Free Salt and Blood by Peter Corris

beach were an innovation, probably necessary. The rails that ran around the concourse had rusted out and been removed sometime in the seventies if my memory served. Now they were back. I found a spot, scooped up sand for a backrest and lowered myself. Rod dropped his towel, kicked off his sandals and trotted down to the water with the big board firmly in his grasp. He went in without hesitation, waded to waist deep, straddled the board and started paddling. Paddling a surfboard looks easy but isn’t, and just about anyone who tries for the first time falls off. Again, for a novice, the arm and shoulder muscles start to hurt after fifty metres. Rod Harkness didn’t fall off and he looked as if he could just about take the thing halfway to New Zealand. He reached the breakers very quickly, well before two other surfers who’d started out at about the same time.
    I put on my sunglasses against the glare and squinted. There he was in classic mode, bobbing in the swell, looking back to read the waves with an occasional sidelong glance to monitor the traffic. It made me remember my surfing youth at Maroubra when I’d spent hours in the water risking skin cancer and shark bite and paraplegia, all things that happened to other people. In a way I envied the aging rock stars who flew their helicopters and the middle-aged journalists who went on smoking thirty a day as if it couldn’t happen to them. I knew that it could.
    A decent wave built up behind Rod and he propelled his board forward, caught it at the firststrong movement of the water, and stood up. Immediately, he lost balance and fell off. Neatly, though, and he was back up and paddling out again before another two waves had passed him. I found myself hoping he’d catch the next one and he did. Whatever wrong move he’d made on the first wave he eliminated, and he rode this one conservatively but with a lot of skill until it carried him to every last metre of its energy. A confidence builder.
    I watched him ride another couple and then turned my attention to the beach. Nothing suspicious in sight. I read a few pages about the old gunman who, to judge by the photographs, spent his whole time, summer and winter, in a suit, collar and tie with hat. Did no work on Bondi Beach. I yawned, cracked a can and drank it slowly. Nice work if you can get it. I read a bit more and then looked up to see Rod ride a long, curling one right into the shallows. He slipped from the board and undid his leg rope. He lifted the board clear and left the water. He waded ashore and raised his fist in a triumphant salute.
    As he was trotting up the sand, a man who was adjusting his balls inside his togs blundered into Rod’s path and caused him to lose balance and drop the board.
    I watched lazily until I saw Rod pick up the board and swing it hard against the man’s back. He went down and I was up and running towards them. The man was big and well-built but quick on his feet. He sprang up and moved aggressively forward, well balanced. Rod jabbed the boardhard into his chest and the man went down again. He was a street fighter. He scooped up sand, threw it at Rod’s face and came in low, bullocking. Rod dropped the board and waited for him.
    The question that was skipping in my brain as I raced across the sand, dodging people and trying to keep my balance was,
Is this it?
I had almost reached the pair as Rod misjudged the force of his opponent’s rush and the level of his head. He took a heavy butt to the mid-section, lost his footing and went down. Then the man made the mistake of swinging a foot at Rod’s head. A barefoot kick won’t hurt much unless delivered by an expert, which this guy wasn’t. Rod was adrenalin-pumped. He took the blow, grabbed the foot and twisted. The man roared in pain and went down on his knees as Rod got quickly to his feet. He drove a knee into the guy’s face, held him by the hair and got into position to deliver a