“Who are all these people?” Terry looks confused and a little fractious. “Did they book?”
“That’s your four o’clock class, mate,” says Sean. “Big turnout today. Big turnout,” he adds to me, looking impressed. “They’ve hired every board in the town and Campion Sands and up the coast, most likely.” He pauses, running his eyes over the crowd. “Can any of them surf?”
“Don’t know.” I laugh. “But they can all learn.”
“True.” He turns to Terry. “You ready, squire? You’ve got an audience waiting for you. Wanting a lesson.”
For a moment Terry is silent as he surveys the waiting crowd, his eyes flickering in confusion. And I feel myself tense up, wondering if he’s going to be overwhelmed, if this was a bad idea.
“Why are there so many people?” he says at last, in familiar, tetchy tones. “It’s twelve to a class, Sandra will tell you that. Twelve!”
“I know,” says Sean reassuringly. “But this is, like, an extra class. We thought we’d squeeze in a few more.”
Terry nods, as though making sense of this, then frowns again. “But how will they all hear me?”
“We thought of that,” says Finn, quickly fitting a microphone to Terry’s collar. “See? Testing, one-two, one-two,” he says into it, and his voice booms through the speakers on the beach. “All yours, Terry.” He nods at the stage.
After a moment’s hesitation, Terry walks up onto it. And the cheering begins, a colossal roar of appreciation, up and down the beach. Everyone is clapping, whooping, stamping. Now the cheering turns to a chant: “Ter-ry! Ter-ry!” and Terry gazes back, looking perplexed, a slender old man with spindly legs and white hair and the love of all these people on the beach.
“Well,” he says at last, as the noise dies away. “Well.” He pauses, and there’s a breathless hush in the crowd. “There are too many of you, for a start.” There’s a ripple of laughter, and Terry looks still more confused. “Have they surfed before?” he asks Sean, who nods.
“They’ve surfed before.”
“Right,” says Terry, sounding more sure of himself. “Well, in that case …” He steps forward, looking at the faces, the boards, the sea, as though sinking back into a world he’d lost. “In that case, here’s what I need to tell you,” he says, his voice gaining strength. “You won’t like it. But you’d better listen.”
There’s silence on the beach. I can see Cassidy in a neon-pink bikini top and board shorts, Simon in a blue shortie wetsuit, surprisingly muscled, and Herbert looking like a black daddy longlegs … I can see Mum … Kirsten.… Gabrielle waving at me … and, oh my God, there’s Lev, in a sleek steel-gray wetsuit. When did he get here? I glance at Finn, and he winks back. Then we both turn to gaze at Terry, along with everyone else.
“You think you can surf,” Terry continues at last. “Oh, you all want to rush ahead, catch the hugest waves, show off to your friends—but that’s not what it’s about, don’t you see?” He looks around at the avid faces. “It’s not about showing off. It’s about you and the sea. You and the ride. The ride is it.”
“What’s the ride?” chimes in Sean, leaning into Terry’s microphone, his eyes twinkling at the audience.
“The ride is it!”
The mammoth shout from the crowd echoes round the beach as if we’re at a rock festival, and I feel shivers. I turn to Terry, wanting to see if he has any appreciation of the reach he has, the power he has, the effect he’s had on so many people. He blinks, his vague gaze traveling over the eager faces, and I hope above anything that the sight is sinking in. That it will warm him and cheer him for the rest of his life.
“You’ve been listening!” he says at last, and there’s a huge laugh. “Well. This is encouraging. I might make surfers of you yet. The ride is it.” He nods. “So. Remember that. And now let’s begin our warm-ups.”
It’s quite a sight. Several hundred people, all lined up on the beach, all following Terry’s warm-up exercises. New people keep joining in at the edges, holidaymakers and passersby and children holding lollies, until it seems that the whole endless stretch of sand is one big class, with Terry calling out instructions from the stage.
As everyone starts practicing getting up on their boards, Terry looks tetchy again.
“I can’t correct them all,” he says to Sean. “I can’t get round to them all.”
“Leave it to me, mate,” Sean assures him. “I’ll have a word with a few of them.”
And he roams around the crowd, greeting people and high-fiving and constantly glancing back up at Terry with a thumbs-up.
Soon after that, it becomes apparent that Terry is flagging in energy, and Sean leaps back onto the stage, taking a handheld microphone from Finn.
“Surfers,” he greets the crowd. “I’m Sean Knowles, the new owner of the Surf Shack, trying to follow in the footsteps of the giant, Terry Connolly!” Again the cheers ring out over the beach, and I exchange smiles with Finn.
I’m finally breathing out, I realize. I’m relaxing. My plan worked. Terry has given one last, epic surf lesson.
“There are lots of thank-yous to give,” says Sean. “And I’m sure there’ll be a speech or two later on. But for now, one very special person needs special thanks, for pulling this all together. Sasha Worth, get onstage!”
The roar from the beach almost deafens me as I step onto the stage, and I feel my eyes welling. I’ll never forget this moment, looking out to the blue horizon, with a sea of joyous people in front of me. The love on this beach feels as real as the salt in the air.
“I’m so thrilled you could all be here,” I say into the microphone. “Thank you all for coming. This is so much bigger than I ever thought it would be, and that’s down to Terry. As Sean says, there’ll be speeches later, but now I just want to thank one other person who did a huge amount of work putting this on.” I glance at him. “Finn Birchall.”
Finn makes a show of reluctance, then comes onto stage, grinning, and nods at the deafening applause which greets him. “I have only one thing to say,” he deadpans into the microphone. “Seize that wave.” Another roar goes up, and Finn laughs. “Over to Terry.”
We make way for Terry, and he stands silently for a moment as the hubbub dies to a respectful hush. His eyes look momentarily bewildered as he surveys the crowd—then they snap into focus.
“Well, what are you all still doing here?” he says sharply, his familiar, hoarse voice traveling across the sands. “You won’t catch a wave by standing on the beach! Enough talk.” He points to the sea. “Go get it.”
Thirty
There are so many surfers that the sea soon becomes ridiculously crowded. But after a while, only the hardcore surfers are still out there, and the others are paddling or sitting on the beach, drinking beers, catching up.
I surf for a bit, then come in, get changed into shorts, and check up on the food. There’s a smell of charcoal in the air, and the barbecues are already churning out burgers. There are picnic rugs everywhere on the sand, and someone’s playing guitar. Keith Hardy is doing some kind of Mr. Poppit set with his puppet to an audience of children, and he gives me a cheery wave, which I return while walking firmly straight past.
I collect a “Rilston cocktail” from the drinks tent, reassuring Nikolai that I don’t need an extra kale shot in it, then take it onto the beach and sip it, watching Ben dig blissfully in the sand.
“We need to come here every year,” I say to Kirsten.
“Oh, I’m ahead of you,” she says. “Already booked the cottage for next summer. And Pam wants to bring her menopause lot. Dunk them in the sea, sort out their hot flushes.” I catch Kirsten’s eye and we both start giggling helplessly. “So,” she adds as we come to a pause. “Finn. What’s that situation?”
“Bringing his girlfriend.”
“Huh.” She removes a tangled piece of seaweed from Ben’s fingers. “Well. You’re not short of hot surfing types here.” She surveys the beach, which, to be fair, is full of athletic guys. “Are you sure this wasn’t just you organizing yourself a speed-dating event?”