Alan Goodwin - Gravity's Chain

Immediately the storm embraced me, clawing at every part of my body as I crossed the short stretch of grass leading to the beach. I half scrambled, half fell down the slope to the sand and, head bowed, battled my way into the battering wind. The rain drove into my face as I raised my head to navigate. It was a half kilometre walk to the rocks, which marked the beginning of the narrow road that linked the bays. The wind came from my left and it took almost all my strength just to hold a straight line. Halfway to the rocks I rested in the lee of an old pohutukawa tree: even its solid trunk, which would have seen worse storms than this, swayed.

By the time I reached the rocks, the wind seemed to have gained even more strength. Waves crashed and thudded against the ragged rock line. Water, tipped with foam, spilled over the road, but it was passable—a considerable relief given Mary’s desperate description. At worse the water was fifteen centimetres deep so I sloshed my way through. A larger wave sent spray across my path and filled my boots with cold water. I waited for the sea to wash back across the road before continuing. When I reached the end of the rock outcrop I saw for the first time the lights of Mary’s car parked about a hundred metres from the end of the road. She was so grateful to see me that she hugged me before planting a warm kiss on my wet cheek.

Mary was driving an old Honda. I didn’t fancy our chances of guiding it through the water—one decent wave, the electrics would blow and we’d be stranded—so I parked the car further back on the beach where I hoped the sea couldn’t reach it. Any attempt to talk was ripped away by the wind, so we mimed our intentions and found an easy understanding. The trees edging the beach buckled against the wind’s power and, in brief pauses in the gusts, whipped back to their old shape before a fresh onslaught bent them again. The afternoon light was all but gone now, so I pulled the torch from my pocket as we began the trip back to the bach.

At the rocks marking the beginning of the road, Mary stopped and looked at me. There was fear in her eyes and she was shaking, pleading to turn back. I held up a thumb and shouted that all was well, but my words were immediately stolen. Reassuringly I touched her shoulder. I knew the worsening storm had made the return far more difficult but I was not to be denied now. My mind was set on getting to the bach. The wind cranked up yet another notch, forcing waves to break over the rocks and wash across the road to where it cut through the headland, making a cliff on the left-hand side. The narrow stretch of tarmac was now a river with the waves surging along its length. We started along the road, walking close to the solid cliff. A huge wave crashed onto the rocks and across the road some thirty metres ahead. Spray, as heavy as the rain, washed over us, followed by a high surge of water that rolled down the road like a mini tidal wave. It hit us above the knee with considerable force. Mary reeled and flailed with her arms to regain balance. I managed to catch her elbow and we easily rode out the smaller afterwaves that followed like children chasing their father.

We reached the curve where the road was most open. The wind drove harder at this exposed point, forcing us to turn sideways. I turned in time to see a mountainous wave cover the rocks with the greatest of ease. Mary, still turned away, let go of my hand to adjust her jacket. Desperately I tried to regain it, but failed and shouted at her. As before, my words were greedily eaten by the wind. The wave marched toward us, seemingly oblivious to the land attempting to break its progress. It made the previous monster look like the weakest sibling of the family. Frantically I tried to grab Mary as the water hit. I managed to catch her sleeve, but my hand slipped on the greasy material of her coat.

The water smashed like a massive punch in the back, throwing me forward. I gripped the rock I was thrown against and felt my chin sting as it glanced the sharp shards of the rock face. Mary was swept away, her arms flapping like orange flags, carried back to the sea by the now receding water. As it retreated, the water lost its strength. I tried running after her, but the wind blew straight into me and with the water still above my knee I was unable to make any real progress. Helplessly I watched as the water gently plopped Mary on the last outcrop before the sea. Like a monkey she gripped the rocks with all four limbs. A secondary wave swept over her body, but it didn’t have the strength to loosen her grip. I battled on toward her, finally reaching the first rocks at the road edge and splashing through the pools left by the retreating water.

Mary was on her knees when I reached her and I crouched down over her body like a mother protecting its young. I gulped for air, my strength close to consumed. I gripped Mary’s wrist, pulled her arms free of the rocks and held her hands. Mary tried to respond, but her energy was gone, so I adjusted my stance, grasping more tightly. We wouldn’t have time to get back to the road before the next wave came upon us so we had no choice but to ride out the onslaught where we knelt. I could hear it breaking in the distance and I braced myself.

The wave thundered into the rocks. The angle of the wave’s impact and the rocks to our right protected us from the break; it was the water receding our way that threatened our safety. The now familiar wall of water rushed across the road and back to where we waited. I braced for the impact, crouching over Mary, holding her as tightly as possible without squeezing the air from her lungs and crushing ribs. We survived the initial hit, but the relentless weight of water forced me to take a step and my balance was gone. I knocked Mary and, like a parachute jumper, she instantly disappeared from sight as the water sucked her from the rock. I saw her bobbing in the water like a piece of driftwood, gulping for air just ten metres from the rocks.

I fell to my stomach and hugged the rocks, which tore the sleeves of my oilskin and jumper almost to the skin. The remnants of the wave washed over me and with nothing of similar size following I relaxed my grip. Up I crawled onto all fours, wiping salt water from stinging eyes. I’d lost sight of Mary and for what seemed like long panicky seconds I scoured the sea for the familiar orange of her coat. Gulping in great lungfuls of air, I bellowed her name at the grey water. It was useless but I kept shouting so loudly that I imagined my throat exploding. I couldn’t let her go, I couldn’t lose her.

Suddenly there she was, just metres away, her head popping out of the water like a cork, her mouth gulping air like a beached fish. When she saw me she thrashed her arms, but that only turned her in a fruitless circle. Her head slipped under the water and I watched helplessly until she reappeared, closer this time as a fortunate swell pushed her toward the rocks I grimly inhabited. The sea was building for another drive. I held out my hand and watched her close in on me so slowly it reminded me of one of those grainy old black and white films of an Apollo spaceship docking. Another swell lifted her toward me and I grabbed her hair, yanking her head so I could catch hold of her jacket collar. She was weak and lifeless with hardly the strength to move her arms. Hand over hand, centimetre by centimetre, I hauled her onto my rock. In the distance I heard the smack of a new wave and knew it would be just seconds before another wall of water was upon us. Mary was almost out of the water—just her legs dangled in the sea—but there was no more time, so I pushed her flat and lay across her body, holding the rocks on either side. Thankfully the wave lacked the ferocity of some of its predecessors and water washed over us with a power I was easily able to withstand.