So awesome that it inspires orgasmic feels and maybe a little trash talk in Siren’s Wave, a novel by J.A. Hazel…
It was like being out in the ocean on his board, bobbing and floating in the otherworldly palette of water and sky. With the music turned up to the max and heard through the control room speakers, perfectly stoned and vibrating into the shimmering sound, Bran was about as happy as he could ever wish to be.
-Bran, blissing out in the studio to the Band of Horses’ sweeping, soaring track, The Funeral.
And after the intoxicating song finishes -it all goes downhill…
Despite the mellow buzz he’d been enjoying before Ava’s arrival, the same intense feeling from the rink burnt hot in his chest. He’d planned to drag himself up, grab his guitar, and play something to cool it, but instead, he spoke. “Why don’t you just shut up, Ava. You’re a real fucking drag. Do you even know you’re a bore? Or maybe you just see ‘uptight shrew’ as part of your job description?”
– Bran enraged by the mere presence of poor Ava. Well, she may have been nagging just a little…
Well, maybe not so perilous nowadays, but back in the 1930’s it was a single lane death trap, hugging the Surf Coast’s sheer cliffs with only a few places where drivers could pull over to allow other cars to pass. Yikes – you wouldn’t want to back up your Y model Ford around this in the dark.
Victoria’s 151-mile-long winding coastal road, built with the blood, sweat and tears of 3,000 returned WWI soldiers between 1919 and 1932 at a rate of about 1.86 miles a month. Pretty good going considering they got the job done with not much more than their bare hands, explosives, pick n shovels and wheelbarrows.
“It’s a memorial to the returned World War I soldiers, the poor buggers who built this road. Can you imagine the extreme toil? But we love it because it means we’ve commenced the woohoo part of the journey. It’s gorgeous, just wait. You often get whales cruising out there around September. Waves cresting. Birds wafting. It’s camping with mates. Summer. Azure skies. The forest. This road brings all the best things, you’ll see.”
– Ava, waxing lyrical to the Silva boys on the joys of the road and its wild ocean and forest surrounds, Siren’s Wave novel by J.A. Hazel.
Well no, not really, Bran’s beauty is a tad more Nordic than this poor shipwrecked lad’s.
In the mirror, he saw wet, stringy waves of hair hanging like seaweed about his face, two days’ worth of golden-brown stubble, dark smudges like kohl under his tired, blue eyes and worse, he could clearly see the painting on the opposite wall. Waterhouse’s ‘The Siren’. Shit.
There she sat on her rocks of doom, long mahogany hair streaming down towards the wretched fellow who clung there in vain, too focused on her to be aware that he was drowning in the water. A wave of nausea pulled Bran under. The look on the guy’s face. He fucking knew that feeling, utter terror, mixed with an all-consuming, yearning fascination.
– Bran, coming to unhappy terms with his Ava obsession, Siren’s Wave Novel by J.A. Hazel.
Hokusai’s wood block print of the great wave, seen dwarfing snow-capped Mount Fuji, Japan’s highest peak, just does something to me. The destructive beauty perfectly illustrates nature’s power, makes me feel vast and connected and at the same time, humbled and awed.
A vibrant blue and white tattoo of a great wave curled out from under his t-shirt sleeve around his bicep. It looked like a section of an old Japanese Hokusai woodblock print. An unstoppable rogue wave. And exactly like him, beautiful and catastrophic …
Ava, discovering Bran’s tattoo, Siren’s Wave Novel by J.A Hazel.