Foxtrot
06-27-2009, 04:46 PM
This is a completley origonal story of which I have created completley by myself (and I am proud of if.) It was made for part of my english lit coursework and got an A, and I am currently editing it to try and get an A* before the end of next Febuary. Enjoy it :)
The date was August 9th 2008. It was a Tuesday. It was an average summer day in Britain. The temperature was 21°C and there were no clouds in the sky. Last summer much of the country was victim to severe flooding in the previous year. Labour was in government, Gordon Brown was the Prime Minister and the country was sliding into a slow state of recession. Everything was calm.
“Surf’s up, boys!” Shouted Derrick as the car topped the hill and Cornwall’s sea was revealed. The golden-yellow sand, the warm weather and the fantastic scenery was enough to bring thousands of tourists every year, but sunbathing and relaxing was far from what the three boys had come for. The awe inspiring, undulating waves attracting surfers from all over the country was what they wanted a part of. Derrick, the driver, was pretty tall with short, light brown hair, which seemed to gain a slight orange tint in the summer. He wore a pair of white and green Lactose trainers, blue jeans and a brown and grey hoodie, which although was portraying a wide variety of colours, suited him. He was nineteen and was studying architecture at Oxford University. The passenger of the car was Michael, who was extremely clever but was subject to many insults from both of his peers because he was ginger. His parents had good jobs, and therefore always had all the resources he needed to ensure he had a good upbringing. He still lives with them somewhere in Oxfordshire, not far from Derrick who on the other hand wasn’t so rich. He was wearing black Nike trainers, designer jeans and a colourful t-shirt.
Derrick drove down to the chalet that they had rented for the week. Derrick and Michael went inside, while James volunteered to get everything out of the boot. James was the oldest of the three at twenty, and was studying healthcare at Oxford. He also had short brown hair that got curly if it was too long. He was a very sporty and athletic person. He enjoyed running, throwing and almost any sport- especially surfing. Unlike the other two, he had opted to wear only sandals and a pair of three quarters because he insisted it was too hot for casuals. Once he had unloaded everything, he too went inside to get changed for their first surfing session. The inside was small, with two sets of drawers, a pole to hang clothes on and a toilet. It also contained a sofa, two chairs and a TV if one would want to take a rest from the midday heat. They were not going to stay here. There were several hotels and inns within ten minutes of the beach, which is where the boys would go each night. Once they were all ready and kitted up, they headed down for the beach.
The great roar of the Cornish waters could be heard from several hundred metres away – even from the chalet the boys were using. They couldn’t hold in their excitement. They locked the door, grabbed their surfboards and ran as fast as they could down to the shoreline. The sun shone down on the beach like a furnace, and the sand felt as if it were on fire. The air was humid, and full of the screams of children who were enjoying their holidays. The three stood on the wet sand, with the leftovers of the waves crawling around their feet as they stood in awe at what lay before them. Thirteen-foot monsters dominating the coast, rising from the sea and engulfing everything in their path only to subside into nothing more than a trickle. This is what it was all about. Being one of the most dangerous and adrenaline fuelled sports in existence, the world of surfing wasn’t for the faint-hearted. Derrick was the first to go. He waded out to hip-depth and then scrambled onto his board and began to swim out further. The other two soon followed him. When they were about a hundred metres out, they sat there for about thirty seconds waiting for a big one. They were soon jumping onto their boards with perfect timing and riding the waves.
Thirty minutes later, they were wanting more action.
“You wanna go out further?” Asked James.
“How far?” Said Michael.
“Not Very” insisted James.
“Come on then, let’s go,” Said Derrick, hastily, hopping on his board and swimming out further. They went out about another fifty metres, just to where the climaxes of the waves began. The water was extremely deep now, and if trouble was to arise then it would be a hard trip back to shore. The lifeguard could not see that far, and the coastguards were nowhere to be seen. After about five minutes later when everything seemed calm for a second, Derrick thought he noticed something swimming underneath the water, but he discarded the idea, thinking nothing of it. When the next wave came, Michael was the first to get on his board. As soon as he was moving, he was launched off his board and into the water by something, but none of them saw what it was. He resurfaced and grabbed hold of his board for stability.
“Whoa!” He shouted.
“I bet it was a traffic cone or something,” Yelled Derrick, having to project his voice loudly otherwise he would not be heard because of their surroundings. “Or it might have even been a mini wave, inside that one. You know, I bet it was nothing. You just suck at surfing.”
“Shut up, you’re just jealous because you’re...” Quiet screams were heard from behind them both, turning them both round as they saw James pull up from the water gasping for air. The blueness around him had turned to red, and for a split second time had frozen as they all started to panic for they did not know what to do. Occupying themselves by arguing with each other, no one had noticed-or heard James crying for help. They rushed towards him, but the waves knocked them back and James seemed forever unreachable from them. Luckily, someone had seen him and ran back to shore to inform the lifeguard. The coastguard was on the way, and he would surely be saved if they could get there in time. He was dragged under the water for a second time, disappearing into the depths, reappearing about twenty seconds later as more blood poured out into the sea. The coastguard pulled up aside him in a launch, and hauled him onto the boat as yet more life spilled from his body – from huge rips in his left leg. They got the other two on the boat too, for they knew it was not safe for them to return to shore on their own. By this time, the lifeguard had already changed the flag from yellow to red – stating the water was dangerous, and had a few people trying to clear the water of people and stop any more attacks. Shark attacks in Cornwall are usually rare, but the students from Oxford had picked the wrong day to go surfing. They sat in the boat, staring at someone who was, two hours ago, singing ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round’ with a can of Fosters in his hand wearing three-quarters and a pair of sandals. Blood was still bursting from his leg and the paramedics couldn’t stop it.
A helicopter belonging to the nearby hospital had now arrived, preparing to airlift him back. They began winching him up the rope, and once they had finished they proceeded to take him to the hospital. He was still bleeding badly and he was going to die due to blood loss soon if they were not fast enough. About a minute later as James was pulling closer to death, one of the pilots checked that the landing zone was safe and once it was they took him down. As soon as they landed, James became unconscious. He died before they could do anything else.
The date was August 9th 2008. It was a Tuesday. It was an average summer day in Britain. The temperature was 21°C and there were no clouds in the sky. Last summer much of the country was victim to severe flooding in the previous year. Labour was in government, Gordon Brown was the Prime Minister and the country was sliding into a slow state of recession. Everything was calm.
“Surf’s up, boys!” Shouted Derrick as the car topped the hill and Cornwall’s sea was revealed. The golden-yellow sand, the warm weather and the fantastic scenery was enough to bring thousands of tourists every year, but sunbathing and relaxing was far from what the three boys had come for. The awe inspiring, undulating waves attracting surfers from all over the country was what they wanted a part of. Derrick, the driver, was pretty tall with short, light brown hair, which seemed to gain a slight orange tint in the summer. He wore a pair of white and green Lactose trainers, blue jeans and a brown and grey hoodie, which although was portraying a wide variety of colours, suited him. He was nineteen and was studying architecture at Oxford University. The passenger of the car was Michael, who was extremely clever but was subject to many insults from both of his peers because he was ginger. His parents had good jobs, and therefore always had all the resources he needed to ensure he had a good upbringing. He still lives with them somewhere in Oxfordshire, not far from Derrick who on the other hand wasn’t so rich. He was wearing black Nike trainers, designer jeans and a colourful t-shirt.
Derrick drove down to the chalet that they had rented for the week. Derrick and Michael went inside, while James volunteered to get everything out of the boot. James was the oldest of the three at twenty, and was studying healthcare at Oxford. He also had short brown hair that got curly if it was too long. He was a very sporty and athletic person. He enjoyed running, throwing and almost any sport- especially surfing. Unlike the other two, he had opted to wear only sandals and a pair of three quarters because he insisted it was too hot for casuals. Once he had unloaded everything, he too went inside to get changed for their first surfing session. The inside was small, with two sets of drawers, a pole to hang clothes on and a toilet. It also contained a sofa, two chairs and a TV if one would want to take a rest from the midday heat. They were not going to stay here. There were several hotels and inns within ten minutes of the beach, which is where the boys would go each night. Once they were all ready and kitted up, they headed down for the beach.
The great roar of the Cornish waters could be heard from several hundred metres away – even from the chalet the boys were using. They couldn’t hold in their excitement. They locked the door, grabbed their surfboards and ran as fast as they could down to the shoreline. The sun shone down on the beach like a furnace, and the sand felt as if it were on fire. The air was humid, and full of the screams of children who were enjoying their holidays. The three stood on the wet sand, with the leftovers of the waves crawling around their feet as they stood in awe at what lay before them. Thirteen-foot monsters dominating the coast, rising from the sea and engulfing everything in their path only to subside into nothing more than a trickle. This is what it was all about. Being one of the most dangerous and adrenaline fuelled sports in existence, the world of surfing wasn’t for the faint-hearted. Derrick was the first to go. He waded out to hip-depth and then scrambled onto his board and began to swim out further. The other two soon followed him. When they were about a hundred metres out, they sat there for about thirty seconds waiting for a big one. They were soon jumping onto their boards with perfect timing and riding the waves.
Thirty minutes later, they were wanting more action.
“You wanna go out further?” Asked James.
“How far?” Said Michael.
“Not Very” insisted James.
“Come on then, let’s go,” Said Derrick, hastily, hopping on his board and swimming out further. They went out about another fifty metres, just to where the climaxes of the waves began. The water was extremely deep now, and if trouble was to arise then it would be a hard trip back to shore. The lifeguard could not see that far, and the coastguards were nowhere to be seen. After about five minutes later when everything seemed calm for a second, Derrick thought he noticed something swimming underneath the water, but he discarded the idea, thinking nothing of it. When the next wave came, Michael was the first to get on his board. As soon as he was moving, he was launched off his board and into the water by something, but none of them saw what it was. He resurfaced and grabbed hold of his board for stability.
“Whoa!” He shouted.
“I bet it was a traffic cone or something,” Yelled Derrick, having to project his voice loudly otherwise he would not be heard because of their surroundings. “Or it might have even been a mini wave, inside that one. You know, I bet it was nothing. You just suck at surfing.”
“Shut up, you’re just jealous because you’re...” Quiet screams were heard from behind them both, turning them both round as they saw James pull up from the water gasping for air. The blueness around him had turned to red, and for a split second time had frozen as they all started to panic for they did not know what to do. Occupying themselves by arguing with each other, no one had noticed-or heard James crying for help. They rushed towards him, but the waves knocked them back and James seemed forever unreachable from them. Luckily, someone had seen him and ran back to shore to inform the lifeguard. The coastguard was on the way, and he would surely be saved if they could get there in time. He was dragged under the water for a second time, disappearing into the depths, reappearing about twenty seconds later as more blood poured out into the sea. The coastguard pulled up aside him in a launch, and hauled him onto the boat as yet more life spilled from his body – from huge rips in his left leg. They got the other two on the boat too, for they knew it was not safe for them to return to shore on their own. By this time, the lifeguard had already changed the flag from yellow to red – stating the water was dangerous, and had a few people trying to clear the water of people and stop any more attacks. Shark attacks in Cornwall are usually rare, but the students from Oxford had picked the wrong day to go surfing. They sat in the boat, staring at someone who was, two hours ago, singing ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round’ with a can of Fosters in his hand wearing three-quarters and a pair of sandals. Blood was still bursting from his leg and the paramedics couldn’t stop it.
A helicopter belonging to the nearby hospital had now arrived, preparing to airlift him back. They began winching him up the rope, and once they had finished they proceeded to take him to the hospital. He was still bleeding badly and he was going to die due to blood loss soon if they were not fast enough. About a minute later as James was pulling closer to death, one of the pilots checked that the landing zone was safe and once it was they took him down. As soon as they landed, James became unconscious. He died before they could do anything else.