The last Wave By Nick Bruechle / Cover photo by Cammy J Smith
What would you do if you knew that your next wave would be your last? The last wave of over thirty
years of surfing. The last wave of your life.
James was watching that last wave silently rolling towards him. It was coming on to dusk, and with a
twenty minute boat ride from the island in front of them back to Pulau Nyang-Nyang, they had to
leave soon or risk navigating the narrow channel in the dark. The others were already on the boat – his
brother Luke, his mate Ferri and their surf guide and host Glen. Glen had generously agreed to allow
this little group of three to come and stay at his resort two weeks before the season started because of
James. As regular guests on the island, James and his companions had become more like friends than
customers, and Glen was open to the idea of one short, last trip before James went in for several more
bouts of chemo-and radiotherapy.
James already knew it was futile. Felt it in his aching, weary bones. He’d been on the treatment
merry-go-round for over a year, but now the disease had spread. As fast as any radioactive or
chemical assault on his body might kill cells and carry off his quality of life with them, the disease
itself was too established, too comfortable eating away at his body to be eradicated.
But he wouldn’t have missed this trip for anything in the world, pain or no pain. In fact, for long
periods the waves, the laughter and the sheer tropical enchantment of it all had kept the stinging,
gnawing, throbbing and stabbing misery at bay. They’d had a blast. E-Bay had turned on for one
afternoon. Not epic, not wide open, but solid and fast enough for them all to get a few memorable
rides. They’d scored a whole morning of fun-sized, creamy Beng-Bengs to themselves. Nipussi in the
lightest of onshores at six foot had been surprisingly good. And a frustrating but hilarious early run to
Pistols had yielded mateship and good-humoured roastings while waiting for the inconsistent sets.
At night, beers had been consumed and stories had been told while the jungle hummed, and away
across the glistering water lightning storms wreaked silent havoc on the island of Siberut. Such a
small, tight-knit group. Such warm and wet nights. Such a lot of heavy silence and expectation
enveloping the scene like a damp, warm blanket.
Tonight was to be their last night. In the morning the boat would speed them back to Sumatra and
James would go home to slowly die.
The air had a thick, soft purple feel to it. Not a breath of wind disturbed the silken cerulean blue
water, and in the dense jungle of Karoniki Island the darkness gathered.
Most of us, considering what we might do with that last wave, would envisage ourselves shredding,
ripping. Maybe hope for one last barrel, peeking out through the eye of hypnotic joy one last time, to
hold that image in the mind’s eye until the moment came. James watched the lump rising as it crept
upon him, a seductive swelling of mirror-like perfection, and he didn’t think any of those things. He
felt calm. Thankful. At peace. He stroked into it easily as, fifty metres away on the boat, his mates
hooted and whistled.
Burgerworld is an under-rated and unfairly named wave. On its day it presents a fast wall, a couple of
punchy sections ripe for a gouge, and a long, looping ride along the island’s picture postcard, palm
encrusted shore. James’s wave was a typically friendly, forgiving, super-cruisy Burgerworld is an under-rated and unfairly named wave. On its day it presents a fast wall, a couple of
punchy sections ripe for a gouge, and a long, looping ride along the island’s picture postcard, palm
encrusted shore. James’s wave was a typically friendly, forgiving, super-cruisy Burgerworld gem.
Enough power and speed to make it more than worthwhile, served up with a beguiling mixture of
exotic beauty and blissful atmosphere. His turns were solid and satisfying, chucking white foamy
water at the psychedelic sky, and his style was graceful and unhurried. He rode it to the end.
It was the last wave of his life, and the one James would remember as long as he lived. The velvet
sweetness of the water, the delicious scent-laden air, the colours in the sky changing with every
second through red, orange, mauve and deepest blue, the dim echo of his crazy, caring, unforgettable
crew cheering like madmen, the soft splash of spray as he carved his legacy into the welcoming wall –
it would all stay with him and sustain him in the hard days to come. Maybe it wasn’t everyone’s idea
of the perfect last wave, but it was his.
He paddled over, climbed up into the boat, and gratefully accepted an ice-cold Bintang from Luke.
Cees says
Know of one guy in particular who has now passed where this scenario was a reality.
beri says
nicely written
Slim says
Yes I have to agree Nick Bruechle is a true professional writer
Nick Bruechle says
Thanks Slim, beri and Cees. I’m sorry to hear about your friend, Cees. I imagined this scenario but I’m sure it has happened many times.