh wait, if it was up to me there'd be surfing every day instead of school.                                                                                                                                                                                     She's standing at the kitchen island bench, looking lost and staring up at all the cookbooks. She's much better than she used to be, but mornings still get her a bit.

"Mum?" I ask tentatively. She straightens up immediately, swipes her hand over her eyes and turns to me.

"Morning, sweetheart." she says warmly. "Oh, would you like some eggs? Or an omelette, I could make an omelette? Or maybe I could cook up some buckwheat pancakes..." She turns back to the cupboard. "I haven't made them for a while, let's see..." she mutters, searching the cookbook titles with her finger. "Ah, there it is." She pulls out her trusty Lorna Jane cookbook, dog-eared and faded as it is. Starts flipping the pages as she absentmindedly sweeps her greying hair into a messy bun, tightening and tugging until her appearance is as immaculate as the kitchen. That's something that always amazes me about Mum. No matter how bad things get, she says, you have to keep up appearances. If only I inherited her effortless grace, her tall, wholesome looks that get all the men, young and old, blushing and mumbling at her beauty. Instead I got Dad's dark skin and scruffy, blonde hair, his stubborn chin and his sharp nose, eyes squinty from years out in the sun. Long, lanky legs too big for my short torso. Spidery hands. Mum says that I have long, clever fingers, made for making things. But that's every mum's job, isn't it. Lying to make her children feel better. I appreciate it. Honesty is overrated after all, and I get plenty enough of it. Mum flips the buckwheat pancakes out onto a handmade clay plate and rummages in the crisper for some berries. I scarf down the pancakes and take my lunch from her gratefully, yelling thanks as I run out to catch the bus. Sometimes I think even the bus driver hates me. He never meets my eye. Then again, that could be guilt for all the times he lets the kids on the bus take my bag and throw rotting apples at my back. I usually tell Mum that I lost my bag, or I fell into the massive compost pit out the back of the school. She has enough to deal with, she doesn't need to know all the details. I just tell her I hate school, that I 'don't fit in'. That's enough.