The Journey by John Marsden Page A

was — the wonderful ocean, fretting at the edge of a wonderful beach. Argus felt mad delight. He did not know what to look at first: the infinity of beach curving away to his left and right, or the infinity of flecked blue stretching out in front. He had never known before how something so empty could contain so much. He laughed and laughed. Making wild chortling noises, shedding his clothes and inhibitions, he ran down towards the edge of the water some distance away.
    When he had thrown off his last piece of clothing he turned and ran backwards, pissing as he ran, wetting the sand in a pattern of huge zig-zags. A series of untidy somersaults then brought him to the ocean itself, and he stood with his feet in the water, watching the exhausted waves froth around his ankles. ‘Fantastic!’ he laughed excitedly. ‘Fantastic! Fantastic!’
    There was plenty of heat left in what had been a hot day, and Argus advanced a little further into the water, pushing against it with his shins. He looked around anxiously to make sure that he still had the beach to himself. Reassured, he waded on, gasping as waves broke against him, until he was up to his waist. ‘Amazing,’ he muttered to himself. He was now at the crucial point in the surf. Ahead of him the waves were breaking in agitated crashes; beyond was the calmness of the big swell. Behind him the breakers that had spent themselves in orgiastic climaxes were regrouping and surging again, in weak imitation of their earlier thunder; but Argus stood in the calm between the two lines of surf, exulting in the power of the water that broiled around his body.
    Then, with a triumphant whoop he flung himself forward, lifting his knees and trying to run, charging at the roaring madness of white ahead of him. He reached it and flung himself into it; but he knew instantly, before his feet had even left the sand, that he had made a mistake, that here was a power beyond his experience and beyond his imagining. Suddenly, for the first time that he could remember, he had no control at all over what happened to him, no control over his body. The wave tossed him and rolled him and threw him around as though he were a rabbit held in the jaws of a dog, shaken furiously in all directions.
    Even in the middle of the worst of it all, he knew that it would only last a few seconds, but those few seconds seemed never to end. And he failed to realise how quickly the next wave would be on him. As the maëlstrom passed he found the ocean floor with his feet again and stood up, gasping for breath and wiping the water from his eyes. No sooner had he done so than the next breaker exploded over him before he could see it. His lungs were still empty of air, and he found himself caught in another cauldron of white violence.
    Argus was close to panic. He was thrown heavily into the sand. With no breath left in him he felt that he would not survive; if his first dumping had seemed to last a long time this second one was interminable. He was desperately tempted to open his mouth but still had enough reason left to resist. He knew he was in danger but did not know how to begin getting out of it. A vague instinct told him that someone would come and rescue him, but he also knew that the deserted beach could not suddenly grow people.
    When the second wave had finished with him he had the sense to gulp some air before the onslaught of the third. To his relief it seemed less turbulent than the other two; he did not realise for a few moments that it was because an undertow was carrying him out to sea, but he understood what was happening when he tried to stand again in the wave’s aftermath. He had a moment’s sensation of slipping and thought he was going right under, but the water came to his neck, lapping under his chin as he desperately tried to keep his head up. Distracted by this, he did not think to gasp a proper breath again, and started to panic as he felt himself swept off his