Wild Tides, page 1
Wild Tides
Wild Tides
Summer Adrift
E V McMillan
Color Your World Press
Copyright © 2024
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is considered
coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without
express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-7338788-3-8
Cover design by Rebecacovers
Printed in the United States of America
Color Your World Press, 2024
Dedication
Some say. “Those who can’t do, teach.”
I say, for those things I can neither do nor teach,
I create characters who can.
~E V McMillan
To my family, friends, and all of the extraordinary
people who have supported me in this venture.
Also By E V McMillan
The Summer Adrift Series:
Shifting Tides
Wild Tides
Inherit the Tides
Contents
Copyright © 2024
Dedication
Also By E V McMillan
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Exclusive Preview: Inherit the Tides, Chapter One
Inherit the Tides, Chapter Two
Inherit the Tides, Chapter Three
Inherit the Tides, Chapter Four
Prologue
San Diego, California, USA
The ocean was an endless sheet of glass, reflecting the late morning sun like a mirror.
Sitting on my surfboard, leaning forward, gripping the rails, and dangling my feet in the water, I took in the horizon and the sheer beauty of the Southern California coastline. Today was the last day of our vacation. Josh was flying to Johannesburg out of LAX to meet with execs at Walter Industries, one of our major sponsors, for some promo work tomorrow evening. Colin was going back home to Australia to check on family, and I had a few days before surfing the Pipeline in Hawaii. We’d free-surfed some of the most iconic spots along the Southern California coast from Ventura to San Diego, hitting seven beaches in ten days of pure relaxation, staying pretty much off the grid.
As I enjoyed the view and warm ocean water, I noticed Josh pointing at a drone that flew overhead. He seemed upset and gave Colin and me a thumbs-up, signaling he was heading back to shore. Always eager for a little friendly competition, Colin paddled toward him. Maybe I blinked or looked away for a second, I don’t know, but seconds later, the ocean shattered into chaos. With an explosion of water, Josh was tossed high into the air, and his surfboard, still attached to the leash around his ankle, was broken into two pieces. My mouth dropped open, and my breath caught in my throat as I saw a dark gray horror rising from the depths—a great white shark, mouth gaping open like a baseball catcher’s mitt, ready to catch Josh as he came back down.
Josh hit the water surface hard, his board smashing into his face, and the shark lunged repeatedly, hitting him and knocking him around like a ragdoll. It was a scene torn from nightmares.
Gut-wrenching panic clawed at me; my mind was racing, but my body was a statue of frozen terror. “Josh! Josh!” I screamed over and over, finally snapping out of my paralysis. I paddled furiously toward him as he flailed in the crimson-streaked water. Some other surfers had closed in behind me, their board slaps and shouts an ineffectual deterrent to the predator circling Josh.
With each stroke, my heart pounded a frantic drumbeat, and my focus narrowed solely on my friend, who had begun to pound on the shark’s snout in a desperate bid for life. Then, suddenly, he was yanked downward into the ocean’s dark abyss, and I screamed his name over and over.
When we reached him— me, several other surfers, and a few paddle-boarders—we converged in a protective ring around the blood-soaked patch of ocean where Josh had disappeared. As if he had been spit out, he resurfaced, clinging to the tattered remnants of his board, and I grabbed him and held on to him. Adrenaline gave way to a brief, shaky relief. “I got you, buddy,” I told him, lifting his head above the surface.
The ring of rescuers protected us as I towed Josh back to shore, but as we got close, a chilling realization settled in—Colin. Where was he? I looked behind me. The ocean had settled back into a smooth, flat surface, except for the chunks of broken surfboards floating away. I didn’t see him. I called his name over and over, still holding onto Josh, but he never answered. The unthinkable had happened, and our lives would never be the same again.
Chapter One
Sydney, Australia
Six Months Later
The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and long shadows stretched across the floor of my condo.
I sat slumped on the sofa, an untouched bottle of single malt whiskey in front of me, my only company in a room too quiet for comfort. Six months felt like a lifetime and a fleeting moment all at once since that day in San Diego. The ocean, once a haven, had turned into a nightmare stage. Josh’s screams, the blood, and Colin — well, Colin just vanished beneath the waves.
I was finally home, in the middle of Sydney’s business district, at the top of a beautifully remodeled 1920s Art Deco mid-rise. However, it felt like the walls were closing in on me. Maybe I’d been naive to think returning home was all I needed to figure out my future. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Perhaps I had hoped it would be like going back in time when opportunities abounded. But, of course, that was only wishful thinking. Despite being far from San Diego, where the attack happened and where we lost Colin, nothing had really changed. The echoes of that day were a constant, haunting presence, a painful reckoning that pain and memories were not bound by geography; they cling to one’s soul like a persistent shadow.
I glanced out at the Sydney skyline, its lights twinkling like distant stars, but kept returning to that endless, dark ocean. The TV chattered in the background, some late-night host laughing at his own jokes. It was noise, nothing more, lost against the backdrop of crashing waves in my head. Surfing, my life’s passion, now felt like a betrayal, and I had resigned from the pro circuits. How could I not when my heart was no longer in the game?
I looked around the open-concept space with stark walls filled with original and very expensive modernist paintings and minimalist furniture arranged in conversation areas, colorful, handwoven rugs scattered across marble floors and sheaths of heavy drapery framing the view through floor-to-ceiling windows. I’d been extremely proud to own such luxury, considering my family’s meager beginnings. Once I’d started making money, I bought this condo and hired an interior designer to create a timeless design that reflected my success and status as a champion pro surfer. Yet, I hadn’t hosted more than a handful of gatherings in the last two, maybe three years. Now, looking around with jaded eyes, it felt more like a museum, the luxurious trappings of a gilded cage. Cold and lifeless and frozen in time, tethered to a life that no longer existed.
I stood up and immediately began pacing. The den opened off the large living room, opposite the kitchen and dining room, and was filled with souvenirs of my career and my travels. But they felt distant now. I approached one of my surfboards, its surface smooth and familiar under my fingers. This board had been with me through triumphs and challenges, but now it was just another piece of a life I no longer felt connected to. My gaze fell upon a photograph set on a shelf filled with at least a half-dozen other photos and souvenirs from my years abroad, and I picked it up. It was of me, Josh, and Colin, arms around each other, laughing and hugging Josh after his big win in Bali. He’d just won his first World Surf Championship, beating Chris Cartier, the three-time and reigning champ from France. We stood shoulder to shoulder, our wet suits partially unzipped, saltwater dripping from our hair. Colin’s bright green eyes and mop of ginger hair practically sparkled in the sunlight as he stood with an arm thrown across Josh’s shoulder, grinning like he’d just pulled off the biggest prank. Josh was sandwiched in between Colin and me, his brown hair sun-bleached nearly platinum, a carefree smile on his lips, and his deep blue eyes staring directly into the camera. And there I was, next to him, trying to look cool and collected, a goofy smirk on my face. My skin was darker, burnished to deep gold, and my dark hair was much shorter, hanging free just past my shoulder. The photo had been taken five years ago, but we looked so young, so very carefree, and looking at it made me feel weary.
We were more than friends; we were a unit, a perfectly balanced trio. Colin was light-hearted and free-spirited like water. Josh was fiery, competitive, and passionate. My nature was grounding, analytical, and steady. Together, we were invincible in our brand and against the waves, our bond forged in our long friendship and tempered by saltwater and adrenaline. We were kings of the ocean then, and everything seemed possible. Fearless and free. The memory of that day, the sound of the waves, the laughter, and the unspoken understanding between us forced a sad smile from me. It all seemed like a dream now, a dream from which I had rudely awakened. Colin was gone, claimed by the very ocean we all loved. Josh, forever altered, was fighting his own demons. And me, the untouched survivor, fractured on the inside.
I rubbed the thick, titanium frame, tracing its edges with my fingertips as if I could somehow connect the gap between then and now. Once masters of the ocean, the unpredictable tides of fate had scattered us. A pang of guilt and grief twisted in my chest. I should have been able to save both Josh and Colin. We were all out on the water together. I should have been able to save at least one of them from the devastation, but that long moment that I’d sat frozen upon my board, watching in horror, the shark had come and gone, leaving excruciating damage in its wake.
I sighed, long and deeply, as I stared at our smiling, youthful faces, frozen in time. I was sorely reminded of what was gone. Reluctantly, I placed the photograph back on the shelf, feeling the weight of the past as I withdrew my hand and let my gaze rove over the many trophies and awards displayed in a glass case. The trophies glinted mockingly in the fading light, each a bitter reminder of victories and a life I had walked away from. The dozen or more trophies were a stark reminder of my past. The glass enclosure housed a collection of gleaming trophies and medals, each a testament to victories and triumphs on the international pro surfing circuit. I opened the case, the sound of the glass door creaking softly, breaking the heaviness of the room.
I opened the glass door, reached in, and examined the trophies one by one. I let my fingers linger over one particularly impressive trophy, a reminder of a championship that had once meant the world to me. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to be transported back to those days of glory —the adrenaline rush of competition, the exuberant cheers of the crowd, the sheer ecstasy of riding the perfect wave. Its surface is cool and smooth to the touch. First Place. It was the first, but not the last, time that I’d beaten Josh for first place in a major championship challenge. It was also the first time—tangible proof that I had what it took to be a champion, and I think that win marked my stepping out of Josh’s shadow. I touched a few more, marring their cool, mirrored plate with my fingerprints. As I touched them, the floodgate of memories opened, and I briefly relived the thrill of competition and camaraderie. Such were the moments that had once defined my existence. The structured routine of training and competing had always given me a clear direction, but now my future stretched out like an empty road, vague, uncharted, and filled with an unsettling stillness.
Quitting the pro surfing circuit had felt like the only viable option in the aftermath of the tragedy. The ocean, which had been my sanctuary, now whispered ghostly reminders of loss and what could have been. In leaving the sport behind, it felt as though I had abandoned a part of myself, and I sometimes questioned whether I’d been too rash and whether or not I had done the right thing. I closed the door of the case and quickly turned away, striding back into the living room.
The Sydney skyline outside the windows glittered, indifferent to the turmoil within me, as real as the crashing waves in my tormented memories. I sighed deeply, the sound seeming to echo from the depths of my soul. A restless energy surged through me, and an idea began to take shape, unformed but as real as the memories that haunted me. Perhaps what I needed was a challenge to my mind and body, possibly one of the simpler pleasures of life that I had enjoyed before my world had become all about surfing.
Years ago, I used to take time off and relax by doing some camping and fishing. Josh and I’d met when we were ten years old while I was fishing in the Amblin’ River as it crossed his father’s land. He’d startled me as I was trying to unhook the biggest fish I’d caught that day, causing me to lose my grip and watch it flip and flop back into the river. I probably wouldn’t have caught it again if he hadn’t jumped in the river after it. I smiled. An unspoken decision began to form, and the idea had strong appeal. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been camping or fishing. Suddenly, my spirits began to lift, and I felt a surge of energy that I hadn’t felt in all the weeks I’d been home. It seemed that getting out of the condo and into the wilderness and fresh air and leaving behind the ghosts that lingered in every corner of this place was a wonderful idea. No destination. No plans. Just me and the vast Australian landscape. Maybe out in the wild, I could find pieces of the man I used to be, or maybe I’d carve out a new path.
With a newfound resolve, I headed toward my bedroom and grabbed my duffel bag. I tossed in clothes and essentials without much thought. As I carried my bag to the living room, set beside the front door, I saw my surfboard. I reached out and let my hand hover over it for a moment. I had no real intention of doing any surfing. This journey wasn’t about the waves, but old habits die hard. I picked it up and carried it with my duffle. At sunrise, I’ll hit those less traveled roads and reclaim the parts of me I was afraid I’d left behind.
Chapter Two
I pulled up on the driveway of my sister’s house in Paddington.
My truck loaded for the long trip, and I was eager to get started, but I couldn’t leave without stopping to see Mom and Lizzie, the two most important people in my life. Though I was thirty-six years old, I felt like a kid caught sneaking back in the house after sneaking out, a feeling I’d been very familiar with while growing up. I’d come over early to catch Lizzie before she left for work, and the three of us sat at the kitchen table, a dish of warm scones that Mum had baked sitting in front of us and nursing mugs of strong coffee. They listened as I explained why I was suddenly taking this trip.
My mother sat to my right, and Lizzie, my sister, sat across from me, watching me as I dusted off the crumbs of my second blueberry scone.
“If you want, I can pack you some food for your trip, son,” my mum said, ready to hop out of her chair and start baking.
“No need, Mum. Thank you. They’re very good, but I’ll be fine. I’ll only be gone a few days.” I reached over to pat her hand. My mother was still youthful, in her mid-fifties. Her beautiful brown face and long-fingered hands were still smooth, and her long, dark hair had fewer visible strands of silver than my own. Her dark eyes reminded me of a hawk as she fastened them on me. Lizzie, however, appeared resigned. She was an old soul, and a lot of it was probably my fault. Growing up, Mum had worked long hours, sometimes weeks at a time, without a single day off, and Lizzie had been charged with taking care of me. It was not her fault she couldn’t do a great job of keeping up with me. I could be as slippery as the fish I loved to catch.
Looking at my sister and me, you might find it hard to believe we were full siblings. In appearance, we are as different as night and day. I favored my mother as strongly as Lizzie favored our father, except for a few differences. She was short, five-two, maybe five-three, which she’d inherited from our mother, while I had inherited my father’s height, standing head and shoulders above them both, at six-two.
Our father was a white British citizen, and Lizzie’s sandy brown hair with reddish-blonde highlights was similar in color to his, but her’s was wild, soft, and curly. She was also very fair, with a sprinkling of freckles and hazel-green eyes. My slender and athletic build is a testament to my love for physical activity, and my skin is a warm brown, lighter than Mum’s but darker than my father’s. My hair is like Mum’s, nearly black and thick and straight, and it has grown so long that I wear it in a braid that hangs down my back, almost to my waist. Over the years, it has become a tactile connection for me to my Mum and our heritage. My nose and lips are thin, and my cheekbones and jaw are sharp and angular, reminiscent of my father’s Anglo-Saxon heritage. But the feature that stands out the most is my eyes, which are a stormy gray, a color that neither of my parents has. And as it is not a feature of Torre Straight Islanders, maybe that and the color of my skin make them so striking, catching most people off guard.
