Nehalem (Place People Live). Hap TiveyЧитать онлайн книгу.
Sammy watched them with mild annoyance. “Hey Glass, you think we should pull the truck over? If that’s Murphy, he’s gonna be pissed and haul our ass out of the water to move it.”
Glassman recognized the headlights. “Murphy’s sound asleep. That’s Billy. You think Billy would sleep through this? He’ll park behind us. He knows we’re already here; I told him the waves would be here today. One of these days he’s gonna learn to believe me and get up when I do. How long did it take you to start believing me? You guys all treat my visions like they’re bullshit, but when I know waves are coming – they’re coming. I see things.”
Sammy laughed dismissively. “I don’t know what you see without your glasses, but I see the best freakin tubes of the year – right in front of me.” He saw Glass stop and for no apparent reason stare across the channel.
Halted by the impression that he heard the echo of what he had just said, Glass looked for the source of the sound and found two small figures on the rocks across the channel. For a moment they appeared mysteriously - vague, gray and distant. He imagined the other end of this swell stretched across the river mouth to their side, where it barely made a splash as it slid past them. On his side, a head high maelstrom crashed through the basalt a few steps below. Fifty feet of churning foam attached the black and white violence beneath him to a steep green wall that swept past – empty, smooth and stretching into deep channel oblivion. It was well overhead, maybe eight feet, which meant the peak would be at least ten. His attention returned to the figures, who solidified and really seemed to be there, standing on the jetty - waving. Maybe they were surfers excited to see someone going out; or more likely, they were birders who had never seen a big flock of murres and ducks at dawn, black shapes floating in the south jetty’s protective shadow.
Sammy dove from the jetty as the last wave of the set passed, sprinted into the channel and paddled out to the lineup as the next set began to show. Glass waited for another small wave to wash past and dove after him. He was far enough behind that he decided not to stroke for the line up. He could miss this set, and sitting out in the channel he could relax and watch Sammy take his pick and work it alone. It was always amazing to stare directly into a big barrel from the safety of the channel, even better if your partner was locked in the tube screaming at you. In these waves, Sammy promised a great show. He could see Billy’s truck parked behind the camper with Billy sitting half naked on the hood. It was now an audience of two waiting for the show to begin and Glass had the cat seat. Sammy let the first wave go and the second and the third. Glass watched the barrels roll past and began to regret waiting, but on the fourth, he saw Sammy drop in behind a huge peak. He pulled up onto the wall as the lip pitched out behind him and the tube enveloped him. Glass thought he saw a dead bird follow the lip down into the white water and the barrel rolled by empty. Sammy popped up behind the broken wave swinging his arms as if he was swatting away flies, and began paddling for the channel.
Glass yelled over the roar of the shore break. “I thought this was the big show. Nice burial, dude.”
Sammy yelled back irritated and frustrated by his failure on a wave that had promised to be a perfect beginning. “Bite me. I snagged some fish net and it’s all over me.”
Glass yelled a half-joking warning. “You gotta pick a better line next time. And you better start stroking, the next barrel’s on its way.”
Sammy began paddling hard for the channel, but moved sluggishly as the next wave broke and rolled toward him. He managed to reach the shoulder of the wave and avoid the impact, but as it passed, the white water seemed to exert an invisible force that dragged him along with it. When the motion of the net subsided, he had almost reached Glass, but it had drawn him closer to the jetty and into the path of the next wave. They were still thirty feet apart.
A tone of mild fear crept into Sammy’s voice as he realized that enduring noxious pollution could degenerate beyond humiliation to survival. “Hey man, help me get this crap offa me. It’s all wrapped around me and tangled in the board’s fins. This is messed up.”
Glass looked outside at the last wave of the set and decided to stay in the channel. “You gotta get out here or take one on the head. Come on dude, paddle. You can make this. It’s the last wave of the set. I’ll get that off you after this one.”
Sammy struggled awkwardly, but couldn’t gain traction.
Glass watched the wave break and the barrel roll toward Sammy. He yelled. “Leave it and swim. Come on man, you got about twenty seconds.”
“I can’t. He screamed back. “It’s like I’m tied onto the board.”
The last barrel rolled over Sammy. As Glass rose on the shoulder he checked the lineup for another wave and suddenly visualized the deadly expanse of black floats not as birds, but bulbous spiders bringing their web forward with each successive wave. He turned toward the jetty and stroked hard after the white water, hoping it wouldn’t drag Sammy onto the rocks before he could reach him. Suddenly Sammy was there, on the surface beside him, wound so tightly he could barely control the board enough to right himself. He floated almost vertically and his eyes bulged as he gasped for air. Glass could see the net spreading beneath them and feel it collecting on his legs as he kicked to maintain leverage while he tore at the lines binding Sammy’s arms.
Panic gripped Sammy and he screamed at Glass. “Get the knife. Get in there and get the knife. I’ll paddle through the next couple; they’re small. They can’t put me in the rocks. We gotta get me out of this before the next set comes through.”
Glass continued tearing frantically at the net, breaking only the light lines. Heavy lines cut into his wetsuit gloves and held. A small shore break passed between them and the jetty, dragging Sammy a few feet. He screamed at Glass. “Forget it man. I can paddle enough to get around these little ones. Get the knife. You’re thirty feet away; get the knife!”
Glass stroked away from the net, and directly at the jetty, but didn’t reach it before the next wave caught him. Using his board as a shield, he braced for the impact as it drove him onto the rocks. The white water that caught him was small, comparatively, but big enough to slam him and his board into a ledge with enough force to snap the board. He caught a boulder, let the wave pass and scrambled out screaming for Billy. When he looked back, he saw Sammy paddling again. He still had control, but a corner of that broken wave had twisted a fresh layer of net into his tether.
Glass ran toward Billy’s truck yelling frantically. “Billy, gimme your knife. Sammy’s caught in some crazy net and it’s gonna drown him or drag him on the rocks. He’s totally snarled. I gotta get back out and cut him lose. Gimme your board. I just broke mine. Where’s your deck knife?”
Billy stepped out from behind his pickup wearing trunks. One leg was a few inches into a wetsuit. He looked out at the next wave bearing down on Sammy, stepped on the wet suit with his free foot and pulled lose in one motion. He opened the truck cab, grabbed fins from under the seat, snatched a deck knife that hung from the rearview mirror and ran.
Glass ran after him. As he scanned the boulders for a way down, he saw the net beginning to nest around a piece of his shattered board that had wedged between boulders. The white water rushed past and for a moment everything stopped as he stared at the wet lines glittering around it like old tinsel clinging to a trashed Christmas tree. His entire body shook violently, as if he had gone hypothermic. He looked up as Billy pulled on his second fin. It suddenly occurred to him that Billy was going without a wet suit. “You can’t go out there. You’ll freeze.”
Billy yelled before he dove. “There’s a car headed this way on the access road. Whoever it is, get them down to the water. I’ll get Sammy lose. There’s rope in the truck. Get it and stay on shore. Honk the horn till you see me headed in with Sammy or till they get here – whoever they are.”
The last of the small waves rolled over Sammy sweeping him closer to the jetty. Three waves he couldn’t escape had wound him to the board in a cocoon of fine filament, but he managed to stay upright with his head above water. The net bound the tail of the board with knots around the fins. As the surge moved past, it swung him like a swamped