A short story written for my writing class. Also my first post, enjoy.
His skin was stained a deep tan, peppered in freckles and the odd birthmark. It was raw from the sun and the salt water abusing it at every dusk and dawn, but in the setting sun it glowed like Egyptian gold. He had sun-kissed hair that hung around his jaw, tousled and unkempt. It gave him a look like he didn’t care what anyone thought of him, but some knew better. He had a smile that he never learned to straighten out, with a jagged scar cutting across his lower lip – something about fishing with his dad when he was little.
He was shorter than average, but he had a strong body from fighting off the waves summer after summer. It was about all he ever did, really. Surfing had evolved from a passion, to an obsession, to his life. He left his family to devote everything to riding the waves, the ocean his only companion. He said that she was the only thing he had ever loved in his life.
They called him the Golden Boy, not because of his skin or the hue of hair, but because he epitomised what summer really was. He was carefree, lively, and fearless. Some said he often competed with the sun for its glow, because that was what he did: he lit up the lives of so many people. When they returned to the city after their summer, they longed to go back. So many young boys looked up to the Golden Boy, wanting to throw away their futures for a chance at a lifetime of summer.
In fact, it wasn’t just the young children that wanted to be like him. Husbands and wives that were tied down by family, work, and responsibilities wanted to escape with him, ride out on the waves and take each one on without fear. They wanted to see the world through his eyes and breathe the salty air just as he would. “One day,” they would say, “I will live like the Golden Boy.”
He lived every day and every moment to the fullest, and told everyone never to regret anything in their lives. “Everything happens for a reason, so if you want to take it back, then you’ll never really move on,” he said. “Live free, live hard, and don’t look back for a second.” It was his motto, never look back. He was an idol, a lifestyle, and a memory to everyone that met him. He was unforgettable.
But when the season faded, and families and children went back to the city to return to their lives, no one really wondered what the Golden Boy was doing. They saw him sitting out on the black ocean, waiting for a wind to strike up some waves. Or some saw him lying on the beach, carving driftwood into art. They never doubted for one moment that the Golden Boy didn’t take autumn and winter head on, fighting off the chill with his mighty glow. “Wherever Golden Boy is, there is always summer,” they would agree. “He is summer.”
Golden Boy knew that summer wasn’t endless, but it didn’t stop him from wearing sandals and shorts in the middle of November. He believed, just like everyone else, that he was the rays of the sun or the smell of the sea spray in the mid-morning. He believed it more than most people did, and he fought harder to keep the sun in the sky and the spray from turning bitter. Each year, he lost the battle to autumn, and the war to winter. He sat in his small cabin, waiting out the snow and ice, the decaying landscape, and the raging sea
“Summer sleeps in the dead of winter,” he would tell the kids, “but it’s still there.” Perhaps it was there, but Golden Boy couldn’t come to terms with reality. Without summer, the heat and the sun, he wasn’t so golden anymore; he was just a boy. He didn’t have anyone when the sea turned cold and rejected him for two whole seasons. “Love is not a smooth ride, boys, it comes with a price.” But that price was nine months of loneliness, sitting by the fireplace trying to keep warm. Was love such a wonderful thing to have, if it only cared for three or four months of the year?
The boy, not so golden without the summer, would doubt himself and his love. He would look at his life and wonder if this was it. Was three month of undeniable happiness worth nine months of pain? How long could he watch the woman he loved move on without him, only to come sauntering back into his life once it was convenient? He had lasted a few years, fighting with himself, with time, and with the changing of seasons, but when was it enough?
Each winter, the boy would tell himself that this was the last time. He would pack his things in March, buying him time so that when April and May stopped by, they would tease and tempt him with promises of heat and love. He nearly succumbed to them each and every year, but then he would feel the chill from the shore, the cold shoulder. And he would be remember all those months spent in isolation, being ignored and rejected. And that pain would surface and his resolve returned
It was only when June came that he was helpless. She would call for him, puckering her lips, creating the perfect wave just for him. “Baby,” he would whisper, “I can’t take it, baby.” And she would reply, swaying her hips, drawing him to the edge until “I can’t take it” turned into “I can’t stay away”.
After June passed, time spent stitching up all the holes in his heart, everyone would return just to see him, the Golden Boy. And he would be glowing and shining, just like everyone remembered. His lip tugged down in the middle because of that bright, white scar, and his hair still dipped in sunshine. He would be the Golden Boy they all knew, the one they remembered – with the golden skin, the shower of freckles, and personality of the summertime.
“He will never change,” they would say in admiration. “He will be happy forever.” Golden Boy never bothered to correct them, to tell them of the other nine months of the year where his only companions were loneliness and heartache. He didn’t tell them about the unstoppable chill, the impossible battles he faced – no, he didn’t tell them about any of it. If he told them that he wasn’t the boy they thought he was, that he didn’t shine past September, what would they think? He was like the summer; he faded into the next season, and then was born again in at the end of spring. He was the summer days in their winter nights – he would always be their Golden Boy. Even if he didn’t shine, didn’t smile, or live well beyond the summer, to them, he was everlasting.
He once told us that the ocean was the only woman he ever loved. Now he told us that she was the only one he would ever love. Some say that love got the best of him, that the ocean would never truly be his. But Golden Boy didn’t believe that, not in the prime of their love when the air smelled sweet and the mornings were just as beautiful as the nights. “Love is pain, boys,” he would say. “It can steal your heart right out of your chest, but it always brings it back.” He just never told them how battered and bruised it was upon return.
Bye bye.