Disco Ball Distraction – Short Story by Peter Stewart
A quiet surf session turns into something more beneath the sun, sea, and shared silence.
Disco Ball Distraction by Peter Stewart follows a surfer chasing clean lines and calm moments until an old connection and a curious seal stir something deeper. Read it now on Written Tales. Submissions are open, bring your story to shore.
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Just getting daylight as I walk across the parking lot. A pair of big loaders moving sand are making a beeline, I step aside to give them room. Low tide. A hot spell inland. It looks like a lot of fun, maybe twenty people spread across the break. I paddle out, this is the best day in a while I can feel it.
The outline of the houses in the village above at dawn is storybook, almost fake.
I stand on a shoulder high right and the sun is directly in my eyes on this Fall day. I ride a couple of sections and kick out. Now a good left, similar idea. I turn the board sideways in front of me, not the greatest move but the incoming wave doesn’t crush it into me.
A man rides toward me on a kneeboard. Maybe that’s what I will be when my back has failed.
I ride a right through the soup and into another clean section. One with a steep drop.
We are having lunch listening to the Lord Abbett rep. He talks about interest rates, duration, choices in funds. Will we achieve an economic soft landing.
“They want to run out of gas just as the plane lands.”
“Soft landing with a broken wing.”
I go back and finish another continuing education class on Ethics for Investment Advisors. Pass the ten question quiz.
At home I get everything ready for high winds and a public safety power shutoff. Bring buckets of water in. Water the yard. Pour out an extra, clean dog water. I roast a pork loin, boil broccoli rabe, put it over a salad with a leftover red pepper pesto.
Now a fire drill and most of the guys show up. Three of them are keeping a fire truck at their house. Jeremy and I take 88 down to the landing zone. Matt takes a truck for gas and to put out the red flags. Gerry brings a backhoe up and starts picking up a burn pile to move it.
“Did you get tickets to Social D?” I ask Jeremy.
“I did,” he grins, “60 bucks, not bad.”
“I want to see a game at Fenway next year, that’s on my list.”
We scrape weeds off the zone with McLoeds and machetes. Do another load of lumber into the bucket. Gerry climbs out of the backhoe to see if the comet is visible. His sons shake their heads but appreciate this.
Leaves pour down out of the trees like ash and like we are in a fire already. We hook up a twenty foot hose and spray the zone. The view of the Bay is spectacular from here, well above my house.
“See that huge pile of rocks up there, that’s on Michael’s land, the vineyard next door pushed it over, he’s not too happy.”
Find the knox key and open the hydrant to refill the truck. The hose kinks, we move the truck, ok now it works. This truck is tricky. You have to take it out of drive to run the pump. A multi step process.
The newish purple Charger has been sitting in that driveway for months. I am afraid the boys grounded.
Disco ball distraction. I go to the mechanic and am driving Lindsay’s Prius named Chandler. She has a disco ball hanging from the mirror. It makes pinwheels of sunlight all over the cockpit as I face the sunrise.
Jeezo, what if orange Cheetoh actually wins this election. Seventeen days left now.
I could win a very costly booby prize. A brave editor will publish my story from March, thinking he should be incarcerated instead of our President. The story could be even more relevant.
Or if he loses and does go to jail, my version of him as an Inmate Firefighter is better than reality.
When I had only seen the word on a page I thought that Gaol was a village or county in Ireland, or a different word for France. Bridgene and Colman clued me in, it’s jail.
A supplier partner who is also a surfer calls,
“Head high this weekend, you going out?”
“No I think with the fire danger I have to stay a little closer to home, you have fun my man.”
Willa the Bullmastiff and Eddie the Frenchie make a friend on the deck of the restaurant. TJ, a new singer/songwriter. She gets going and is really talented. Later says she was performing in Nashville and a Winemaker in the front row smiled at her the entire time. She married him and came here.
We stay for the whole set as a large rehearsal dinner gathers loudly on the patio.
There has been an issue at one of my favorite spots. Septic fluids from the houses above seeping down out of the cliff.
The conditions are good and, unsure how many people still frequent the place, I go early. I get in some keytar with Howard Jones, then a double shot of Cracker, Boyz II Men.
The sun ticks to the South of the Sleeping Lady mountain.
I elevate on a head high left. In and out of three sections all the way to the shore, tremendous. I spit like a professional at a daytime wine tasting, I mean, how many parts per million could there be, but just in case.
Only four of us spread out, we all say hello. Another left. A crunchy right, top turn, riding the whitewater at the end I make myself a gingerbread man in honor of John E., my mentee. It was his signature move.
A right all the way to the inside. I scoop part of the wave with my hand on a left, getting in the pocket then powering out. I raise my fists, let out a whoop of joy.
Heaven will be, always late October, no wind, good swell, on my fifth wave with some energy left to rip.
A flock of brown and white long billed Terns speed walk the beach in front of me. It does get crowded as I change, pouring extra water on my head.
After a brief storm I sleep in a bit. Go out in the Channel for some fun, fast waves. A new wetsuit is just right on the second day. I am sweating as I paddle back out after long rides. I stand up on a right, turn and another goofyfooter arcs and kicks out behind me. I paddle up to him and apologize.
“All good,” he says.
Crimson, copper, yellow, and green leaves on our bike ride. The smell of fermentation. Some vineyards are left unpicked because of falling grape prices.
Okay conservative Catholics, Evangelicals, Latinos who like a strong leader, non college people, and Tulsi Gabbard. I kind of miss waking up from a nap and turning on the Indictment Channel. I didn’t think about it being taken away so quickly. I am sure you are pleased with yourself right now. We will see in a couple of years when you lose your job and they come to round up Grandma.
I could see my breath while dressing, now it is sunny enough I am glad I put the zinc on. I take a whitewater wave and jump off directly onto a submerged rock, landing solidly, maybe just a heel bruise. Now a nice left. Another, I dig my back foot in and stall, let the wave catch up, move down the line.
Mari joins me for her first time since knee surgery. We watch a Coot thrash and choke down a fish. He makes a happy sound.
We move to the middle of the break and ride rights. I get up to date on her tech startup and new niece and nephew.
The sun slips behind a cloud. A storm coming in for over a week solid, I am going to make hay today. I accelerate down a clean line on a backside wave. Just the two of us here, so I am compelled to sing to the dapple gray seal, my old friend.
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✍️ About the Authors
Peter Stewart lives in the mountains of Northern California with his wife and dogs. He is a surfer and a Volunteer Firefighter. His work has been featured in Quibblelit and Pato Journal.
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