The Surf Camp – Part 2: The Set

They went out at dawn, in a pink-and-grey light, with the beach empty and the tide dropping.

The sets came in long and slow, glassy walls curling out of the Atlantic. Tomás paddled until his arms burned. Rafael bobbed beside him, whispering, "Wait. Wait. Now. Go."

The wave lifted him. He felt the board catch, the world tilt, the whole sea rise behind him like a hand. He scrambled up, wobbled, crouched, and flew.

For four glorious seconds, he rode. Then he fell, spectacularly, into the foam.

He surfaced yelling with joy, and found Rafael already paddling to him, whooping.

"You stood! You stood up!"

"I did!"

They floated side by side in the swell, laughing, wet hair in their eyes. The sun broke through the cloud and lit the water in sheets of gold.

"Can I ask you something?" said Tomás.

"Yes."

"I fly home tomorrow."

"I know."

"May I kiss you before I do?"

Rafael's grin faded, and became something quieter, and softer. "Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you have to come back and surf the big winter swell."

"That's an awful punishment."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll wait."

Tomás took his face in both salty hands and kissed him. It was cold and warm all at once, tasting of the sea, slow in the lifting swell. Rafael's arm slid round his back, holding him steady, as he had held him up the first time.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Rafael.

"Green," said Tomás. "Very green."

He came back in January for the winter swell. He was still afraid. That, said Rafael, was exactly right.

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