Pressure Of Ambition

• Lamis Husseini, Grade 9, Australian International Academy Secondary Campus
• Short Story
• 2014

Excellence Award in the 'The Text Generation 2014' competition

The salty sea tang assaults my nostrils as I take in the scene before me, familiar and
confronting, yet still as majestic as the first time I'd witnessed it. This beach definitely
wasn't a picture-perfect scene- instead of pristine white sand there was a sickly yellow,
littered with long dead seaweed- but all of my childhood memories had taken place here, so
this place held a bitter-sweet nostalgia for me.
I run, surf board clutched to my side as I dart here and there, too fast for the greedy sand to
suck at my feet. I crash into the water unceremoniously, gasping as the icy water engulfs my
legs.
It was early in the morning, just after sunrise, and the sun's feeble attempt at warmth wasn't
doing me any favors. A few other surfers were scattered along the other side of the beach,
but I was far away from them, tucked away into my own secret spot. I grimace. Not only
was I once again the youngest, being sixteen, I was the only female surfing at this hour.
I wade deeper into the water, teeth chattering, heart racing. I gulp in air, trying to calm my
nerves.
'Deep breaths, kid' My mother always says, 'Nerves will ruin your momentum, your flow.
What've you got to worry about, anyway? You're an Anderson, the surf's in your blood'
Despite her reassurances, I'd never felt comforted. My father didn't seem to be either, but he
raised no objections, preferring to hide behind his silks and utter weak warnings about the
many dangers of surfing rather than join in the so-called family tradition.
My entire life I'd told people that my father was a surfer and that my mother was a tailor,
seeking sanctuary in my lies from people's bemused stares. However, the truth was the exact opposite, with my mother being a champion surfer with six tournament wins under her belt and my father the one to make all my fashionable clothing that my schoolmates both fawned over and snuck envious glances at.
I glimpse the sight of a potential wave and brace myself. I kick off, leaping onto my board
and steadying myself as I'd done a million times before under my mothers scrutiny. I rock
slightly, and then, thanking everything that's holy, I catch the wave. Instead of the elation
my mother describes, I feel hollow, the methodical movements holding no euphoria for me.
My mind wanders, traveling back into my house and up to my room, where an unfinished
design of a dress awaits.
The wave breaks unexpectedly and I fall, through the water, through my mothers
expectations and into my own ambition; the ambition of a fashion designer.