Keith

• Bobby Carter, Grade 6
• Short Story
• 2012

The rolling waves were becoming smaller in the glimmering revision mirror. I was used to the sound of the loosely tied surfboards on the top of the tinny car. The rough road added to the noise, but this didn’t bother me. My life revolved around the alluring ocean and the echoing swell, which I could here from my bedroom window. We dropped of my friend Keith, who was sitting in the back seat.
“See you tomorrow at four!” I hollered.

He shouted a reply, but I couldn’t here him as we flew past with all windows open.

Keith was four years older than me and he was the one who taught me the art of surfing. He was basically my older brother and my bestfriend.

I loved the noise of the school bell in the afternoon. I would get this feeling as I ran for the bus stop of relief and adrenalin down my spine. Nothing else mattered apart from the surf. As I hopped on to the bus I hit my wrist on the door of the bus. My aspiration for the crunching shore brake shut out any pain.

People say I’m obsessed, but I just think I’ve been absorbed by the passion of surfing. But it’s not as if I was “unique” or different to the rest of the town. 1970’s were the re-birth of surfing and I was right in the middle. As I pasted the wax onto my 6-foot board, I realized my friend Keith wasn’t here yet.

I lifted my wrist to see the time but my watch was frozen. I recollected the incident on the bus, where I hit my wrist.

“Dad will kill me,” I muttered under my apprehensive and fearful breath

I hopped up and peered through the floor to ceiling windows and saw the clock above the radio in the living room, half past four. I knew something had happened.

It was Similar to the feeling I get at three o’clock every afternoon except in the opposite way. The old phone rattled against the old wooden bench, I froze. My feet felt like led bricks.

I just had the strength to open the door because of my trepidation, which was slowly devouring every other emotion in my body. Any happiness or excitement was now swapped for this consuming, threatening feeling.

I reached out for the phone. And listened. I didn’t speak a word. Until then I heard the voice of my mother. Through the streaming tears, I heard the words.

“He’s gone”

“He was hit by a car when he was crossing Monmouth Street”

She new I was there. I was breathing heavily. I hung up. I hadn’t shed a single tear, I was silent. I ran a grabbed my board and ran to the surf.

Every wave I caught all I could think of was Keith’s words.

“That’s it” “bend your knees”

So now every wave I catch, I think of him, my friend and “brother”, Keith.