If you kept your head and went with the flow of the ocean, you eventually rose to the surface and could paddle toward clear water. But inexperienced surfers often lost their center, panicked and got into serious trouble.
Knowlsie could handle it under normal circumstances. But he’d been caught by surprise and might even have been knocked out by his board.
The Javanese guy had fared better. The angle of the hit had propelled him in the direction of the deepwater channel running alongside the break.
The second wave of the set, bigger and more powerful than the first, smashed hard into Knowlsie, pushing him closer to the rocky shoreline. Carter started paddling at full throttle straight for him.
The third wave, the biggest of the set, crashed onto the shallow bank. It created a six-foot wall of boiling foam, thrusting Knowlsie even deeper into the churn of violent water.
Carter just hoped the kid had managed to gulp down some air before getting chundered.
3
Carter stroked hard across the strong rip sweeping toward the headland, focusing on the point where he expected Knowlsie to surface. The sharp nose of his board sliced through the chop.
Twenty yards in front of him, the ocean spat out three-quarters of a cherry board, minus the nose.
He slowed his paddle, just before Knowlsie’s head popped up next to the busted board.
“Thank Christ,” Carter muttered under his breath.
Knowlsie shook his head and gasped for air.
Carter took four powerful strokes toward him and sat upright. “You okay?”
Knowlsie, too out of breath to speak, nodded. He used his leg-rope to pull what was left of his broken board toward him and scrambled onto it.
Carter glanced back over his shoulder.
The Indonesian had surfaced much closer to the open water and was climbing back onto his undamaged board. His two mates paddled along the channel toward him.
“Shit, man!” Knowlsie said, still panting hard. “Look at my stick!”
“Mate, it’s only a board.”
“Mum’s gonna kill me.”
“The point is you’re okay. She’ll get over it.”
“You don’t know my mum.”
Carter smiled to himself and thought back to his own mother, who’d certainly ripped into him often enough over very little.
Knowlsie pointed at the three strangers sitting in a huddle forty yards away. “What the hell is the story with those arseholes?”
“The world’s full of them. Just worry about your own game.”
The comment didn’t seem to register with Knowlsie. “Bloody selfish drop-in artists,” he said. “Disrespecting the local rules. They need to be taught a lesson.”
“That’s how wars get started.”
Carter looked over at the Indonesians, who were discussing something. One of them pointed at him.
He needed to get Knowlsie out of there.
Besides the potential threat of violence, the rip was carrying the two of them at a steady rate back into the heart of no man’s land. The next set was already building out to sea, rolling toward them.
“You need to head in,” Carter said.
Knowlsie scrunched up his freckled nose. “Not before I tell those dickheads off.”
“Forget about ’em. They’re not worth it.”
Knowlsie ignored him and started paddling across the rip toward the channel.
“Hey,” Carter said in a stronger tone.
Knowlsie stopped, turned his head and gave him a defiant stare.
Carter’s gaze remained calm and steady.
After a few moments Knowlsie looked away, silently admitting defeat.
He turned his busted board toward the headland and started paddling toward it, managing to catch a small wave that carried him on his belly toward one of the few safe exit points on the rock-lined shore.
Knowlsie would be okay.
Carter turned out to sea. Another wave rushed toward him. He duck-dived through a wall of foam and popped out the other side.
When he’d negotiated the next two waves of the set, he slowed his paddle, looked up and scoped the three strangers. They sat astride their boards at twenty-yard intervals along the still waters of the channel, watching him.
He was starting to get a handle on what this was about.
At first he’d thought it unlikely anyone would choose to attack him in the surf. It would have been easier to take him out on dry land.
But now he understood. They were intending to attack him in no man’s land and make his death look like an accident.
It wouldn’t be hard on a day like this.
In theory, anyway.
One thing was for sure — they weren’t there for a friendly chat.
If nothing else, the unexpected threat had shaken off the remnants of his hangover.
4
Carter sat up on his board and savored the fresh salty smell and tang of the ocean.
Waiting for them to take the initiative was out of the question. And if he struck first, he needed to go all out. Half-measures would get him killed.
He stretched his arms over his head and rotated his shoulders and neck, wondering what weapons might be concealed under their wetsuits.
Something to keep an eye on.
He slid off his board into the choppy water, detached the leg-rope from his right ankle and unhooked the other end from the tail of his board.
His movements galvanized the Indonesian closest to him into action, and he stroked furiously along the channel toward Carter.
Carter didn’t waste a second.
He climbed back onto his board and lay prone, secured the leg-rope under his chest to keep it close and began paddling away from the approaching stranger at a forty-five-degree angle. He aimed his board for a position well inside the pack, where he figured a smaller but still solid wave would break. The other surfers kept their focus out to sea watching for the next wave, oblivious to anything else.
Carter reached his targeted take-off point just before the incoming wave hit.
The lip curled and a wall of steep water reared up.
He whipped his board around, pointed the nose at a slanting angle toward the wave’s face and powered his board forward.
His board came to life. He grabbed the ends of the leg-rope in either hand and jumped to his feet, bending his knees to keep his center of gravity low, and accelerated across the near-vertical face.
A quick backward glance told him he’d left the guy paddling toward him well behind, but one of his friends was now stroking at a frantic pace in an effort to cut Carter off.
He was just yards away when Carter shifted his weight on the sticky waxed deck of his board, lining its nose up with the man’s forehead.
The startled Indonesian stopped paddling, sat up on his board and reached behind his back.
Too late.
Carter jammed down on his back foot, thrusting the speeding board forward.
At the same instant he threw himself off the back of the wave into the arms of the ocean. The board flew through the air toward its target.
A second later Carter’s head breached the surface.
Just in time to see the Indonesian collapsing forward onto his board, blood streaming from a head wound.
The flying board had found its mark. He was out cold.
Carter switched his attention to the first guy, who was once again paddling straight for him.
Carter held his position in the water, still holding the leg-rope. There wasn’t time to grab his board.
The Indonesian stopped and sat up four yards away. He reached into the back of his wetsuit.