2

 

We approach Jeffrey’s Bay—wild, warm and windswept. The house we have rented seems relaxed about our invasion. Bron­wyn and I run down the passage with Dot following, barking, slip-sliding, her nails scratching on the floor as she tries to keep up with us.

Behind the kitchen is the toilet, made out of corrugated iron on a wooden frame. Looking down into the pit at the right time of day, the light shines through a hole in the roof, illuminating the brown shit, yellow toilet paper and flies.

Jeffrey’s Bay in 1970 is a small village. We shop at Ungerer’s for groceries, and Coetzee’s for fish and slap chips. The tanned surfers who stop there in their beat-up VW kombis captivate me.

Even on holiday, my father is always neatly dressed, with his hair impeccably in place, his comb always ready in his sock. His tight, checked shorts are ironed, and he never takes his shirt off, except on the beach.

The ‘hippies’ wear no shoes, no socks to house a comb. Their baggy shorts hang low on their hips. Around their necks are beads, and their hair is long and wild.

They irritate, even anger, my father. ‘I’m telling you, those hip­pies are all queer and they don’t believe in God. They’re like bloody girls with that long hair. They disgust me. They look like hobos. Agge nee, sies, man. Their poor parents. They probably don’t even know where their children are! Just promise me you won’t turn out like that. If you do, I’ll bliksem you. Are you lis­tening to me, Nicholas?’

‘Yes, Dad,’ I say, and then, ‘But, Dad, I like their long hair.’

‘You’d better believe me, if you decide to grow your hair like that one day, you can find yourself another place to live!’

‘How do you know they don’t believe in God, Dad?’

‘Well, have you seen them in church?’

‘No, Dad, but would they be allowed in?’

‘Not looking like that, they won’t! But if they cut their hair and dress properly, well, maybe then they would.’

To me they look relaxed and happy, and at this tender age I decide to like everything my father dislikes.

I surf the foam on my lilo. Then I lie and tan and watch for beautiful men with brown bodies.

A ‘bunch of hippies’ are camping in the dunes close to our house, much to my father’s aggravation. To me their kombi is like a lively puppy inviting a new friendship. The only incon­venience to my parents is that we have to pass them on our way to and from the beach.

On my way home from my shell-collecting spot, I cut across the beach to the dunes, past the ‘hippies.’ The sun makes its way through the branches of the candlewood and the dog-smelling milkwood. Where it touches white sand, the contrast is harsh against the shade of the old shrubs. The pathway winds ahead, each plant’s smell hanging, waiting to be disturbed as it opens in front of me and closes behind. But today the walk has a new dimension for me. Not only is the car there, but its owners are there, reading in the shade.

The man is lying on his stomach. As he turns around, he re­veals his naked torso. His hard shape picks at the nerve between my legs, at the base of my penis. I experience this so strongly that it feels as if I’m carrying a sign reading: Look, look at Nich­olas, he has sexual feelings for this man!

The man is the most beautiful being I have ever seen. He seems to glow, radiating sex. His girlfriend is thin, with long, curly hair. In the light and on the white sand they belong as though by invitation. The shade is a complex mixture of flecks on their tanned skins. Then he rolls over again and carries on reading. I find myself irresistibly drawn into their space.

After lunch I wait for my parents to take their afternoon nap, and I climb through my window, lifting Dot out, with a wide-eyed Bronwyn watching us. Charged with excitement, I melodramat­ically swear her to secrecy and walk down to the hippies.

‘Hi.’ Not ‘hello,’ but ‘hi’—so sexy I can hardly contain myself.

‘Hi,’ I follow suit.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Nicholas. What’s yours?’

‘Storm.’

‘Storm? That’s a funny name.’

‘And this is my girlfriend, Tracy.’

I stand staring and smiling, but soon I relax and, with uncom­mon bravery, I ask to see the inside of the kombi camper.

Afterwards, we settle into conversation. He answers all my questions patiently, while Tracy makes freehand drawings of him and me. I tell them about Frankie, school and Welgemoed.

Storm has light brown hair below the layered, weather-bleach­ed curls that spill over his face and down his back. Around his neck is a leather thong threaded through three shells. From his bellybutton, fine hair runs down his flat stomach and disappears into his baggy shorts.

Tracy’s hair is a similar colour. She is wearing a sarong around her tiny waist, with a bikini top over small, firm breasts. After handing me the drawings, she makes tea that smells of flowers.

‘Don’t drink that, Nicholas! Get home this very second!’ My mother marches up to me and grips my arm so hard that my tea splashes onto the sand. ‘Are you totally mad? Didn’t you hear one word of what I said about these people? Get home immedi­ately.’

Storm looks at her respectfully, and when she has finished, he says, ‘We mean no harm to your boy. I can understand that you’re concerned for his safety, but he’s quite safe here.’

This reaction seems to surprise my mother too, and, as we leave, Storm speaks again, this time to me. ‘You’re always wel­come, Nicholas.’ Excitement swirls inside me. I beg my mother to let me stay. She stops, turns, and looks at them briefly, but says, ‘No, we’re going to have dinner now.’

Walking home, I tell her about them: the car, the sketches, and the kindness. I know I need to finish telling her before my father can hear.

Just before we get home, she stops, looks at me for what feels like a long time, and then says, gently and lovingly, ‘I guess it would do no harm, but don’t tell your father, Nicholas. For God’s sake, don’t let him know. And if they do anything strange, prom­ise me you will tell me, OK?’

 

Later, in bed, I close my eyes and concentrate on the image of his hair, his chest, his torso. I stroke my body, running my left hand over my chest and tummy, and slipping my right hand under the elastic of my pyjama pants to feel the erection pulling there.

 

About a week into our friendship, Storm teaches me to surf—fur­ther down from the main beach where my parents swim and at a time when the wind has chased most of the swimmers home. His way of teaching is different from what I’m used to, where there are threats, deadlines and frustration. He teaches calmly, enjoy­ing it, and laughing often. I ride countless small waves on his board, at first lying down. He holds me, and I revel in it all—my skin touching his, the salt, the noise and his patience. The board is long, carries my light frame easily, and before long I stand for short stretches.

Afterwards we sit on a dune overlooking the ocean. There is no hurry; this seems to be part of the lesson. Then he puts his arm around my shoulder and says, ‘To surf, all you need to know is this: you must be one with the ocean, the waves, the energy, your board and your body. You must feel it . . . like with every­thing. Like everything, Nicholas. You must trust me on this. It’s important to feel this connection and then to grow into it . . . the whole universe. It’s like that with everything . . . feel the energy . . . be in it.’

When he asks me if I understand, I say yes, but in truth, all I really know is that in me is the feeling of what he says, even if I don’t understand exactly what it means.

The next day he takes me down to the water’s edge. ‘Nicholas, I want you to look . . . but to feel, rather than just staring at it. Ex­perience it, sense and taste it. When you walk on any surface, be aware of how it feels under your feet. Feel it all. The wind . . . air has emotion, you know . . . taste and smell it. Use all the senses God has given you. You will find that things don’t just have col­our and form; there’s much more to them.’

‘Yes, OK.’ Thinking about what my father had said about hip­pies, I ask him, ‘Do you believe in God?’

‘Yes, I do, but I worship God as a power, a little differently to the way I imagine you know. You see,’ he waves his hand, sweeping it over the ocean and beach, ‘this is my church.’

I smile to indicate that I understand, and I think of our friend­ly old priest in the Bellville Catholic Church and wonder if he would approve.

‘If you look at these waves, but you look at them upside down, they will look different.’ Laughing, we bend over and look at the reflected light through our legs. Everything suddenly does seem different, more vibrant, from this unrehearsed angle. I hear everything and promise to discipline myself to ‘feel’ everything. I don’t understand all of it, but I carry his words with me, for the textures and emotions to reveal themselves over the years to come.

 

I am now soundly in love with Storm. I take the step across that line beyond which I have never allowed my mind to go. Until now I have lived in denial of my true genetic engraving. It will be a long time before I fully embrace it, but I no longer deny it.