My Private Pectus Read Online Free PDF Page A

limply from my waist.
    The conditions aren't what the paper said. The swell's big, but it's overcast, there's a south-east breeze and the waves are blown-out. We wander down the beach, hoping for a spot where the waves break more cleanly. The water is dark with churned-up sand. The waves dump in a shore break, but we spot a better break further out. It's windblown too, but a bit cleaner. I wait for a couple of joggers to pass then pull my shirt off and reach over my back for the zip of my wetsuit. I look up at Gez who quickly turns his gaze away from the depression in my chest.
    We wade into the cold water and dive through the shore break. Whitewash rushes at us in long solid walls. We duck-dive underneath, but the waves roll through in steady succession, so we paddle hard in between. The horizon rises and falls with each wave, rippled and gnarled by the wind. A wave begins to climb. I inch forward on my board, ready to dip the nose underneath. But instead of curling over, white water boils and bulldozes through us. We recover, paddle again, only harder, so by the time we make it through the breakers, we've had it. My arms are sore and my eyes feel bloodshot. Salt water dribbles from my nose. But I love it. There're no surfers out, the world is ours. I slap the water in delight.
    As with most things, Gez is better at surfing than me. He'll go out in any break no matter how many people are out there or on the beach. He doesn't have a body to hide. I watch as he carves up the messy waves, toying with them. It takes me half-a-dozen rides before I find my balance. We spend most of the morning surfing, paddling back out, sitting on our boards behind the breakwater.
    â€˜Don't worry about Mike,’ Gez says, covered in goose bumps, which make him look even more cut than usual. ‘He was pissed, that's all. And stoned.’
    â€˜So were you, but you didn't go on about it,’ I say, watching the horizon for another set, not wanting to talk about last night.
    â€˜He was surprised, that's all.’
    I look at him. ‘What's the surprise, Gez?’ I rattle off a bunch of guys at school. ‘I guarantee you they haven't done it either. And what about Cuppas? Only thing he's screwed is a sock.’
    Gez blows his nose into his hand, then splashes the snot in the water. ‘Mike likes you, that's all.’
    I laugh in disbelief.
    â€˜It's true, he does.’
    I shake my head.
    â€˜He thinks you're funny.’
    â€˜I'm not funny.’
    â€˜You're gonna join the army, aren't you? That's pretty funny, if you ask me.’
    â€˜Dad wants me to join the army. That's his wild idea, not mine.’
    â€˜He pays out on you for fun. It's his way of being a friend.’
    â€˜Friend? Some friend.’
    â€˜Think about it, Sticks. What Mike needs are friends. How many has he got? Ryan, that's it. Let's face it, making friends is not his strong point.’
    But I don't like Gez's observation. ‘And how many friends have I got, Gez? Nothing to get jealous about.’
    â€˜Come on, a friend like me? That's plenty to get jealous about.’
    I laugh, but it's true.
    As the morning gets late, Gez and I head back in for lunch. We laze around with Ryan and Mike, then head back to the surf before dusk. The wind has died down and the waves are starting to crest. We paddle out, sit on our boards behind the breakers and let the swell roll underneath as we talk about school, the convenience store and Lisa.
    â€˜So there must be a girl at school you like?’ Mike asks me. He seems genuinely interested.
    â€˜I dunno,’ I say.
    â€˜You're weird,’ he says, then rolls off his board, ducks underwater and comes back up. ‘I always had the hots for someone at school.’ He wipes water from his eyes. ‘Jeez, I'm hung over.’
    â€˜What about Sam?’ Gez asks as a small set rolls underneath.
    â€˜Thanks a lot,’ I say.
    â€˜Why, who's Sam?’ Ryan