The Hold Down
by Greg Bratone
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
On cue, sharp yells turned into thick arms and bodies thrown around. As his new partner, protecting him was my job now. So I ran into the fray, forcing my way through the tangled limbs until I put an arm around Apollo’s chest and pulled him out of Bucky’s reach. I dragged him all the way out the back door, allowing him to save face by shouting more insults and insisting he wanted more.
The salty, night air washed around us. I let him go and pushed him against the railing. He stalked around blowing off steam: “Cheap shot. Jealous barney. Weekend surfer.”
“You done?” I asked, leaning against the railing, chuckling. “You big mad surfer.”
“He disrespected me. Wait, why are you laughing? If anyone else thinks they can cheap shot me—”
I laughed again, this time bolder, right in his face. A reality check. “Forget it. You’re fine. Bucky enjoys riling you up for the cameras.”
“Because I’m the newbie?”
“No, think. You show up talking a big game, then take the biggest wave on the first ride. They’re jealous, because you’re already Phil’s favorite.”
“That’s a good thing right? He sounds like a gracious guy.”
“He’s not.” I stepped closer and pointed my finger at his split lip. “I have some cream. Remember those papers you signed in front of his suits, and probably never even looked at? Streaming royalties, liability forms, life insurance, all signed away.”
“So what? I don’t care about any of that stuff. It’s just paper.”
I took the cream from my med bag and squeezed some on my finger. The cut had stopped bleeding and the soft inner flesh was exposed. I offered to put it on but he snatched my finger. “It’s easier if I put it on.”
“Fine.” He winced as he spread it over the bump.
I kept going, in a whisper. “This place may seem like it’s paradise, but it’s not. All the cameras. The armed guards. Once you’re in, you don’t leave this place.”
“You don’t think I know that? I’m just here for the wave, and if I go down, so be it. At least it’s doing what I love.”
A line I had heard before. I had known big wave surfers long enough to know there was no stopping them. But I had to try. “I want to show you something.”
One more ramp delivered us to the tallest structure in the Sticks. What had once been a temple, with roughly cut shingles and intricate wood detailing, had been converted to a fan-interaction zone. Inside, from the A-frame, hung a TV screen between two black surfboards. Videos were playing on a loop, showing the gnarliest rides, the most epic moments.
“This is where surfers come to talk with fans, answer questions, and increase their streaming numbers.” I explained, thankful I didn’t have to do any of this. “The streams show the wipeouts, but not what happens after.”
I kept an eye on Apollo, who stood frozen, looking uncomfortable. “These streams have footage of the surfers that never came back.” I pointed to the screen, remembering Curtis, an Australian who loved to play pranks and fish in his downtime. He had been one of my first tow-ins. It cut to Billy. Then Pablo. Then Alistair.
I looked away, unsure if Sandro’s would come up. What I was left with was a shadow, lurking on the edges, stalking the flickering lights. “He wants us to forget. To keep going.”
Drunk and pale, but sobering quickly, Apollo retreated to the door. One last glimpse at the screen, he disappeared into the night. If he was smart, he would leave the Sticks before dawn.
I found an empty hammock stretching across a hut with a view of the shore. Disparate lights glowed from local islanders sifting through the resort ruins and trash floating onto shore, gathering the occasional coconut, trying to get lucky under the shadows of the mountains. I swung restlessly, wondering how much longer I had before my body gave up and I became a castaway, watching the surfers from the shore. Would anyone bring me tuna cans and Coca-Cola, and make sure I had enough water? At times, even ocean waves couldn’t keep me calm.
The next morning, to my disappointment, I found Apollo at the dock, splashing water on his sunscreened face. I pushed him in, his face a snapshot of surprise as he hit the water. He shook the water off his hair on his way up. “I told you to leave.”
“You can’t scare me away that easily, old man. Now that I know the risks, it makes sense that you would be the only one to tow me in. So, how about it?”
The familiar flame of hope. A vision of what that perfect wave could look like, with Apollo on top. I offered him my hand to get back to the dock. “If you listen to what I say, and I mean everything.”
“Say no more, my golden Chariot.”
I wasn’t one for nicknames, but it meant he had spent time thinking about me. I filled up my ski with black-market gasoline, checked my medical supplies in case someone got cut up on the reefs. The surfers also prepared before going out, studying the wave maps, the storm radar, but I knew Apollo was playing loose and relying on instinct. That would have to change.
“Remember, each wave is completely different. You have to learn how to read it, know its every variation and emotion.” We floated in the lineup of surfers, beyond the break, in between the media boats filled with photographers and cameras. “The Sticks have a large underwater ridge that pushes the powerful waves over a shallow, coral reef, giving it its distinct hollowed barrel as well as its razor-sharp edges. The northern blowing wind is ideal, so are low tide mornings. Sit on your board and watch, practice some patience.”
Later, I walked him through static breath holds to determine how long he could last after a wipeout, when the waves were holding him down. “It’s not so much about cardio or lung capacity, it’s mental. You must be absolutely convinced that you can hold your breath for five minutes plus while the waves thrash your body around like a beach ball.”
I brought him to a smaller section of the wave break for disorientation drills. Underwater, with a weighted vest, I spun him around as hard as I could, turning his body up and down, side to side, shaken. When he would come up for air, I yelled at him, testing his mindfulness. “You’re nothing here, a bottom-of-the-barrel surfer relying on his looks. Your parents left you. Forget the most dangerous wave, live that simple life.”
Slowly, his breath holds grew longer. For lunch, they called him onto the media boats to do more interviews. They showed him rankings, metrics, a lot of numbers that were looking good, real good. Phil loved numbers. I hated them. In between, we choked down fried fish sandwiches, smoothies and snacks imported from around Southeast Asia. Another perk.
After he had his fill, we bobbed in the spectacular green water under the piercing sky, our minds and bodies content. It might have been my favorite part, soaking in his presence along with the vitamin D. We talked about random things; pizza, movies, which fried foods were the best. He claimed that if everyone had free access to a beach and board, we could solve all the world’s problems.
It was all so rushed, squeezed into a day, but it was what was possible given the time constraints and Phil’s rules. Every surfer surfs every day, no matter what. For us, there is nothing we would rather be doing, but it was relentless.
That evening, on a beautiful sunset session, almost every surfer was out in the lineup, hoping to get the attention of the cameras. Many of the other surfers were already deferring to Apollo, recognizing the new pecking order established from the previous day. Except Bucky.
On the last set, there was a chance to wrap the day in glory. Dozens of skis were towing in the surfers, sometimes barely an arm’s length between boards. Some surfers backed off early and conceded, others kept charging. At the sweet part of the wave, glittering on the edges of the waves, a booming white mirage, only Bucky and Apollo remained.
Apollo rose and established an inside position. Bucky should have let him have the wave. But instead, he cut across Apollo’s board. Apollo lost his balance, and in his attempt to readjust, his board became airborne. The back of the wave swallowed him. He had gone over the falls.
The bottom of my stomach split open. Instinct took over from the panic. Calm, stay calm, I told him and myself. My finger triggered the throttle, my ski jumping into the froth, praying to glimpse a limb or a patch of wet blond hair. A numbing cold covered my skin.
Fifteen seconds passed. With no sign of him, another wave crashed through. How long could he hold his breath? Thirty-five seconds. Over the man-made reefs of sunken restaurants and bars, I picked apart the watery depths in panic. Fifty. Throwing my expertise to the winds, I dove into the water, opening my eyes to the saltwater sting. White, fading light, green bubbles, nothing. Fifty-eight.
Finally, the gods coughed his battered body upwards, limp and unconscious. There was no breath. I cupped my left arm around his chest and dragged him onto the sled. Where was the nearest dry land? A hundred feet towards the shore, an abandoned rooftop hotel.
Waves continued crashing around us. He was lighter than I had imagined, draped across my hip. I laid his lifeless body onto the wet concrete and zipped open his ripped-up wetsuit. The reefs had done a number to his back, a machine-gun spray of bloody holes.
I pinched his nose and put my lips to his. They were cold and cheerless. I didn’t expect this to be the way I transferred my love. I pushed down on his hairless chest, 120 per minute, to the tune of Staying Alive by the BeeGees. Apollo could have been one of them, singing and tossing his hair instead of risking his life. A hollow, lifeless chest. Then, the weakest, most fragile cough.
Apollo shuddered, spit up water. A loan moan. I lowered myself and kept a hand on his chest and encouraged him to breathe calmly. Tears welled in his eyes, snot running down his chin. He grabbed my arm and pulled me down around him, latching onto me. The blue in his eyes was brilliant, a shade of the deep ocean. I could tell death had kissed him, too.
Three times the temple bell tolled.
There were few rules in the Sticks, but Kapu had been crossed. And Apollo was the most popular surfer. The rest of the world might be rife with selfish backstabbing and betrayal and deterioration, but not here.
Getting off the phone, Jennifer whistled from one of the boats. The punishment had come down. When he arrived at the docks, Bucky was tied up at gunpoint and carried to the tallest tower by a group of surfers. He didn’t start protesting until he saw the rope go up and the other end tied around his feet. His eyes were bulging, crazed. As per the Sticks Laws, he was strung by his feet, his head barely breaking the water’s surface.
Arms waving, torso gyrating, he kept having to pull his head up to take a breath. The surfing had stopped, so had the filming. The good vibes were over. Most surfers had taken refuge in their huts. I leaned against the railings, a spectator to the punishment. This wouldn’t be streamed to the world, but it would reinforce what the Sticks were capable of.
In the calm water, dark grey shapes patrolled the outer waters, tailfins swishing, getting closer. A cigarette in her mouth, Jennifer threw a bucket of chum onto Bucky. Once the first jumped out of the water and took hold of his arm, I broke away to find some comfort. Screams pierced the night.
Inside an empty hut, a single lantern glowed from the corner. Apollo lay on his stomach staring off towards the open ocean. I offered to stitch up his wounded back, which had a number of deep cuts from the wipeout. I got to work, needing something to occupy my hands and mind.
“He didn’t have to die,” Apollo said.
“Rules are rules.”
“What happened to kumbaya? The good vibes. And you, just watching, as he’s thrown to the sharks, it’s messed up.”
“There’s nothing I can do,” I replied, but shame burned through my chest and flowed around. I cut off the last stitch, rubbed his skin with an alcohol wipe. Sitting there, I found him in the golden unbroken skin between stitches. “Sandro had a good heart, like you. He was also the smoothest. He could get up on any wave, no matter how broken, and just ride the seams. You know those surfers that you watch, and there isn’t any one thing you can pick out? All you’re left with is an amazement of watching them do the thing they love. For three years, I towed him in. The longest partner I ever had.”
Copyright © 2026 by Greg Bratone
