The Rocks Below Read online

  The Rocks Below

  a protest song

  by nigel p bird

  Unlucky For Some

  Sam Surf had been looking after his children all day. He’d spent the afternoon cooped up indoors changing nappies and cleaning up the kitchen. Nightmare. With his kids they’d made a batch of burnt muffins, a cake that came out soggy in the middle and a load of jam tarts from which the jam seemed to have decided to abandon ship and spread itself all over the baking tray. Next time he was in charge, he was going to stick to DVDs, books and the dressing up box.

  What made it all worse was the weather forecast. Tonight was going to be the biggest storm on the East coast for many years, at least according to the weather-girl.

  For Sam, big storms meant big surf and, other than his family, the waves were what he lived for.

  When his wife returned home after a hard day in the classroom, he filled her in on the details of the baking, the who’d done what to whom and the number of nappies that had needed changing.

  “If I’m not back by 5:30, make the calls,” he said as he pecked her on the cheek and pulled the door behind him.

  The light was already fading and he’d need to be quick if he wanted to have some fun. He ran down the concrete steps, leaped into his Sam’s Surf ’s Cool work van and sped off to the beach.

  When he arrived, he sat in the passenger seat and twisted his hairy arms and legs this way and that until he managed to get them inside his wetsuit. The engine was still running and he enjoyed the current of hot air that tumbled from the fans in the dashboard.

  As soon as he got on his rubber balaclava and rubber boots, he switched the engine off and jumped out of the van into the elements.

  From this point, he was working against the clock - the sooner he could get to the water the better.

  He ran to the back of the van, battling against the wind, pulled out his board and slammed the door shut. It was a shame that he only had the 6 footers with him – they might be perfect for Dunbar most of the year round, but with gales like the ones forecast, he knew that an extra foot would make all the difference. Still, it was all he had for the moment and he wasn’t going to miss this ride, not for anything.

  After locking the van doors, he put the keys on top of the wheel on the driver’s side and set off.

  To anyone watching, he must have looked like an alien being with his perfectly smooth black body, shiny bald head and the board tucked under his arm. Thing was, there was no one around to see anything – the weather warnings had made sure of that.

  When Sam left the protection of the trees and stepped onto the salt marsh, the wind battered his body. It meant his legs had to work twice as hard as usual to get him half the distance with each step. Not that a little thing like the weather was going to stop him. He’d surfed in the dangerous, icy waters of the northern coasts many a time and that was a testing ground for any boarder.

  It wasn’t long before he left the dunes with their sharp, dry grasses and landed on the soft clean sand of the beach.

  The tide was on its way and he didn’t have far to go until his feet met the edges of the sea. He sprinted in like he was a child and this was mid-summer.

  Stopping for a moment, he attached the Velcro strap around his ankle so that he wouldn’t be separated from the board and looked up at the sky.

  It was only then that he doubted the wisdom of his trip. The clouds stretched across the heavens in an angry shade of grey all the way from Dunbar to the Kingdom of Fife and it was only at the horizon that the pink glow of the sunset managed to survive. The lighthouse on the Bass Rock was already flashing brightly in the gloom as if it were pleading for help. The waves were crashing on cliffs and rocks in the distance and spraying up their white foam like Palomino horses leaping into the air.

  A thought took hold of his mind. A piece from the news he’d heard on the radio before he left home. Something about an ancient civilisation predicting the end of the world this December. Maybe it wasn’t quite as ridiculous as it had sounded.

  If the world was going to end, then there was nowhere Sam would rather be for his final moments than with his board out on the open sea. He sprinted into the waves, throwing himself into the water as soon as it reached knee height.

  He checked out the buoys and noted the increasing swell size – 3m at 10 seconds, 5m at 12 seconds, 7m at 14 seconds. 10m at 16 seconds. This was crazy. Made the hairs stand up on the back of Sam’s neck.

  He stood for a second. Felt the sand vibrating beneath his feet, sending tiny tremors through his body.

  How he wished his mates were here to experience this. If only Ross hadn’t broken his leg on his snowboarding holiday and Tom hadn’t been sent abroad to work for his slave-driving father it might feel safer to go in.

  Sam lay back on the board and with his arms he paddled as hard as he could. He tried to ignore the icy cold as it froze his face and his fingers. In between waves he made some progress, but as soon as the water came at him he lost almost as much distance as he’d gained.

  Half an hour it took to get to where the biggest of the waves were breaking and from the way the light was closing in he knew he’d only have one shot at catching a ride and that he’d have to make the most of it.

  He waited with as much patience as he could muster. Counted the undulations in the water and felt the rhythm of the sea as if he were a doctor listening carefully at someone’s chest. The first roll he saw got him scared. He’d only ever seen anything that big on the old surfing documentaries from out in Hawaii. The size of this one, it was like some kind of monster was emerging from the depths. To go in would be suicide, to miss the opportunity impossible.

  Sam’s heart pounded. The beats alternated between ones of fear and excitement. He set his board parallel to the shore. Felt the water rise beneath him and paddled like a furious penguin to catch the moment.

  A wall of sea some 10 metres tall rose up ahead. He felt the rise and pushed himself up into a standing position.

  The swell was huge. Perfect. Like curved sheets of glass made by an enormous artist. In the distance, the sea boomed as sets of waves offloaded in the distance.

  To survive this he was going to have to use all his experience. Would need to study every movement of the ocean to find those rips.

  His mind told him he could do it. All he needed to do was to be careful.

  Unfortunately, Careful was not Sam’s middle name.

  In the space of a blink, the moment came.

  He paddled for all he was worth into the rip that was running fast and wild like a white-water river. Within moments, he felt himself losing control and he was heading out to sea.

  Man, it was insane.

  The only thing for it was to paddle sideways.

  His arms burned as they pulled him out of the rip. Inside his ultra-cosy suit it felt like his sweat was about to boil. Thank goodness his face was in the open, cooling his thoughts as they ran around in his brain like they were in the middle of a particle experiment in the Hadron Collider.

  And then he was clear. Out of the rip and into a moment of calm. A chance for his heart to slow down and settle.

  He looked up and felt in awe of what he saw. Incredible waves, towering and majestic and full of wrath. It was the kind of moment that turned men into gods and gods to men.

  Sam turned to get his bearings, lined up with the sinking sun and the town while the peaks hit his right hand side and unleashed their power, doing their best to take him out of their equation. From the look of the sun’s position, he didn’t have long to get a wave in – it was now or never.

  Only, man, he was miles out. Could barely see the beach. His distance from shore made him feel sick and he had to force his bladder to stay shut. It was a time when he�
�d have to concentrate like he’d never done before and distractions like bodily functions couldn’t be allowed to get in the way.

  The waves to the right sounded like a thunder storm. He would have to make sure he didn’t get caught inside.

  And then came the gap, as if from nowhere.

  He paddled hard into the take-off area.

  There was a big set of waves on the horizon.

  He duck-dived the first and managed to scrape over it.

  The next was huge, but he thought his board could take it.

  He turned, paddled, pressed down with his chest. This was the one. No way he could back out no matter how scared he felt. He just had to go. Suddenly he arrived at the trigger point and he felt the wave take over.

  He jumped. Concentrated. Felt the rush of super-speed. Wondered whether the fins would hold. Stayed super low to touch water and turn. He was in deep and it was perfect.

  “Yeehah.”

  Judging the shoulder and wall, he decided to stall for the tube. Slash for the high line and travelled. The tube was like a house – a castle wall even - its lip enveloping over to engulf him in silence.

  For a brief moment he admired the setting sun glimmering on the wave face ahead, a hue of pink to it that made him smile, then he threw his arms forward to accelerate out.

  The acceleration was tremendous and he felt in control of everything. Right then he knew it would be the best wave of his whole life. Endorphins rushed inside his head as he admired the beauty around him. Instinctively he knew he was in the perfect spot.

  “Go baby, go.”

  And then it changed.

  Just ahead, the water sucked back from the sand bar. The wave grew and grew, 4 times his height, now 5. It was really bad news. His bladder gave up the fight and he felt the hot stream down the inside of his left leg.

  A minute earlier he hadn’t wanted to be anywhere else, now it was the last place on earth he’d choose.

  The wave had turned ugly, like the wicked queen in Snow White suddenly revealing her true colours. He’d read the story to his children earlier that day. His children! He had children. He had to get back to them, somehow.

  Should he pull into the face of the barrel and risk being sucked up and over or out run? He couldn’t think quickly enough.

  It was time for one last acceleration.

  Out of the tube and a turn hard right. The speed was overwhelming. Took him 10m away into the flats, the problem being 10m was never going to be enough.

  The full weight of the lip of the wave landed on him, his board cut in half like a bread stick.

  The force of the water took him down. He couldn’t breathe. There was a bang. A hard crash into a sand bar. The air was gone. Sharp pains jolted up his legs. The water spat him to the surface. Span him round like he was in a black hole.

  Sam gave himself up to the sea. Relaxed in the darkness. Felt oxygen fill his lungs as he snatched at breath.

  Bang came the next wave. This time the tumble wasn’t as severe and he forced himself to relax. Maybe he’d be ok. If only he could feel his legs.

  He realised he was sideways again, just when he didn’t want to be. His head became light as dizziness took over.

  “I love you,” he said, hoping his family would somehow get the message.

  He saw the foam. Could use it to get to shore. Pulled for all he was worth with his tired arms. It felt like minutes. Hours. Checked the tide – must be 20 metres...

  ...and all was darkness.

  It was the worst storm along the East coast in living memory.

  On Saturday morning the cafes of the Portobello waterfront were busy mopping out flood water and shifting sandbags instead of serving customers.

  In Dunbar, the corner of the harbour wall had collapsed taking out the windows of the nearby houses of the shore.

  North Berwick suffered the most. The wind had done its worst, picking up an empty freight container and shifting it all of 200 metres until dropping it into the harbour. Then it was the sea’s turn to have fun. It threw the container around inside the harbour walls until there wasn’t a boat in there that hadn’t been trashed.

  All along the coast, from Porty to Eyemouth, the beaches were strewn with trash. There were the hulls of boats, fishing nets, lobster pots, plastic junk in a thousand different shapes and the general garbage of the human race.

  Nature seemed to have joined in the carnage too. Spaced randomly amidst the man-made junk on the beaches were half a dozen enormous boulders. Huge chunks of rock the size of camper vans and definitely not for shifting till everything else had been cleaned up.

  Talk in the aisles of the supermarkets and on High Streets that Saturday was of the storm and nothing but. Some said it was God telling the world he wasn’t happy with the way things were going. Some pointed out the end of the world theory and talked with the confidence of those with ‘I told you so’ etched into their minds. A few of the old-timers talked of the return of Black Agnes, her ghost ready now to haunt and take revenge on the world. Global warming some thought. Earthquakes said others. Extreme weathers they all agreed.

  “I have no idea,” said Sam Surf when they pointed news cameras into his face where he lay in a hospital bed. “But it was awesome.”

  Snow Patrol

  The cold weather had invaded like the Vikings, taking no prisoners along the way. Pavements sparkled as if a gang of art-terrorists had been through town sprinkling glitter. The smells of wood-smoke, sea air and brewery-hops mingled like they had fallen in love and couldn’t bear to be parted.

  Dougal Munro’s shoes slithered along the ground at each step while he was on patrol, the smooth leather of the soles no match for the glassy surface of the ice. It was hard work, there was no doubt about it, but he was reminded of his reasons for doing it for by the signs that had been taped to every lamp-post he passed along the way:

  Lost – Patch. Sheepdog who needs regular medication. PLEASE CALL…

  Missing – Black Lab, answers to the name of Lucy…

  Help – Labradoodle pup missing. Reward if found….

  Lucky – beloved family pet….

  Irish Wolfhound, black coat. Thumper…

  Made his heart thump a little harder in his chest. “Sheba,” he shouted. “Sheba. Come on girl.”

  He put his fingers to his mouth and gave a long high-pitched whistle. Still she didn’t come.

  His wife had told him. “Don’t go letting her off the lead,” she’d said. “I know you and your ways, but it’s not safe for dogs at the moment.” Now he wished he’d listened.

  16 dogs in all had disappeared in the 10 days since the storm. Pedigree dogs most of them, as well as a couple of cross-breeds.

  Last time anything like this had happened in Dunbar it was bikes. Turned out there were gangs driving up from Newcastle, filling their vans with any bike that wasn’t chained up.

  Locals were thinking the same was happening now, gangs coming up and snatching dogs to sell on to unsuspecting families. The rumour was that some dogs might even have been taken to order.

  Whatever it was, Dougal felt it was his duty to answer the call for concerned residents who might want to put a stop to it, whatever ‘it’ was.

  Dougal always volunteered for these things. It was his ex-policeman’s instinct he supposed, the need to do something good for others. Neighbourhood Watch, Save The High Street, Cub-scouts, Swimming Club. There was no time for him to get bored.

  He was almost at the end of his route now and there was still no sign of Sheba. He crossed the road at the tiny Our Lady Of The Waves church and stopped, wrapping the leather lead tightly around his fingers. He whistled again into the cold, night air. Instead of seeing the white tip of Sheba’s tail coming near, all he saw was the mist of his breath in the air.

  He headed for the path down to the beach with a little more haste than usual hoping the Sheba had followed his normal walk and waited there to meet him.

  The steps down to the shore were particularly sli
ppery. He had to hold on to the grass and the brambles at the side to keep his balance. If he’d had any sense, he’d not have bothered, but he had to find his dog and, regardless of anything else, his wife would have checked with him to make sure he’d done his duty. “How was the doctor?” she’d ask, and he’d need to be able to give an answer or he’d be sleeping in the kennel in their yard.

  Dougal saw the familiar glow of the fire in the cave almost half way up the cliff in the rocks beneath the slanting roof of the swimming pool. The flames lit up the back wall with a gentle orange glow, drawing attention to the primitive looking eye picture that had been painted there so many years ago that no one could remember a time when it wasn’t there or who was responsible for putting it there. The Eye Cave they called it and it was a great place for Dunbar’s one and only homeless man to stay.

  Not that Dr Brown was homeless in the strict sense of the word. His sons were paying good money for him to be looked after in the nursing home, it was just that they couldn’t manage to get him to sleep there. Tying him up or locking him in just wasn’t something they were prepared to do, so they’d allow him to wander off every night just as they welcomed him back for his fried breakfast every morning.

  When Dougal got close to the cave, Dr Brown appeared at its mouth. He had the hunch of old age and hair so grey it was white, but after he’d waved he skipped down the rocks with all the agility of a mountain goat. 96 years old was Doc Brown, and still as nimble as a gymnast.

  At the same time, Dougal heard a dog’s panting. He looked over towards the noise and saw the bouncing white tip of his border collie’s tail, then the white badger’s stripe down the middle of her face.

  “Atta girl. Come on lass.”

  Sheba bounded over and jumped up into the arms of her master who picked her up and squeezed her hard, not minding the salt water that dripped from her coat or the saliva that she spread all over his face with her tongue.