Fire in the foam

(Anno Domini 1825)

Felix:

The wind wove restless fingers through the towering gumtree’s. Setting their twisted limbs swaying as waves shattered against the rugged coastline further back. Felix Firetail called “Old Cat” by those who knew him well. Had enjoyed his quiet morning as he stood motionless on the shore. Bare feet sinking into the cool embrace of the sand. His board, hewn from the heart of a mighty tree, rested beside him.

Its smooth wood absorbing the last vestiges of sunlight even though its color had faded from red to nearly pink from age.

Overhead, a hawk wheeled in slow, deliberate circles, its cry piercing the thick salt air. Felix exhaled, deep, feeling the weight of some pain in his chest coiled inside him like an anchor dragging him down. He needed long naps and often had coughing fits.

It was worth it all, he’d rather be in pain for half the night then not surf during the day. He even made it home alright despite the current weather.

Behind him a few miles away, his father’s forge roared with life, the clang of hammer on metal ringing through the amber-hour. Lwazi’s hands were blackened with soot, his strength forged in the heat of the anvil. Nandi, his mother, spun tales as deftly as she spun wool, her words weaving unseen patterns into the fabric of the night.

Felix belonged to the water, to the infinite stretch where sky met sea in a ceaseless embrace. His days were spent carving paths through the waves with Saraji, his surfing companion, or tracing the silent flight of hawks above the cliffs.

“Still watching them, Old Cat?” Saraji’s voice cut through the crashing of rain against the forage roof. She stood beside him, shaking saltwater from her thick curls, her board tucked under one arm. Saraji was not like most girls in the village as she surfed with the boys and did not wear a hijab. Felix never caught her at prayers either.

Felix didn’t take his eyes off the hawk “They make it look easy,” he murmured. “Like the sky was made just for them.”

Saraji laughed. “Maybe it was.” She nudged his shoulder. “Or maybe you’ve spent too much time staring at birds and not enough time out on the water. Come on. The waves are good tonight.”

Felix hesitated trying to catch a good glimpse of her through his dark bangs the wind kept pressing into his round eyes. The sickness had been quiet today, but he could still feel it, lurking beneath his skin akin to the storm waiting to break just outside. He forced a grin. “You’re just trying to show off.”

“Obviously.” Saraji flashed a teasing smile before jogging back toward the waves. “Last one in buys the drinks!”

Felix shook his head and followed, his feet moving faster than his thoughts. For now, the sea would be his escape.

Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, he sat beside Marcco near the cliffs, a clay jug of date tea between them. The firelight flickered across their faces, casting long shadows over the sand.

“You ever think about leaving?” Marcco asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Felix blinked, surprised. “Leaving where?”

Marcco shrugged, taking a long drink. “This place. The coast. Maybe go inland, see what’s out there, you are the son of immigrants after all, it will be easy for you.” He grabbed his left foot as he spoke deep in thought.

Felix let out a slow breath, running a hand through his damp hair. “The birds stay where they belong,” he said finally.

Marcco chuckled. “Yeah, well, you’re not a bird, Old Cat.”

Felix looked back toward the ocean. The waves whispered secrets beneath the darkening sky. He had no words for the pull in his chest, the feeling that something was waiting just beyond his reach.

He stood before them, the fire’s glow casting flickering shadows across their faces, the only light against the blackened sky. Saraji’s curls caught the dim ember’s dance, wild and untamed. While Marcco’s long, soot-dark hair hung like a curtain against his back. Felix let his inner monologue ponder for a brief moment if she would ever find her way to Allah, and put back on her hijab. It was not his place to ask.

He memorized them, the way sorrow and understanding warred in their eyes, the way the wind carried their silence. “This is it, then,” he murmured, his voice barely rising above the crashing waves. “Look after each other.” One last glance, one last breath, then he turned, vanishing into the night.

He dragged the salt-crusted surfboard into its rack, the scent of brine and wax lingering on his skin as he stepped inside. Shedding his dampsuit, he pulled on a loose linen shirt and well-worn trousers, the fabric settling comfortably over sun-warmed muscles. The forge called next; heat rolling against him as he stoked the embers, hands instinctively reaching for the hammer. The rhythm of metal against anvil soon drowned out the crash of the waves, as the ocean still hummed in his bones.