The Hold Down
by Greg Bratone
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
“Thrashing swells, my dude. Chirpy blue skies, waves shooting straight. And enough sunshine to make you forget the rest of the world.” The newbie paused, the roiling ocean drowning him out. I had never seen him before on the surf break. “Let the rest of the world burn, you know. At least we’ve got these waves.”
Burn. His surfboard set fire, without a body, burning brilliantly under the moon, fading until it became a dim flicker on the horizon. I wondered how far the surfboard had floated before the flames were extinguished and the ocean swallowed it. My Sandro. With his body returned to the waves, could I find peace in this drowning world?
“You OK, dude?”
I pulled my gaze away from the distant sky and regarded the newbie nearby. His skin was golden brown and mist sprayed his beach-blond curls. He was sitting on his board, his thigh straddling the sides, his arms playing loose in the water. Youth clung to him as an extra life jacket.
“Right on,” I said. I laid my eyes back on the waves, which continued to roll underneath us, gathering energy, expanding, and pummeling their way to what was left of the island’s shore. My thoughts drifted. Forty-three seconds Sandro had been held under. I had been too late.
“This water’s pristine, way nicer than California, but it’s like a hot tub.” The newbie peered down at the waters, drawing circles in the ocean like he was tempting the fish to bite. “The fish must be boiling.”
“Lucky if you spot one. All the corals are bleached bone white.”
He nodded, trying to retrieve the good vibes. Gods know, I wasn’t providing them. “I heard the Sticks are crazy, pure madness. And the amount of people checking out the online streams, you can get famous hella quick.” His voice droned with a West Coast accent that made every word feel light and fun. His board was white with aqua and gold trim, Poseidon’s gruff beard and eyes staring back from the center.
I revved the engine of my bright yellow jet-ski, sending squirts of water beyond. Chasing fame. It wasn’t worth a response. He finally stopped talking to inhale a breath, recognizing me. “You’re the Puller. You tow surfers onto the waves with your jet-ski.”
“And pull surfers out of the ocean when they wipe out. If they’re lucky, there might still be some oxygen in their lungs.” It was fun to scare the newbies, especially this one, running his mouth and all. “How did you find the Sticks?”
“I was working a fishing boat off the Japanese coast when I got the call that a spot had opened up. They told me a big swell is coming, and they liked my social media profile.”
“Well, you’re in it now. It’s a fast turnaround here. A pressure pot. Phil runs a tight ship.”
“Phil?”
I nodded to one of the white boats further out beyond the waves. It had a crows’ nest on top with the faint shape of a man with a rifle slung around his shoulder. “The guy who owns this surf break. His fleet of boats keeps marauders and unwanted eyes away from our paradise. You’ll meet him soon enough.”
“Wicked. I’ll show him what I got. How about a tow-in, old man?”
Who the hell did he think he was? I had every right to give him a smack on the head or flip his board, but for some reason, I respected it. “The last guy I towed, Sandro, if he were, he would tell you that these waves are like nothing you’ve seen. The heat, the storms, Mother Nature’s wrath, it all makes for the most dangerous wave in the world. My advice; respect them.”
The sun beat down, the salt water drying on my shaved scalp. I readjusted my sunglasses. He cocked his head, like a seagull bobbing in the waves, oblivious to the dangers all around. I had promised myself not to work with another surfer so young, so reckless. I couldn’t stomach pulling another lifeless body out of these waters, another flame doused.
He gazed towards the open ocean, sun stroking his face, blue eyes matching the sky. These were the moments of silence I had always appreciated. No matter what country had collapsed, the waves could make you forget, and deliver you somewhere where nothing could touch you. Against my better judgments, and the frigid reputation, I asked. “What’s your name?
His name was Apollo, born along the big waves in the Republic of California, here at the Sticks to conquer the unconquerable. He needed a partner.
The noise of the ocean grew, creeping closer. I spun the jet-ski around and made sure the tow rope was untangled and threw him the triangular handle. He would use the speed and momentum from my tow to get onto the fast moving wave. “Waves have been breaking hard left. I’ll tow you in sideways at the base of the wave. Let go when I say. Take off under the lip or you’ll get launched. Got it?”
Apollo kissed the golden ring sitting on his finger and told me not to worry. But I was. One wrong foot or loss of balance, and these waves would smother him. There was barely enough moisture on my lips as I said a prayer.
Golden hour sprayed from the horizon, the sun hanging on, offering the perfect light to film. Cameramen, some floating in the water, others stationed on the filming boat, had picked up on newbie and trained their lenses. It would be the perfect ending to the day, for all the streams tuning in around the world. Phil would be stoked.
Apollo handled my tow with ease. In the middle of a rising wave, I shouted for him to drop the handle, and I sped off to the side. A dense wall of glassy green water rose sharply, sucking power from the Pacific, growing ever taller, wisps of white mist at the edge vanishing in the sky beyond. At forty feet, the sheer rolling power could snap a board in half. All alone, Apollo took the plunge into the barrel with power and skill and, above all, fearlessness. There was also first-timers’ luck.
Wet and tired heads turned. In the water, and on the Sticks above, surfers whooped and hit their boards. The wave crashed in on itself, spewing water like a cannon. Apollo emerged from the side, wiggled his pinky and thumb, and kicked out stylishly into the backside of the wave. It had been a long time since I had seen a ride like that.
I sped my ski across the cascading valleys towards the Sticks. A hundred feet out from shore, hanging above the ocean, the Sticks were a smattering of wooden huts poking out from the water, held high by hundreds of bamboo poles lashed together with ropes and cables. The other end of the poles were stuck into the watery ruins of the beachfront resort. Sometimes, when the waves and winds ticked up, the structures would sway and groan, and occasionally snap. But the village refused to go down in the ever-rising waters.
Only pinks and oranges bled across the sky. At the docks, I tied up my ski. I removed my shades and life jacket and sucked down a bottle of water, squirting some on my head and letting it run down around my tired eyes. Apollo climbed the ladder and hung his board on a hook and stripped off his wetsuit. A flurry of congratulatory fist bumps and shoulder slaps came from the other surfers as they whisked him up to the bar. Surviving paradise was always a reason to celebrate.
The torches were lit for the evening. Barefoot, the warm wood against my soles, I limped up the ramp, across the planked suspension bridges, aching to put muscle rub on my knees. Like every evening, we spilled into the tiki bar, surrounded by hang-up surfboards and pictures of long-forgotten legends. A guy and his electric guitar bubbled reverb-heavy twangs. It was a time capsule, a memorial to the old ways.
I sat in my corner, a Coke with a slice of lemon perspiring in my hand. I didn’t drink because hangovers get worse with age, but also I suspected they didn’t want me in the camera frame. Most of the surfers were young and hot and wild, while I didn’t have a full head of hair, nor the charisma that kept viewers tuning in. After years, I knew my place. In the corner, face underneath a surfer hoodie, I whittled a piece of driftwood.
At the bar, Apollo pounded drinks with everyone else because drinks were free. One of Phil’s many gifts. The surfers sized each other up, their chugs, yelling, and storytelling in constant competition, all caught on camera. For catching the best wave of the day, there was extra attention on Apollo. His eyes reddened and his mouth became obscene. He swayed in the coconut-shell light and declared to the bar, “Call me the freaking bomber, ’cause I’m taking all these waves.”
It received snorts and laughter. But some of the more seasoned pros were already glaring at him over their glass rims, Bucky included. A squat and powerful surfer from South Africa, he was a real prick and a good foil for the cameras. Apollo came over to my corner with two shots of island rum. He focused his eyes and widened his smile. “Something for your tow-in today.” I didn’t want to spoil the mood so I nodded and threw back the shot.
Jennifer and her cameraman were behind him. As the main producer on the Sticks, Jennifer was responsible for all the surfer storylines, creating conflict and payoff, and exporting high-octane content that screamed extreme. Me and her usually kept our distance but, with such a rowdy group, we were two pool balls bound to knock into each other. She eased into the seat next to me and nodded to the piece of driftwood, which was now in the shape of a small totem with a gaping mouth, big open lips and a dark red hole.
“Puller, speak to your spirits. What’s in store for our golden cherub here?” Her cameraman sat on my other side, keeping the camera trained on Apollo.
I hated when she mentioned my spirits, and I hated the cameras. I nodded at Apollo to take the question. He gladly accepted the hand-off. “I mean, there’s hella talented surfers here, it’s a dream come true to be among them for this monster swell coming in. But yeah, for sure, I’m here to tame the most dangerous wave.”
“They love young and fearless. What does danger mean to you?”
“It’s everyday. It’s what we face down in order to get that ultimate rush.” Pulling the camera in, Apollo’s eyes sparkled. “It’s an addiction. Without it, it could kill me.”
Then a strained thought must have entered his mind. Apollo’s sunshine faded, as if revealing, just for a moment, the things he had seen but would be left unsaid. He started rubbing the golden ring. “It’s been a rough journey. Growing up on the Cali beaches, it was dog-eat-dog. This ring was given to me by my father. He was a high school football star when that still mattered. And he was the meanest bastard.”
“Let’s cut there.” Jennifer paused without taking her eyes off her subject. “Apollo, don’t stray into the past. Stay here, be present, focus on the good vibes.” She twisted one of his curls between her fingers. “Look at these locks, and that smile. I want that smile on. Got it?”
“Sure thing, Miss Producer. If that’s what they want.”
“Good, we can finish the interview tomorrow. Go and talk to the French girl. She hasn’t taken her eyes off you.”
“Good vibes indeed.” Grinning, he got up, the cameraman trailing behind him.
He took instructions well. A nice American boy. Which made the stab in my gut even sharper. I kept my focus on the knife, knowing he was returning to the sea of shirtless men and bikini-clad women, deltoids, abs, and traps.
Jennifer leaned back. “You hanging in?”
“Same same.”
“Did you see his cutback right back into that massive barrel? Sandro used to do that.”
“His signature move.” My knife slipped, skimming the side of my thumb. I quickly stuck it in my mouth and sucked the blood.
“Apollo might be the one to break the record.”
“The one,” I scoffed, laughing around my thumb. “We’ve tipped our world into ruin and here we are, talking about a surfer kid as if he’s a god. Remember, you don’t believe in gods, just streams. He’ll end up just like all the chosen ones before him, beautiful eye-candy. Until he doesn’t come back up.”
“Remember the good vibes, Puller.”
“Screw the vibes. There were good vibes on Oahu until they bought up all the land to build their bunkers and shoved us locals off. There were good vibes here until Phil netted everything in with guns and made it this.”
“You’re still grieving. But keep this one alive, then you can do anything you want.” She wrapped the table with her knuckles and stood, her producer senses tingling. “Bloody noses incoming.”
Copyright © 2026 by Greg Bratone
