The Hold Down
by Greg Bratone
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
“But he wasn’t a competitor, not like you. He didn’t have that drive for the biggest wave; he just was happy surfing every day. Simple as that. But people on the streams saw that and loved him for it. And then one day, on a big swell day, he wiped out. It wasn’t even that bad, not like yours. But it kept him under, one wave, two waves, longer than usual, until eternity stretched on.
“I zigged and zagged all over with my ski, finding nothing. It made no sense. His body was never recovered, just his board. For the funeral, we set the board on fire. I told myself I couldn’t have done anything more, but there was always that doubt. Always.”
“Damn, Puller, I’m sorry. You did everything. I can’t imagine the anger at not finding his body and saying goodbye.”
“The ocean has him.” I studied the side of Apollo’s face. “The worst part, we had planned to get off the Sticks in a few weeks. There’s an island not too far away, with no rules, not as many resources, but it’s just people surfing. No pressure. That’s where we wanted to go.”
“Sorry to interrupt this beautiful moment,” said Jennifer, peeking in, with a camera lens behind her shoulder. “But Phil wants to see you two. Right now.”
He was called the boss, CEO, a warlord. I helped Apollo put on a clean shirt. As I walked by her, Jennifer whispered. “Be careful what you say to him. He’s not in a good mood.”
Buried behind layers of clouds, the moon’s dim light leaked over an eerily calm ocean. A deathly quiet. Something in the ocean had changed.
The great white yacht rose three stories and was at least a hundred feet long. Floodlights angled down on the back deck, exposing the silhouettes of two guards. I pulled the ski up against the stern and a rope was thrown to Apollo. When we had climbed the ladder, Apollo couldn’t contain his surprise at the two female guards in bikinis. Phil sat on the back deck, his long black hair glistening in a ponytail, a loose cotton shirt opened at his chest. Strong jaw, tanned leathery skin, he had hung up his suit jacket for a native cosplay. Both a jacuzzi and a row of recliners were occupied by more beautiful women holding glasses of champagne and icy glares.
“Welcome, my golden surfer, welcome.”
“Good to meet you, Phil,” said Apollo, going in for the bro hug. Two guards raised their AK’s within an inch of Apollo’s face, freezing the greeting.
I stepped up, knelt, and bowed, tugging on Apollo’s arm to follow suit. He eventually did. “Phil, an honor to see you again.”
“Puller, no tow-ins, no purpose. But I’m glad you and Apollo found each other. I was getting worried.”
“Yes, he has a lot of potential.”
“The streams think so, too.” He motioned for one of the women to pour two glasses. “How are you feeling, Apollo, after that big wipe-out?”
“A little shaky. My back’s pretty cut up, but otherwise, just happy to be alive.”
“Very good to hear. Because they love you, and tomorrow, the waves will be epic. The forecast shows a perfect storm. Waves will reach the sky.”
Phil turned to Apollo. “Will you face them down? Break the record. Forge a legend?”
Spilling blood, Bucky’s sacrifice, a stronger force was at work. I stepped forward. “Phil, respectfully, he may have gotten water in his lungs from the wipeout, and he definitely got a bad concussion.” I grabbed Apollo’s hand and held it up. It was shaking uncontrollably, his gold ring a jittery jumping bean. “He can’t go out there in the storm.”
“Let him speak for himself, Puller.”
“I...” Apollo winced, put his hands through his hair, snorted. “It’s what I live for. I just want to catch the biggest wave of my life. But I’m not sure I’m ready yet to get back on the board. That crash was vicious.”
“He’ll die,” I yelled, trembling now, myself. A rifle butt from one of the guards slammed into my gut, sending my oxygen flying out my mouth.
“I guess Puller didn’t tell you how things work here.” Phil tilted his head, a fat smile reaching his ears. “This is my little fishbowl of surfers. I feed you, smuggle in the best coffee and rum, protect you. In return, you slay the monster waves.”
“Very generous deal,” agreed Apollo, putting a hand on the small of my back. “Just don’t hit him again.”
“Sure, it’s a just a reminder for our Puller here,” Phil nodded to the guard to back up.
I groaned and stood to my height, putting more weight on Apollo. Phil smiled, like we were all the best of friends, just enjoying the pleasures of his yacht. “Do you know what this island’s main exports were? Pearls and tourism. That’s what my father invested in this island. But with the ocean so warm and acidic, the mussels can’t grow shells anymore, and so we have no more pearls to harvest.
“And the reefs and the fish are all gone, so no tourists want to visit. So where does the money come from? Outside these pristine waters, the world is not so sunny anymore, you know that, Apollo. Everyone on their VR sets, lying in their bunkers, kept stringing along. TV stations and governments, they pay big dollars for exclusive access to our good vibes. These crystal waves, rebellious souls, beautiful bodies, we are the strong ones still enjoying ourselves.” Phil closed his eyes, enraptured with his own sermon.
“I just got off a call with some execs from the so-called United States. They adore you, this working class, American surfer boy. They’ve paid a lot of money for your exclusive streaming rights. Tie-ins with casino and gambling. Every morning, when you paddle out, there are odds on which surfers will see the sunset.”
“Wait, that’s messed up.”
“It’s all for the spectacle. But the most important message we can still send,” Phil shook his head, circling me and Apollo in an athletic prowl, “is that a man, in the face of danger, can tame the biggest wave, and still conquer what Mother Nature throws at us humans.”
“That’s right, I’m your guy. So, if I say no, it’s no.”
Phil turned his back on us and let out a grunt of frustration. In the next moment, he swung around and put his face in front of Apollo, hands on his shoulders. “Our Mother has been punishing us with vengeful destruction. There is nowhere we can hide from it. But tomorrow, when that perfect wave arrives, gloriously in the distance, you will be on it. Because, if you conquer it, the views will rise. If you wipe out, views will still rise. Only way they don’t is if you don’t surf it. So, when I say you surf, you surf.”
There was nothing to counter. Phil drifted to the back of the boat, staring towards the Sticks, his sinking island property. “The sport of kings. It’s a beautiful thing to die for.”
We were let go. I felt Apollo shaking, sitting on the back of my ski. Instead of returning, I kept going, skimming towards the island, reaching a small alcove between sharply jutting rocks.
“What is this place?” he asked, stepping off the ski and onto an outcrop of rocks.
“An intact reef. They said most of the ocean is dead, but certain spots hang on.” I opened the stead and pulled out two sets of snorkels and flippers.
The moon illuminated a side of Apollo’s face, his firm chin and high cheekbone, a tragic complexion when his smile was gone. He caught the snorkel and sat down, his legs in the warm water. His shoulders untensed, and the bravado he had kept melted away, as only solitary thoughts could do.
“I grew up in one of those places where everyone was still pretending, acting like if you put your head down and tried really hard, life was still gonna be good. I was going to school every day, a good little boy, maroon uniform, answering questions about aspirations, always sizing others up. I hated it. Maybe that’s why I became so competitive. I’m jealous of Sandro.”
The moon gave us all the light we needed. We jumped into the warm shallow waters, spotting bonefish, a Mahi-Mahi, and throngs of jellyfish. We let our bodies drift among the other colors and fins and tentacles. Our hearts held in wonder at the life still clinging on. Our limbs occasionally grazed. I did funny things under the water; hand signals, faces, putting my legs together and pretending I was a mermaid. The smile returned. We pressed goggles against each other, bubbles streaming past the eyes. We were children again.
We came up for air and took off our snorkels, hair matted against our heads, eyes slightly red from the water. Apollo pulled himself onto the rock and I followed. Back slightly hunched, he took a deep breath. “You ever think if humans had remained sea creatures, if we didn’t slither onto shore and develop legs, how would this world be so different?”
“Out of these waters, we are nothing, right?” I turned to him, terrified of what I might see, what I might do. But I had to remember this wasn’t Sandro. Apollo didn’t have my heart. And the broken heart that was left would forever have waves crashing against it. I pulled back.
“I’m going to head back and get some rest.” Apollo turned to the Sticks, gave me a sad smile, and without another word, he dove in and swam until his curls disappeared. I stayed under the moon, sensing the shadow swim around me.
Dawn brought a spectacular sky, a ceiling of bulging and bruised clouds, tints of red and gold. The air felt frenzied — as if spirits were blowing the wind with full cheeks — the waters tumultuous, and righteous. Water sprayed everywhere. Some of the Sticks started to crack. Surfers rappelled down on ropes and secured the bamboo poles with extra fasteners.
The waves were jaw-dropping, the barrels pulverizing. There were no cheers as the surfers readied themselves. At the docks, Apollo kept a grim face as he pulled on his wetsuit over his back, a wounded soldier before battle.
Without a word, he jumped on my ski and we went out. Sitting on the outside of the break, we watched waves continue to grow. There was nothing else in the world, the crashes deafening, the feeling of fragility terrifying. We were so small in these valleys of monsters. And then it came rising in the distance, birthed across the ocean, oscillating for weeks, waiting, shaping itself into the tallest and most dangerous wave. “Holy...” Apollo whispered, his face ashen. I was ferrying out a corpse. A beautiful corpse to be sacrificed.
I turned my body so I was facing him, stood straddling the seat of the ski, and closed my eyes. My fist landed square on his jaw. Apollo fell backwards, his head rolling back, eyes temporarily empty. As his body splashed into the ocean, I grabbed his board. I had surprised him with a light punch; he would be fine. Before he could wake up and protest, I had leashed my ankle and held his board, speeding towards the wave. I would tow myself in.
Shaking, head to big toe, driven by an accumulation of years of training, thousands of hours and faith, as the wave rose up, I ditched my ski. I landed on Apollo’s board, and steadied myself on the beast. Water droplets caressed my face. Roaring in my ears. The Sticks, the shore, the entire world opened before me, ready to be torn apart. Higher than I’d ever been, gravity lost its meaning. At the precipice, I committed and took the plunge.
Racing down the slope of the wave, a stampede roaring behind, ready to catch me. Legs shaking, chest on fire, I held firm and screamed. But remember, each wave is different. Even though I had ridden down the wall, I wasn’t safe. Far from it.
The wave leapt forward and grabbed me, launched me face-first into the crashing waters, like a building falling on my back. Downwards into the chaotic waters, I hit the sandy ground, head smacking the broken reefs, air pushed out of my lungs.
The blackness of the abyss. Disoriented, with no idea of up or sideways, the familiar panic rose. The sound of another wave breaking its way towards me. Hands tingled. Light flickered in the corners of my eyes. I found that pocket of calmness. A shadow wrapped itself around me, and my heartbeat slowed. In waiting, a womb formed, floating, a newborn, warm water caressing me, finally held by him.
Copyright © 2026 by Greg Bratone
