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Nightsurf 1987

Page 6

Karen Lethlean


“Put your suit on.”

“Are you high?”

“Sober as a church mouse.” Emma said with a big dumb smile on her face.

“Like I’d let you leave here without a wave.”

Swell settled, softened by moonlight. Sky and sea melted together into infinite charred – indigo. They trudged calf deep before mounting boards to paddle out into infinite space. Ocean chameleonic, dappled in shades of grey, reminiscent of days watching black and white television.

White star clouds freckled opalescent waves. Mottled light-streamers formed a pathway up to full moon, making a hole in night. Some of the others built two huge fires on rock platforms working like spotlights. Torch beams followed wave rims.

Christy skimmed a hand full of water. A ribbon of blue green light danced after it. Bioluminescence. She remembers the first time she saw this living light, how they chased it across sandbar edges in pyjamas and boots. One time they swore never to kiss boys who used tongues. Clinging knees to chests, both girls denied wearing bras. Right now, she thought, so many promises not kept.

Sitting in a nostalgic soup, Christy said, “I’m late.”


“Y’know, my girl thing.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“It’s weird, got drunk. Didn’t really want to. I don’t know.”


“It’s fine.” 

Page 6

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