Page 21 of Ride the Wave

‘You see? I’m not going to make a very interesting subject for your article.’

I take a sip of my drink. ‘Can’t say I agree with that.’

He glares at me. ‘There will be some questions I won’t answer, Iris. I may have agreed to do this thing for my mum’s sake or whatever, but I’m not going to bare my soul. There has to be some boundaries.’

‘It’s rare that there aren’t.’

‘Your other interviewees may be happy to go back to their childhood or discuss their past or go into detail about the profound meaningful motivations that encouraged them to pick up a ball again or whatever,’ he waves his hand, ‘but that stuff is off limits with me. It’s not relevant. I’m just a surfer, doing my thing, and I’m going to win Rip Curl Pro Bells Beach this year. That’s it.’

‘Works for me.’

‘Okay, then. Good.’

‘Great.’

He shoots me a sceptical look but my sincere expression doesn’t falter. If he can put up boundaries, so can I. But, honestly, it’s really quite amusing that he thinks I won’t be leaving here with the story that I came for.

I take another drink of my wine. He takes a swig of his beer.

We both look out at the beach. I fight a smile.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him glance at me.

‘What?’ he demands to know. ‘Why are you smiling like that?’

‘No reason,’ I say, before my grin widens. ‘Okay, I was thinking about you saying, “profound meaningful motivations” that made them “pick up a ball again”. It was funny.’

His scowl softens. ‘It’s true. Their motivations were profound.’

‘I know.’ I lean back in my seat and stretch out my legs, still chuckling. ‘It’s the way you put it. So casual about some of the best athletes in the world. But, hey, whatever, they’re just… picking up a ball.’

He edges towards a smile. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I’m just picking up a surfboard.’

‘Right.’

We fall back into silence, but this time, it feels different. He seems a bit more at ease. It’s too soon to tell, but I think there’s a teeny, tiny crack in his armour.

His phone vibrates and he checks the screen, before downing the last few swigs of his beer and jumping to his feet. ‘I should go,’ he announces.

‘Okay,’ I say, sitting up. ‘This was great, thank you. When would it suit you for our first interview? Does tomorrow work? We could do same time, same place if you like.’

‘Sure. Fine.’ He gives me a pointed look. ‘You’ll soon see that there’s not much to write, Iris. I’ll have my game face on.’

As he turns away and leaves, I sip my wine smugly, enjoying the tranquil view.

Go ahead, Leo Silva, put on your game face.

I’ve had mine on all along.

7

When he messages to say he’s not going to make the interview while I’m sitting waiting for him at Marina’s Bar on Wednesday afternoon, I’m not surprised.

Am I pissed off? Yes.

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