The Backpacker by John Harris Page B

playing some kind of elaborate trick.
    Every morning for the rest of that week a bowl of fruit salad was ready for me outside my hut, and every afternoon she floated along the beach in her sarong to give me the same pointless message: that she would be going off to buy fresh fruit for the next day’s breakfast. Everyone had seen us talking and must have assumed that we were together.
    â€˜They think you’re some kind of fuckin’ pervert.’ Dave somersaulted off the rock and hit the water squarely on his back. He surfaced a moment later arching in pain. ‘Either that or queer. Ow!’
    â€˜Let me show you how to do it.’ I took two steps back and up. ‘It’s all in the arms, Dave, watch this.’ My crucifix shape hit the water with what I considered beauty and elegance. It hurt the tops of my arms on impact and, although I knew this dive spot pretty well now, I almost head-butted a submerged boulder. ‘Fuck,’ I gasped as I came up for air, ‘where did that come from?’
    â€˜Almost hit it didn’t ya?’ Dave clambered back onto the rock and wiped the water from his face.
    â€˜I never saw that before. Christ!’
    â€˜That’s because it wasn’t there yesterday. Take a look up there. See, where that hole is?’ He pointed behind him to where the black boulders ended and the jungle began.
    â€˜Oh yeah,’ I confirmed, looking up and squinting at the sun. ‘Jesus, I wonder how that happened?’
    â€˜Wonder no more, Lord John. Here.’ He held out a hand and pulled me up onto the rock. ‘I pushed it down last night. Came out here for a swim alone. Made a helluva splash when it hit the water: Ker-boom! Like a fuckin’ depth charge.’
    â€˜I bet it did.’ I wished I’d been there to witness the sight. Imagine, a boulder the size of an armchair rolling down the rocks, bouncing and splintering as it went, until finally impacting like an atom bomb into the water. ‘Superb,’ I agreed, suitably impressed. ‘Any more around?’
    â€˜Reckon so. Around the headland there’re bound to be more.’ He shook the excess water from his afro. ‘I swam further out yesterday and it looks like the whole rock face is falling in.’
    I shielded my eyes from the sun to look at the headland. ‘Fancy a swim?’
    â€˜Now?’ He looked at his non-waterproof watch that had misted over. ‘Shit, I said I’d meet Sooze at one. Ah well, I’ll just say my watch was broken.’
    We both dived in and began the swim out towards the pile of rocks in the distance.
    Because of the shape of Hat Rin beach and the surrounding landscape, it’s possible to swim the quarter of a mile or so out to either headland and still see everything else that’s contained within the bay: trees, the beach and all the people on it. The other thing about Hat Rin is that despite being a popular place for backpackers, few people, if any, seem to bother with the sea. As beautiful as it is, most people are too busy listening to music or sleeping off hangovers to wade out any further than waist-deep. For that reason more than anything else, once we’d swum halfway out we came across no one else swimming in the other direction.
    â€˜Pity there’re no waves here,’ I said, keeping my chin above the water as I breast-stroked. ‘We’ve got the beach, the sunshine, the parties. Waves would make it perfect.’
    â€˜You surf?’
    I nodded, unable to speak as a ripple lapped against my mouth. ‘Uh-huh.’
    â€˜Put it there John.’ Dave trod water and held out a hand. ‘Man, is it a killer sport or what?’
    â€˜The best.’ I shook his hand while frantically treading water with my legs to make up for the short-fall in the arm department, and we continued swimming. ‘Surf in England.’
    â€˜Man, I thought you said you were from London.’
    â€˜I am. I