Page 7 of The Surfer

3

TWO HOURS EARLIER

RIPLEY

“So,why are you attempting to enter Australia, Miss Ripley Sailor?”

The border guard takes one quick look at my passport photo and then back up to me. Back up to my face. I attempt a sweet smile to cool his tone, but he’s staring at me with dark cold eyes that dig deep into my soul.

My smile isn’t working, he’s not budging.

His face doesn’t have the expression I’m hoping to see after so long in the air traveling across the world. It isn't the question I’m hoping to be faced with after such a long series of flights across the globe.

“Why are you attempting to enter Australia, Miss Sailor?”

The way the border guard questions me is like I’m some kind of criminal. It’s less of a polite check at the border and more like a military-style interrogation. He’s treating me like I’m some kind of evil mastermind trying to devilishly trick him in order to enter his country illegally, wanting to cause chaos and he’s the only protection standing in my way.

But all I want is a shower.

I just don’t want to smell so bad, that’s all I’m asking for.

Please, a nice warm shower.

“What?” I’m so stressed out and tired from traveling around the world that this is all I can muster up to the border guard in reply. Monosyllabic, I know, but all I’m thinking of is that shower.

The border guard doesn’t seem very impressed with my reply. He sighs. A deep, long sigh.

This is not good.

I know I should be more responsive and attentive to the border guard’s questions, but I just can’t stop staring at his mustache. A perfectly groomed handlebar mustache that’s plastered thickly over his thin mouth. He looks either like a thug or a porn star from the seventies, I can’t really decide which at the moment.

I’ve been waiting in this line a long time, gripping my tattered American passport like my life depends on it. Well, maybe not my life, but at least the chance for that nice warm shower I’ve been dreaming about.

And when it’s finally my turn to step up to the scary-looking border gate with all the security cameras and the imposing mustached guard, my mind just completely blanks out on me. I’m tired, sore, and in urgent need of a wash. I can’t even think, let alone answer penetrating questions from a border guard, let alone a man with such a thick handlebar mustache.

I think it’s closer to 70s porn star.

“What is the meaning of your visit to Australia? Why did you decide to leave New York to come here?” the border guard asks with his stern official-sounding tone. My eyes quickly dart down to the name tag pinned on his navy-blue uniform right next to the flag of Australia.

GARY.

Yeah, somehow, he looks like a Gary. Not that I’m judging him or anything, and not that Gary is a particularly odd name at all. But this guy is just, somehow, giving off some strong… Gary vibes.

“It’s kind of a long story,” I say. I try smiling again but Gary the border guard is having none of it.

“Enlighten me.”

“Well, it’s a bit complicated, but essentially I’m here to look after a friend’s brother.” I chuckle. “It sounds a bit weird putting it like that.”

Somehow, Gary frowns even further, sending his mustache into an angry droop. I can see my answer has not helped the situation. “So, you’re staying with a friend?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“And have you met this friend before?”

“Yeah. Well, no,” I reply, and Gary raises his eyebrow. His mustache twitches. “Not exactly. Not physically, but we’ve met online.”

“Online?”