Читать книгу Storms - Chris Vick, Chris Vick - Страница 18

IT HAD BEEN light for an hour, but it felt like night out there, with the sky caked with cloud, and the wind screaming.

Normally he’d lie in bed with a cuppa, listening to the storm batter the window.

Or go surfing.

But today he needed to talk to Hannah.

They were supposed to meet up for a walk, but what could he say?

So far he didn’t have any ideas about how to get the money. Not even bad ones.

Maybe a surf would help him think.

‘What the hell.’ He poked an arm out from under the quilt, found his phone and texted:

Hi Gorgeous. Weather no good 4 walking. Give yrself lie in. Going qk surf. Best in ages. Meet up later, yes?

He snoozed, waiting for a reply. When none came, he crawled out of the sack and tiptoed downstairs. He made a steaming coffee, thick as soup, and ate an energy bar. He put his wetsuit on, got a board from the shed and headed out.

It was cold. The wind and rain had bite. They meant business. It was more like winter than the end of summer. The wind was so hard he had to hold the surfboard tight under one arm and steady the front with the other, just to stop it taking off.

Ten minutes later he was there. It didn’t look good from the cliff. Great white horses were rising out of the sea, raging and disappearing. Huge waves, bouncing and twisting with wild energy. Impressive, but no good for surfing. Maybe he’d wasted his time. He played with the idea of heading back. But then again … he couldn’t see the cove, and the forecast website had said:

It’s going to be special today, guys. It’s going to be wonderful … if you know the right spots.

Wonderful. That was weird. Jake had never seen that word on a forecast before.

If it was bad: Pony. Blown to shit. Or: Flat as road-kill.

If it was good: Cracking. Thumping. Off the scale.

Something like that. But wonderful?

Wonder-ful. Full of wonders. An offering from the sea gods.

There was a steep path, tucked into the cliffs, leading past a boulder and by a stream. No one used it apart from brave dogs and nudey sunbathers in summer.

Jake took that path, chasing a promise. Except the path and stream were now a river. He waded and climbed, slipped and swore.

He almost fell into the surfer coming the other way. A short, craggy-faced bloke he’d seen at Praa Sands a couple of times. The dude was climbing through the waterfall.

‘Wass it like?’ said Jake. He always asked surfers coming back from a break, checking their faces for glassy eyes and stupid grins. ‘Is it wonderful?’

Crag-face headed past, without saying a word, or looking at him. Maybe he hadn’t heard Jake? Or maybe he didn’t want to let on how great it was.

Only one way to find out. And it would give him thinking time. Surf could do that. Wash all your worries away. Clear your head. Just for a bit.