Wild Tides by E V McMillan

Author:E V McMillan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Yvonne Williams-McMillan

Chapter Twelve

We had about a week and a half before Opening Day, and the town was already inundated with visitors.

The energy around town was palpable. Tourists, having heard about the competition, flocked to Carmichael in droves, their enthusiasm evident in their wide-eyed wonder and animated chatter. Everywhere I went, from the grocery store to the beach front cafes, conversations buzzed about the upcoming event. The beach, once a serene haven, had transformed into a bustling hive of activity. Temporary structures sprouted up overnight, designed to accommodate the crowds of spectators expected to attend. Large platforms with covered seating areas offered prime views of the action, while tents and umbrellas being anchored in the sand let enthusiasts feel closer to the action. Every lamppost and billboard seemed to sport banners of the competition’s sponsors, their bright colors snapping in the sea breeze.

Perhaps most noticeable was the extensive presence of the media. Along the beach front and along High Street, production crews worked tirelessly, setting up their equipment and ensuring every angle of the competition and a lot of interesting human interest stories could be captured. I spotted the unmistakable logos of ESPN, SuperSport, Sky News, BSI, ISB, and others on more than one van around town, a clear indication of how big this event had become. There were also dozens of luxury RVs and campers everywhere, lining the streets and parked in lots and fields, everyone trying to get as close to the beach front as possible. Families, groups of friends, and solo travelers had all converged on the small, quiet town, turning it into a veritable campground. The smell of shrimp, fish, and meat on the grills wafted through the air, and music and laughter echoed well into the night. Walking through town, I overheard snippets of conversation.

“Did you see the line-up of surfers?” one excited voice exclaimed.

“I’ve never seen anything like this in our town,” marveled another.

Locals exchanged stories of previous competitions they’d seen in Spenser and Mercy, but there was unanimous agreement: this year, it was going to be bigger and more thrilling than any of the others held anywhere else. Owners of the local surf shops were making money hand over fist from customers wanting souvenir beach gear and Big Wave commemorative T-shirts; restaurants overflowed with hungry patrons; and hotels, motels, and B&Bs boasted No Vacancy signs. The town pulsed with a vibrant energy, a collective eagerness for the competition to begin.

Getting out early Saturday morning, wanting to stretch my legs along the beach and see all the changes taking place, I saw so many surfers, most around Drew, Art and Will’s age, out examining the waves and mentally preparing for the challenge ahead. But there were also some older, familiar faces, surfers that I’d known and surfed against for years.

Michael Davis, one such fellow competitor and good friend, called out to me, and I turned to see him jogging toward me.

“Sean! What are you doing here, Man? I thought you were still in the States. How’ve you been?”

“Good, good.

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