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Low Water, High Surf

Content Warnings; violence, injury detail, sexual threat, bad language, alcohol use, minor crime, consensual sexual activity (implied).



Main Characters

Olympe Viola Reese, 27, a British-French woman. A former Interpol detective who carries shadows and trauma from her personal and professional lives. She yearns for stability and healing.

Victor Davern, 29, a Australian-New Zealander man. A statistical analyst in a financial services company, and a keen surfer. He’s looking for meaning and purpose in life.


Chapter 01: An End and a Beginning


There are two main types of tall women. One kind are statuesque, full bodied, with a defined waist and lyre-shaped hips a skirt will hang from and sway emphatically. They look feminine and delicious as they move.

The other kind are like a teenage boy who got his adult growth spurt last summer, grew 10cm, and now is filling out his muscles. Broad-shouldered and narrow hipped, they look boyish, leggy, and graceful as a colt.

The young blonde standing on the balcony of her small rented apartment was the coltish type. She wore a simple, pale green sleeveless midi dress, cinched at the waist with a ribbon belt. There was an old bullet scar on her left deltoid, and her left forearm was in a virgin white plaster cast; there wasn’t a single Sharpie scrawl from a friend on it. The woman ran fingers through her pixie cut hair, that shade of honey-blonde which is almost ginger and streaks paler in the sun. She sighed and spoke aloud to no-one.

“Second worst month of my entire life.” She sounded like one of those posh English women who front the bulletins on BBC World News.

There was no obvious reason for such low spirits. It was late spring in Honolulu. The rich blue sky was peppered with the best Studio Ghibli clouds, and the air was a pleasant 24 Celcius. The ocean sparkled in the distance, dotted with surfers.

Her smartphone pinged for attention; it was her attorney calling.

“Hello, Takako, do you have news?”

“The best news, Olympe! You’re in the clear. The police have given me your passports and…” a slight hesitation, “The evidence. I’m on my way over to you now. Be there in 10 minutes.”

Olympe smiled for the first time in weeks, and put on a pot of coffee. She hunted up a bag of stale Danish pastries, wrapped it in a damp tea towel, gave them a very quick zap in the microwave to refresh them, and laid out the snack for her guest.

Takako Shimura, a compact Japanese-Hawaiian woman of nearly 40, was giving serious aunt energy. She took off her shoes, hugged Olympe, and they sat down to consult.

“Here are your passports.” Takako laid the two documents -- French and British, because Olympe was a dual national -- on the table. “You can go wherever and whenever you want. The district attorney told me there’s zero chance of a prosecution against you, because of the overwhelming evidence in your defense.” She gently touched Olympe’s cast. “He also asked me to give you his apologies for the delay in releasing you. Kevin’s family has friends in the right places, who’ve made things difficult. I don’t like to say this, but I think you should leave the islands and probably not come back.”

“Yes. I’ll go as soon as I can book a flight. Carry-on luggage only.” Olympe leant forward. “Takako, thank you very much for being with me during this whole nasty business. May I ask you to help me deal with the things I’m going to leave behind? I need to wrap up the lease on my flat and the car. And get rid of my gun.” She looked at the cardboard box of evidence. She knew what it contained; a sleek 9mm pistol and two magazines, one of them three rounds short of full. She pushed the box away from her. “There’ll be some cases of clothes and other things, and my surfboard. It can go by seafreight. I’m in no hurry to surf again.”

“Sure thing, Olympe. I’ll get a paralegal on it. Where are you going to go?”

“Japan. My brother lives there. He’ll let me stay for a while so I can clear my head. After that, I don’t know. I’ll send you my final destination when I work out what it’s going to be.”

As soon as Takako left, Olympe tapped up the JAL app on her smartphone and booked a one-way business class ticket to Haneda. She packed her carry-on case and her big, cross-body Launer handbag with essentials, and took a taxi to the airport. Three hours later she was sitting in the small JAL lounge on the airside, sipping a Campari and soda, exchanging messages with her big brother.

“@Yancy, I’m free! Is it okay if I come and stay with you for a bit?”

“You don’t even need to ask, Pia. When are you arriving?”

Olympe copy-pasted her flight details into the chat.

“Okay. Sorry, I can’t meet you then, Pia, but you can get from Haneda to Shin-Yurigaoka easily on the airport coach.” The three little dots pulsed on the screen as her elder brother began to type out a lot of information about which ticket to buy, where to find the correct bus stop, and so on. Pia cut him off.

“I’ll be fine, Yancy. I can speak Japanese just as well as you.”

12 hours later Olympe was hugging and crying with her brother, his Japanese wife Hikaru, and their toddler daughter, Eimi, in the entrance of their little house near Shin-Yurigaoka station in Kawasaki City. She gave them the meagre souvenirs she had bought in the duty free shop at Honolulu airport. Chocolate coated macadamia nuts, Kona coffee beans, and pure Hawaiian sea salt.

“Perhaps I should sprinkle it to purify myself,” she quipped.

“You did nothing wrong,” Hikaru told her. “You only defended yourself. Come in. I’ve got dinner ready. The futon is laid out for you in the tatami room. Stay as long as you like.”

It was Golden Week, a major national holiday, so the family were able to spend quality time together. Olympe ate well and exercised. She had the cast taken off her arm, revealing a still red pattern of defensive wounds. She played every day with the delightful little Eimi, who made her feel a bit broody. *Where the hell did that come from?* She decided to shake off the unusual sensation with an extended holiday. *Though all my life is a holiday now,* she remembered. *I'll go somewhere different.*

Olympe visited the Australian Embassy for a tourist visa.

A few days later she was in Sydney, New South Wales. Although it was late autumn in the southern hemisphere, the weather reminded her of a pleasant early summer day in the UK. Puffy white cumulus clouds were ranked across a blue sky, and the air was a mild 20 degrees. The scent of eucalyptus trees drifted in the streets.

The overnight flight had been pleasant. Olympe’s jetlag was minimal, due to the one hour difference in timezone. She booked into a west-facing Sunset Room in the EVE hotel in the Surry Hills district. 27 square metres was enough space for her meagre luggage. Enough space to begin to decompress her memories, and plan a proper exploration of the city. She opened her laptop and logged on to a property rental site.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 02: Breakup

Victor Davern’s alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. but he was already awake. Emma had spent the night with a girl friend again. The early light filtered through the cheap blinds of his run-down flat, casting stripes across the ceiling. He stretched, scratched his jaw, thought, *I really need a shave,* and dragged himself to the kitchen to make coffee. Instant, as usual. He stood barefoot by the counter, sipping, scrolling through overnight emails from work.

It was going to be another dull workday in the office, another spreadsheet-heavy Friday. He pulled on khaki chinos, a pale blue button-down shirt, and his most comfortable smart leather shoes. The familiar commute; a bus to the station, and a crowded train, to reach the high-rise office building in the central business district. The office hum of air conditioning and clicking keyboards was broken only by the occasional phone call. Vic kept his headphones on, ploughing through datasets. His boss swung by around 11.

“Any weekend plans, Victor?” Olivia asked.

Vic gave a half-smile. “Surfing.”

“Forecast’s looking a bit rough.”

“Yeah,” Vic replied, “I like it that way.”

The morning passed in formulas and figures. At lunch, he ducked out to a sandwich shop and checked his phone. A text from Emma. “We need to talk tonight.”

He exhaled slowly. *I know what that means.*

It was about 18:30 when Victor pushed open the door to his unit, kicked off his shoes, and dropped his laptop bag by the table. Emma was sitting on a kitchen stool, scrolling furiously on her phone, an untouched glass of white wine in front of her. She looked up, eyes flashing angrily.

“You’re late again.”

Vic frowned. “I texted,” he said, spreading his hands. “Work ran over.”

“Work always runs over, Vic.” Emma stood up, began to pace to and fro. “And then it’s the gym. Or surfing. Or ‘grabbing a drink with the guys.’ There’s always something.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a rough week.”

Emma threw her phone onto the counter with a clatter. “It’s always a rough week. I’m sick of you being around but never here.”

“Come on, that’s not fair,” he muttered defensively.

“Not fair?” she interrupted. “Vic, we’re living together but I feel like a housemate. Like a backup plan. What I wanted was to be a couple. Be a real part of each other’s life.” Her voice dropped low, deadly calm. “I’ve already got a place lined up. Maddy’s cousin needs a flatmate. I’m leaving you.”

A long silence stretched out between them.

“Yeah,” Vic said finally, his jaw tight. “Okay. Fine.”

Emma grabbed her bag and keys, swigged half her wine like it was water. “I’ll pick up the rest of my stuff later.”

The door slammed hard enough to rattle the cheap picture frames.

Vic exhaled slowly. Something twisted in his heart, and he had to push it away, find a distraction from the raw emotion. He ran a hand through his hair, pulled it into a messy bun, and headed to the fridge. Beer. He stood on his little balcony under the early evening sky, letting the distant hum of traffic and chatter from a neighbour’s TV fill the emptiness his ex-girlfriend had left behind. The dark sea beckoned.

*Tomorrow I’m hitting the waves. Early. Hard.*

Saturday morning Vic was up at five, driving his rattly Audi eastward as the sky grew pink over the city. The old car coughed and groaned, but made it to the beach. He pulled on his wetsuit, tied his hair back into a tight ponytail, and jogged down to the water. The surf wasn’t great. It was messy, unpredictable, but he was grateful for it. Every paddle out cleared his head a little more. Every wave he chased was a moment he didn't have to think about the flat, the job, or the empty side of the bed.

By mid-morning, he was sitting cross-legged on the sand, surfboard stuck upright beside him, sipping from a takeaway coffee cup. His phone buzzed with messages he didn't check. It was enough to feel the sun warming his shoulders, the salt water drying on his skin, and the rhythm of the waves rolling in.

Life was moving forward in the city. But Vic was just waiting for the next set.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 03: Beach Vibes

Olympe left all her legal and housekeeping affairs in Hawaii to Takako’s very efficient paralegal Marcie. She sent a thank you letter and a bonus for the extra work.

She took a six-month lease on a spacious 2LDK apartment in the central Sydney suburb called Surry Hills, a gentrifying district filled with hip cocktail bars, trendy cafés, art spaces, secondhand record shops, and stylish boutiques. She engaged an interior designer to fit the unit out to someone else’s good taste. Olympe was spectacularly bad at decorating.

She went energetically shopping. She bought clothes, a second hand Vespa Elettrica scooter, and put down a deposit on a Jimny XL for long journeys. When she felt shopped out, and wanting exercise, she decided to go to the beach. *I mean, the point of living here is the seaside lifestyle,* she told herself. *Swimming is great exercise. Maybe I'll even go surfing if I can find a good instructor. Try to exorcise the demons.*

She packed her new beach stuff into a canvas tote and set off on her scooter.

Victor Davern was waxing his board on the sand, squinting toward the messy mid-morning swell. His mate Dan was already jogging down to the water, board underarm.

“C’mon, slowpoke!” Dan called over his shoulder. “You miss all the good sets, you’re buying lunch!

Vic laughed, jogged after him, and they waded into the surf together. The waves weren’t great; they were choppy, unpredictable, a bit crowded, but it didn't matter. For an hour they paddled, chased waves, wiped out, and paddled again. Salt stung Vic’s lips; the sea’s cool bite fixed his head better than beer or any meditation app ever could.

Back on the beach, they sat on their boards, letting the sun dry their skin. Dan cracked open a cooler he’d stashed in the dunes, tossing Vic an illicit can of beer.

“Still thinking about Emma?” Dan asked, cracking his own.

Vic shrugged. “Not really. Not today. Yeah, no, yeah. Nah. Okay, yeah. A bit.”

Dan grinned. “Knew it wouldn’t last. She was a pain in the ass, mate.”

“That’s not fair, Dan. She wasn’t that bad.” Vic took a sip. “We just… couldn't get on the right wavelength.

“Yeah, well. You’re better off now. Someone hotter’ll come along. Smarter. Less… I dunno.”

Vic raises an eyebrow. “You’re describing a unicorn. I don’t see many of them around the beach.”

Dan laughed, tipping his can toward the sea. “Nah, just gotta keep your eyes open. Plenty of bonzer girls in this city. You’ll see.”

Vic leant back on his elbows, gazing out at the horizon. He wasn’t sure he was ready to search for a new girlfriend yet. But sitting here, with warm sand under him and the sea breeze in his hair, he felt lighter than he had in a week.

Dan elbowed him, and nodded toward the car park. “Hey, speaking of girls, there’s someone, bro.”

Vic glanced toward the carpark. A tall young woman with a honey-blonde pixie cut was locking up a shiny silver scooter, slinging a bag over her shoulder. Sunglasses hid her eyes. Something about her movements, poised, restless,, caught his attention.

He looked away, smiling faintly. “Yeah? Maybe.”

Vic cracked his neck, stretching his arms overhead as he watched the crowd shifting around them, families setting up umbrellas, a couple tossing a frisbee, kids squealing in the shallows. Just another day at the beach.

Dan nudged him. “Oi. The chick with the scooter. She’s getting changed right there!”

Vic glanced toward the dunes. The tall blonde had dropped her bag, tugged out a towel and unfurled it across the sand. Without hesitation, she pulled off her tee-shirt and folded it into the bag. Bare-breasted for a momoent, she stretched casually, unbothered by a few glances, then plucked a blue and white tankini swim top from the bag and slipped into it. She stripped her panties down, and pulled on matching boyshorts.

Dan whistled low. “Well, that’s a power move.”

Vic chuckled. “She’s just changing, mate. It’s rude to watch.”

“Yeah, well, if she wants to go full Euro and ditch the cozzie entirely, someone better tell her about Lady Bay.”

Vic shook his head, amused, watching her trot down toward the water, her hair gleaming under the sun. “She’s not even going topless.”

“She’s still got more guts than half the blokes here.” Dan took a swig from his can, grinning. “Bet she surfs better too.”

Vic watched as she waded deeper, got into the surf, her strong strokes cutting through the whitewater. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Dan elbowed him. “Go say hi then, when she comes out.”

“Nah.” Vic leant back on his elbows, gazing out at the sea. “She’s not here for us. She just wants a swim.”

But his eyes followed the woman’s silhouette as she swam out past the breakers, the afternoon sun haloing her in gold.

Vic watched as the blonde cut through the waves, swimming a solid lap beyond the break before turning back toward shore. By the time she strode out of the surf, swiping brine from her short hair, the afternoon crowds had thickened, families, teens, sunbathers spreading towels across every patch of sand.

She dried off briskly, changed back into her street clothes right there with her towel, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed back to the sleek silver scooter parked at the edge of the lot.

Dan watched too, eyebrows raised. “Guess she’s not sticking around.”

“Guess not.” Vic propped his surfboard upright in the sand, shading his eyes as the blonde rode off down the road, a streak of chrome and a white, open face helmet weaving into traffic.

Dan clapped him on the back. “Told ya, mate. They show up… then they disappear. You should have hit on her when you had the chance.”

Vic chuckled softly, shaking his head. But as he turned back to pack up his gear, he was still thinking about her.

Maybe she’ll be back.

<<To be continued...>>

Chapter 04: Slip, Slop, Slap


When Olympe moved into her newly rented unit the air smelt of fresh paint. The furniture and decorations were embarrassingly new. The big, wall-mounted TV still had a protective film on the screen. The utilities were hooked up, though; water, power, internet, everything worked, and her life seemed to have achieved a stable plateau. She explored the neighbourhood during daily runs, and went swimming at the local public pool in Prince Alfred Park. The next Saturday morning, she decided to take another trip to the beach.

Early on Saturday, Vic parked his battered Audi in the same spot as usual, grabbing his board from the roof rack. The surf was a little better today, cleaner sets rolling in under a cloudless sky. Dan was already waiting near the lifeguard tower, sipping a takeaway coffee.

“Good timing,” Dan called as Vic approached. “Sets are decent. And…” he gestured subtly toward the carpark. “Looks like your mystery blonde’s back.”

Vic followed his gaze. Sure enough, the woman from last weekend was locking up her silver scooter again, a canvas tote slung over one shoulder. She was wearing loose shorts and a Breton striped tee, sunglasses pushed up into her messy blonde pixie cut. She paused, scanning the beach like she was taking careful mental notes.

Dan grinned. “Told ya she’d come back.”

Vic shook his head, smiling faintly. “You reckon she surfs?”

“Hope so. Be a waste of a good beach vibe if she doesn’t.” Dan elbowed him. “Go chat her up, Davern.”

Vic picked up his board, squinting into the sun. “Maybe later.”

He headed down to the water, stealing one last glance over his shoulder as the blonde girl walked barefoot across the sand, towel slung loose in one hand, her gaze scanning the horizon like she was searching for something. He jumped in to get wet and feel the water, paddled around a bit, and went out for a short run to get a sense of the ocean’s mood. After a while he wondered why Dan hadn’t got out yet, and went back to see if there was something wrong.

Vic jogged up the beach, surfboard under his arm, water dripping off his hair and shoulders. Dan was standing near the dunes, chatting with the blonde woman from the other day, the girl they had noticed earlier. She was holding a bottle of sunscreen in one hand, gesturing toward her own back with a faintly amused expression.

Dan caught Vic’s eye and grinned wide. “Oi, Vic! She needs a hand.”

Vic slowed to a walk, raising an eyebrow. “With what?”

Dan jerked his thumb toward her. “Racerback. Can’t reach.”

She lifted the bottle slightly in explanation, her shades catching the light, throwing off dark glints.

“Design flaw,” she said drily. "Well, it's not really a design flaw. It's a feature, not a bug. Racerback costumes are really comfortable but I'm not used to the power of the sun here." Her accent was British, English actually, in fact rather posh judging from TV shows like Downton Abbey. "I should have worn my Japanese zip-up one-piece and a rash top."

Vic smiled faintly as he rubbed the sunscreen between his hands, stepping closer. “Yeah, sun doesn’t muck around here,” he said, tone warm but light. “You’ll want a rashie next time, for sure.”

Dan grinned, tossing a wink the girl’s way. “Love the accent, by the way. Very posh. You just visiting, or staying a while?”

Vic shot Dan a quick look, amused, but wary of his mate’s usual cheek. He started working the sunscreen over the woman’s shoulders and upper back, his touch firm but respectful, focused on the task.

“Where’d you move from?” Vic asked, glancing briefly down at her shoulder to make sure he was covering the tricky spots between the overlapping straps.

"Um… I was in Hawaii until a few weeks ago, if that's what you mean. But obviously I'm from the UK originally. As you can tell by my accent. I'm here on a... let's call it an extended sabbatical. I take it you guys are locals?"

Vic’s hands paused momentarily as he smoothed sunscreen over her left shoulder, fingers brushing over an odd scar on her deltoid. He didn’t comment, just noted it quietly, filing it away without judgment.

“Well, that explains it,” Dan said with a grin, folding his arms across his chest. “Thought you sounded like you walked out of a BBC costume drama.”

Vic huffed a quiet laugh. “Ignore him,” he said gently, finishing the last swipe across her back. “Yeah, we’re locals. More or less.” He stepped away, handing the sunscreen back. “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.”

Dan nodded toward the water. “Vic’s part fish. Surfs every chance he gets.”

Vic rolled his eyes. “Dan here mostly drinks ginger beer and watches.”

Dan shrugged, unbothered. “Hey, everyone should stick with their talent.”

Vic glanced at the blonde again, his gaze warm but a little curious. “Sabbatical, huh? Sounds like a good gig. Planning to stay long?”

"Sydney seems like a pretty cool city,” she said. “I’ve taken a flat for six months and I don't plan to waste the money. I'm still just settling in, though. I don't know anyone or the places to go except what you can easily find on Google. Like the opera house, obviously, but I haven’t been there yet. Thanks for doing my back, er, mate."

Vic grinned at her ‘mate,’ clearly amused. “No worries. And good call on the unit, you’ll be glad you gave yourself time here.”

Dan tipped an imaginary hat. “Six months? That’s plenty of time to find the real Sydney. We’re not all kangaroos and koalas, promise.”

Vic gave him a dry look. “We don’t even have koalas here, Dan.”

Dan waved him off. “Details.” He turned back to her, flashing an easy grin. “Tell ya what, you ever wanna swap Google Maps for real local intel, hit us up. Best beaches, worst pubs, sketchiest kebab joints… Vic’s a pro tour guide.”

Vic shook his head with a tolerant grin. “You’re the one who’d send her to a dodgy pub for a laugh.”

He looked back at the Pom, his green eyes catching hers through her sunglasses. “But seriously, welcome. If you’re up for surfing lessons, or just want to hang down here sometime, you’re in the right spot.”

Dan nodded enthusiastically. “And don’t be shy about asking for sunscreen next time. Vic’s got magic hands.”

Vic groaned softly. “Jesus, Dan!”

Olympe lowered her sunglasses and gave Dan a hard stare over the top of them like Tommy Lee Jones. Her eyes were hazel, green, brown and flecks of gold, like they might shift colour depending on her mood. She had done minimal make-up. Her lashes were lightly enhanced with brown mascara.

"Are you boys surfers? I would never have guessed." She gestured at the two boards stood in the sand nearby. "I did a bit of surfing in Hawaii but I'm only a kook. Do you know a good place I could go and get some help? My name's Olympe, by the way.”

Dan let out a bark of laughter at the Tommy Lee Jones stare, holding up both hands. “Alright, alright, I’ll behave.” He winked anyway.

Vic grinned, clearly enjoying the exchange. “Figured you had some experience, the way you walked into the water the other day. Hawaii’s no joke.”

At her name, his eyebrows lifted slightly, curiosity flickering behind his emerald eyes. “Olympe. That’s… not one you hear every day.”

Dan nodded approvingly. “Sounds fancy. Olympe.” He tried it out with exaggerated care, then flashed a grin. “Nice to meet ya. I’m Dan. That’s Vic.”

Vic stepped forward, offering a hand. “Good to meet you, Olympe.” His handshake was firm but easy. The corners of his mouth tugged upward. “And yeah, we can point you in the right direction. Depends what you’re after. Bondi’s got surf schools but they’re touristy. Maroubra’s better if you want less crowd, more real locals. Or…” he glanced at the choppy water, thoughtful. “We could show you ourselves right here, if you’re game.”

Dan elbowed him. “Look at you, volunteering already.”

Vic shrugged, his smile deepening. “Might as well start with people who won’t rip you off.”

Olympe had caught the guys’ names from their earlier banter. Her detective skills still worked, although she was retired. "Nice to meet you, Dan, Vic." She held out her hand for a shake. "I don't mind a quick go now if you can lend me a board. Mine's on a cargo ship somewhere in the middle of the Pacific. You can watch me do a run and criticise my form."

Vic shook her hand again, his grip warm and steady, eyebrows lifting in quiet appreciation at her suggestion. “You’re keen. I like it.”

Dan whistled. “Straight into the deep end, huh? Respect.” He gestured at Vic’s board. “You lending her yours, or…?”

Vic glanced back at his board in the sand. “She can take mine. It’s a solid all-rounder, good for learning.” He looked back at Olympe. “I’ll spot you from the water. You’ve got swim strength, I can tell, but if it gets messy just wave me down, yeah?”

Dan grinned. “And I’ll be the peanut gallery on shore.”

Vic ignored him, turning his attention fully to his new student. “Alright, Olympe. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He walked over, picked up his board, and held it out to her with a small, encouraging nod. “No pressure. Just have fun with it.”

Olympe steeled herself. The last time she had gone surfing, the post-beach date night with her surf instructor ended in sexual aggression, violence, gunfire, and lavishly foaming blood. She still had an occasional nightmare. Now Olympe tried to concentrate on the technicalities of her previous instruction, hefted the board to get a feel for it, and attached the tether to her ankle. She set off for the surf. Unconsciously she muttered: "I have to do this. I can do this. I will do this."

Vic watched her walk down toward the shoreline, board under her arm, the tether held looped in her other hand. He caught the movement of her lips, like she was talking to herself, but he couldn’t make out the words.

Dan shaded his eyes, whistling low. “Girl’s determined. You sure she’s a beginner?”

Vic tilted his head, thoughtful. “She’s got guts, that’s for sure.” He watched her pause at the water’s edge, sizing up the waves before stepping in. “Doesn’t look nervous… but there’s something in the way she holds herself.”

Dan grinned. “Bet she surprises you.”

Vic smiled faintly. “I hope she does.”

He jogged down toward the waterline, to paddle out after her, while Dan settled back in the sand with a cheeky grin, ready to commentate from afar.

Out in the surf, Vic kept a careful eye as Olympe paddled out, reading the swell, waiting to see what she would do next.

Olympe paddled out to the break and waited for her wave. She was tightly wound, focussed on her judgement of the Zen moment. She blocked Kevin's face from her mind; his predatory assault, her defence, and the blood-soaked end.

"You bastard, Kevin. I'm glad I killed you. You fuccing well deserved it."

The wave broke. Olympe popped up onto her borrowed board. She rode the surf well, not showy but confident, reclaiming the sea for her own space.

Vic watched as Olympe caught the wave, rising cleanly into position. His brows lifted in quiet surprise as she found her balance, not flashy, but steady, sure. She rode the wave in with quiet confidence.

Dan whistled low from the sand. “Bloody hell. She’s no kook.”

Vic paddled closer as she glided past, grinning up at her from the water. “Nice! You’ve definitely done this before.”

He didn’t press further, didn't ask about the tight focus in her face or the fierceness in her stance. Just met her with quiet respect, sensing there was something she was not ready to explain.

Dan jogged into the shallows as she neared the shore. “That was wicked! Where’d you really learn to surf, secret surf school? Navy SEALs? James Bond training camp?” He flashed a cheeky grin.

Vic shook his head, coming up beside them. “Ignore him. You killed it out there.” He paused, studying her face for a moment longer. “You alright?”

"I, er, I learnt at Waikiki. But there was a thing which happened and I wanted to get over it and I think I have done. From the lend of your board. So. Thank you, Vic.”

Vic’s smile softened, his eyes steady on hers. “Anytime,” he said quietly, meaning it. “Glad it helped.”

Dan threw an arm loosely around Vic’s shoulders, grinning. “Told ya he was a lifesaver. Or at least a board-saver.” He dropped the arm again, looking back at Olympe with a little more respect beneath the banter. “You’re tough, mate. Bet you’ll be schooling us before long.”

Vic took his board back, giving her an easy nod. “You’re welcome out here with us anytime, Olympe.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Or you want space, that’s good too. Up to you.”

Dan was already scanning the horizon. “Another set coming in if you’re keen for round two.”

Vic glanced back toward the water, then back at Olympe, his smile returning. “Or we can call it a win for today.”

"I think I've had enough for one day. I should get a new board. Of my own. I can't wait for my one from Hawaii to arrive. Isn't there a surf shop around here?

Dan brightened immediately. “Oh yeah, couple options. There’s a big chain store up the road, but it’s tourist prices.”

Vic nodded toward the street inland. “There’s a smaller local shop two blocks up. Better service, decent prices, and they won’t sell you some shiny crap just ‘cause it looks cool. I know the owner, he’ll sort you out proper.”

Dan grinned. “And if you flash that accent, he might throw in a discount.”

Vic rolled his eyes, smiling faintly. “Ignore him. But seriously, I can walk you over if you want.” He tilted his head, casual and kind. “Or just point you there if you’d rather explore solo.”

"You guys think my accent is sexy? It's just English." Olympe winked at Dan, did a head swing, as if she was waving the pony tail she didn't actually have, and suddenly she was talking like a coquettish French girl.

"Per'aps I try zis leettle shop for a discount wiz a proper foreign accent...non?" Olympe batted her eyes. Then she was back to her normal voice with a smile on just one side of her mouth.

"Thanks, Vic. If you'll take me to your favourite shop, maybe the people there will do you a bit of good in return some time. Let me put my shoes on."

Dan let out a bark of laughter, clapping his hands together. “Olympe, you legend. I knew you were trouble.”

Vic shook his head, grinning despite himself. “That was… unexpected.” His eyes twinkled, appreciating the joke. “And yeah, alright, if you’re pulling accents like that, you’re definitely getting a discount.”

He lifted his board under his arm, nodding toward the dunes. “Shop’s not far. And nah, don’t worry about paying me back. Helping’s just what we do.”

Dan raised his can in a lazy toast. “Catch ya later, Olympe. Don’t let him talk you into a competition board.”

Vic grinned again, glancing over his shoulder as he headed toward the path. “I wouldn’t dare.”

"It was nice meeting you, Dan. See you later, maybe." Pia slipped into a pair of neon pink rubber ballerina sandals, slapped on a white bucket hat with a pop art design of colourful flowers, and hid her upper body with a zip-up jacket. But her long legs were still on display; beautifully muscled, free of orange peel skin, and covered with a natural peach fuzz of fine blonde hair. She picked up her beach bag. "I'm ready."

Dan gave a playful salute. “See you around, Olympe. Don’t be a stranger.”

Vic waited at the top of the path, leaning lightly against the rail, his board resting beside him. When Pia approached, his gaze flicked over her, hat, vest, jelly sandals, and those strong, sun-kissed legs, before settling back on her face with a faint, appreciative smile.

“Alright then,” he said, pushing off the rail and falling into step beside her. “Let’s get you sorted with a board that’ll make you feel at home here.”

As they walked up toward the street, he glanced sidelong at her. “You weren’t kidding about starting fresh, huh? I’m glad you ended up at this beach.”

He gestured ahead toward a tucked-away surf shop with a hand-painted sign, the salty breeze still swirling around them. “Come on, you’re gonna like this place.”

<<To be continued…>>