Read Break My Fall (No Limits) Online
Authors: J.T. Cameron
Break My Fall (No Limits)
BREAK
MY
FALL
J.T. Cameron
Copyright © 2013 by J.T. Cameron
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written consent of the Author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
I had talked to Drew on three previous occasions over the summer, each time wanting nothing more than to be left alone. Our fourth conversation took place the day I got arrested, and it changed everything.
It was
the middle of July and Tropical Storm Andrea was bearing down on the South Carolina coast. Most people were secure in their homes for the day, avoiding the winds and flash flooding, heeding the warnings of local officials.
But to
me, those warnings were made to be ignored, especially when the advisories called for waves that would be six to eight feet high. How could a surfer pass that up?
Early in the afternoon, I walked
three blocks through the driving wind and rain from my rented carriage house to the beach. I kept an eye out for cops but didn’t see any along the way. Carrying a surfboard toward the beach is what law enforcement would probably consider a rather obvious clue that someone was about to ignore the fact that the beaches were closed.
A strong gust of wind almost ripped the board out of my arms as I approached one of the public access points between the stilted houses. I stopped to get a better grip as the rain blew sideways, pelting my skin.
When the wind let up and I was able to steady the board, I continued toward the beach. Once over the dunes, my adrenaline spiked.
The ocean churned with foamy, white-capped breakers
. Swell after swell rolled toward the shoreline.
And I had it all to myself.
Surfing is how I find peace. It’s the purest form of escape I’ve ever known. I had always felt like that, but after what happened to me a couple of months ago, having an escape from everyday life was more critical to my survival than ever.
I had fled
from my life a few months ago, leaving Florida and ending up in the Charleston, South Carolina, area. I had escaped in a literal, physical sense, but I still craved the mental escape, and for me there was no better way to do that than riding waves.
The tide was going out—a good thing in any tropical storm or hurricane—and as I walked across the sand toward the water, the incoming waves hurled themselves toward the beach, crashing violently and disintegrating, followed shortly by another, anoth
er, another… The waves here on Isle of Palms are sometimes pretty decent and surfing-worthy, but nothing like the ones provided by Tropical Storm Andrea.
I walked into the ocean, feeling the undertow pulling at my ankles, almost urging me to go farther out, an urging I didn’t need because I was about to get in some of the best surfing I’d had since
arriving here.
Past the first few breakers, I placed my board down on the water, flopped my belly down on it, and began paddling. First straight out, then parallel to the beach,
waiting for the wave that would take me back to shore.
I chose my wave, paddling myself into position.
My brain switched into what I call Surfing Escape Mode:
I’m on the wave. It’s powerful. Rough.
Almost violent. It pushes me. Lifts me.
I’m free.
I have to work to remain free—flexing my leg muscles; using my arms to balance my body; shifting my center mass to stay steady; all of this is work, hard work, but the payoff is being free.
It’s usually over in a matter of seconds like that. But those real-time seconds
are long dream-like minutes, and that’s exactly what I desire.
The freedom didn’t last long that day, though
, because as I trudged through the knee-deep water where the ride ended, I looked up and saw a cop. He stood facing me, a few dozen yards away up on the beach.
I don’t know how long he had been there.
Probably just a few minutes. But if he’d been yelling, I hadn’t heard it, thanks to the noise of the roiling Atlantic, and the wind. It was mid-afternoon, but the storm made it seem like dusk. Using his flashlight, the cop motioned for me to get out of the water and come toward him.
I had a choice to make: either
pick up my board and obey the officer, or ignore him and go back out for one more wave.
The way my life had been going lately, I found myself in a kind of what-the-hell frame of mind, so I chose the latter.
Turning back toward the open water, I made my way out past the breakers, arms feeling good despite the energy required to fight against the power of the storm-fueled water.
The largest swell I’d seen so far appeared in the distance, so I turned myself back toward the beach, grabbed the side of the board, and prepared to do it all over again.
This time, I fell off the board, onto my back, smacking the surface hard. I stood, finding myself in knee-deep water. I looked toward the beach and saw the cop signaling once again, this time a little frantically.
Not a bad day.
Some good waves. Better than staying home and waiting for the power to go out.
I gave in and walked toward the officer. Another strong gust grabbed my board and swung it around, almost hitting
him as I got close. The stinging of the pellet-like rain made him squint, giving his face an angry expression.
“This beach is closed,” he shouted.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“I need to see your I.D.”
“I don’t have it.”
He gave me
a once-over, as if to examine whether I could be lying. I was wearing a surfing wetsuit, and there weren’t many places to keep my driver’s license.
The cop shook his head. “Come with me.”
“Am I getting a ticket?”
He placed his hand on my elbow, the way cops hold onto someone they’re about to
perp-walk. “No ticket. You’re going to jail.”
. . . . .
The police station on Isle of Palms was small and I had imagined it was usually not very busy. But with a tropical storm going on, they apparently had every officer on duty, and many of them were in the station, milling around as though bored and waiting for something horrific to happen.
For now, I
was the main attraction, in my wetsuit, sitting in a chair and waiting to find out what was going to happen to me. I probably should have felt some level of guilt or embarrassment, but the only thing registering at that moment was annoyance. I just wanted to go home.
At one point
, a female officer—the only one I’d seen the entire time—came by and handed me a towel. I thanked her and started drying my wet hair.
Finally, the officer who had taken me in came back to where I was sitting. He took a seat next to me, placing a laptop on his thighs.
“You know, going around without I.D. can be considered vagrancy.”
I didn’t look at him.
My gaze was drifting all over the place. “I live here.”
“What’s your name?”
He started typing as I answered all of his questions.
I
told him my name was Leah Austin, and I gave him the address of the carriage house I was renting. What I didn’t tell him was that I hadn’t gotten a South Carolina driver’s license yet. I didn’t see the point. I’d be leaving at the end of the summer. That would have been another possible ticket. I figured it best to leave that out so he’d simply issue me a fine and send me on my way, and I’d worry later about how I would pay it.
I gave him my
birthdate and he seemed to think of himself as some kind math wizard when he said out loud, “You’re twenty years old.”
I just nodded.
“Do you understand why I arrested you?”
I took a moment, thinking of what I could say that let him know I didn’t want to be treated like I was an idiot.
“Littering?”
He stopped
typing and turned his head to face me. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.” He took a deep breath, like he was exasperated, then stared at me. “When I waved you in the first time, you went back out.”
“I didn’t see you.”
Based on the way he raised one eyebrow, I was sure he didn’t believe me, but he didn’t argue with me about it. “I’m going to let that one slide.”
“Thanks.”
That’s when I felt a little guilt. He seemed like a nice enough guy who was just doing his job and probably didn’t want to be sitting here anymore than I did. Judging by his apparent age—maybe fifty-ish—he’d probably grown tired of dealing with young people who do crazy things at the beach.
He closed the laptop, removed his glasses, and stood. “Bond schedule sets yours at
eight-hundred dollars.”
I looked up at him, making eye contact for the first time. “Bond? You’re not just giving me a ticket?”
He shook his head and looked at his watch. “I don’t have any discretion over that. Anyone disobeying the beach closing goes to jail with a bond. Chief’s orders during the storm.”
I felt a lump in my throat. “I don’t have
eight-hundred bucks.” I didn’t have any money on me, in fact.
He shrugged. “You can call a bondsman
.”
I sighed and looked away from him. My vision grew a little blurry. I wasn’t going to full-on cry, but I was definitely getting teary, as I was not looking forward to spending the night in a cell.
“Let’s go,” he said, reaching for my arm again as I stood.
A few minutes later, I was
occupying a jail cell for the first time in my life.
. . . . .
I was put in a small holding cell, and told to wait while he did some paperwork and then he’d be back to let me make a phone call.
There was no way I was going to call Rick and Marla—the couple I worked for. It’s not that they would have judged me. They probably would hav
e laughed at me, actually. But even as cool as they were, calling your employer to bail you out of jail is pretty much a last resort.
I thought about
calling Rebecca, a girl I worked with and hung out with from time to time, to see if she could front me the money until our next paycheck, but she had so much going on in her life I didn’t want to bother her.
As I sat there waiting, my decision to go surfing in the
storm was looking less worth it, a feeling I had never before associated with surfing.
A few minutes passed and the woman who had given me the towel came to the cell, unlocked the door, and said, “
Come with me. I need to process you out of here.”
I stood and took a step toward the door. “
I can leave?” The words came out with more elation than I’d put into anything I’d said in a couple of months.
She
unlocked the cell and swung the door open. “Your bond’s been dropped. Fine’s been paid. You’re free.”
“What? How?”
“I don’t know. That takes place in the magistrate’s office. They just send the order back here.”
Puzzled, I followed her down the short hallway to the larger room where she stood on one side of a counter and I stood on the other as she gave me a few papers to sign.
“Oh, I almost forgot about this,” I said, releasing the towel I had tied around my torso.
She looked up from the computer screen and
told me to keep the towel. As she finished whatever she was doing to process me out of jail, I started to think Rick and Marla, and possibly Rebecca, must have somehow known what happened and they came down to post the money. As unlikely as that seemed, there was literally no other possibility I could think of.
“I believe this is yours.” She walked from behind the counter over to where I stood and handed my surfboard to me. “I’d suggest not using this until the beaches are opened again.” She wasn’t mean or sarcastic about it. There was actually a friendly tone to her warning.
I smiled. “Thank you.”
She
led me to the front of the police station where several officers eyed me as I made my way through the lobby. All men. I don’t think they were looking at my surfboard. Or maybe it was another example of my recent paranoia. That had been happening a lot over the last few months. Justified as it was, I still resented the feeling.
As I got closer to the glass doors, I saw that the rain had let up some, but the gray darkness of the storm still
loomed heavily over the island and the palm trees still swayed and bent under the force of the wind.
The officer opened the door, saying, “Stay safe,” as I guided the end of the board through the doorway and made my way out to the sidewalk.
I was starting the walk home when I heard a voice behind me.
“I hope they weren’t too rough on you.”
I turned to see who it was.
Drew.
I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him. He wore khaki shorts, a fading and well-worn blue t-shirt with some kind of insignia that I couldn’t make out, and a Chicago Cubs baseball cap that was so soaked with rain there were little droplets lining the edge of the bill. Some of his sandy blond hair curled out from under the hat.