I’m pretty sure my parents had got the memo and realized my mood swings weren’t just an unusually bumpy ride on a menstrual cycle. Teenage hormones can be persistent buggers, feeling autumnal wouldn’t even evaporate as the heat and humidity began to rise.
That family summer holiday, a road trip to the big smoke—Gold Coast has theme parks, Annie—nowadays feels like a fin de siècle moment. Maybe that’s because it’s the last parent-prescribed vacation I’ve had reason to remember. Yet, in all likelihood, I sulked my way around our usual campground the next year.
Uniquely, I’ve retained a handful of vivid recollections about that summer. What’s weird, though is my treasured memories are seemingly mundane will-o’-the-whisp fragments. Not the hurdy gurdy fun-filled rhythm of Seaworld or Wet and Wild, which were the point of holidaying at Surfers Paradise. Those theme parks, when infrequently recalled, now are encrusted in sepia.
The standout was Sarah’s shy, dimpled blush as she passed me one of the two salted caramel ice creams she’d nabbed from the esky our instructor had opened after our second surfing class had finished.
I’d known her for like all of three hours; just so typical of time and place that the two girls taking that eponymous Surfers Paradise course would automatically be paired up. A stroke of good fortune, as it turned out. Even today, years later, recalling Sarah’s technicolour smile melts me faster than ice cream, salted caramel or otherwise. Once again reduced to the puddle, I had been on seeing that original sweet grin.
All she’d done was pass me a bloody ice cream. Hardly a big deal; yet in the moment, that felt like the biggest deal ever.
It wasn’t even as if Sarah had emerged from the water like the goddess Venus, as pure and perfect as a pearl. She and I were at the gangly-foal stage of life. Not the best time for poise on a surfboard, let alone a catwalk-strut that oozed an aficionado’s understanding of the rules of attraction.
Yet something about her—bubbliness, boobs, whatever—had instantaneously struck a chord with me. Had we attended the same school, we’d surely have been mates. But, scarily, for the first time in my life, something unexpected materialized, fluttering butterflies had decided to take up residence in my stomach.
Those butterflies brought with them an insomnia strength bittersweetness, after all what teenager wants to stand out from the crowd?
In those days, we teenage girls had an omerta-like code of conduct. Our hormones-on-trainer-wheels were to be directed at boys, boys, and did I mention boys.
A summer holiday romance, Annie? Cool, that’d be a larrikin lad, suave on the board, preferably with blond curly hair and the top half of his wetsuit tied almost indecently low, advertising taut pecs and abs.
Of course, there was an Adonis of that description at surf school. He acted as if his mere existence should have Sarah and I falling to our knees in worship. Right from the get-go, I understood how I should play the first day of my return to school. Showing off my holiday snaps, the girl-pack would be gobsmacked by his gorgeousness.
Maybe also wholeheartedly agreeing with them, even insinuating a connection of sorts. But that salted-caramel moment had raised my consciousness; doing that wouldn’t be upfront with anyone, let alone myself. That realization felt like such a gut-punch, so unfair that he didn’t flutter my tummy the way she did.
The playground had, of course, totally schooled me in the art of covering up my tracks. Even so, the stakes suddenly felt higher; double jeopardy was now in play. My crew had spent ages over-analyzing our fear of wallflower wipeout with guys. Now, I viscerally felt something worse: fretting about ostracization should I ever should misread someone like Sarah as being into girls. Getting that wrong would devastatingly outweigh the newfound possibility of kissing a girl to confirm I liked it as much as I now suspected I would.
Most days, we hung out together on the beach. Sullen-Annie had done a runner, but confident-Annie still loitered backstage in the wings, continually debating if the idea of Sarah liking her was just a case of an overactive imagination.
But the occasional gentle brush of Sarah’s hand against my body was a frisson of hope. At night, those yummy feelings preyed on my mind. Then, a couple of days before our family returned home, a penny dropped. Her touches always drew my attention to something or someone. Yet not once had Sarah considered a boy worthy of that attention.
Did that convince me she liked girls? Yes, it did.
Did I do anything about it? Umm … get real, the possibility of being seen trying to kiss her was still way too scary.
Though I seized the one mini-opportunity that presented itself. Her hand brushed my shoulder, and she nodded towards a woman on the edge of the sandhills, daringly topless and wearing the briefest of orange thongs. “What do you think of her?”
“Braver than us. Cute-as, but not as cute as you.”
Her technicolour smile returned with a vengeance. I smirked as we held our gaze, luxuriating in the semi-confidence of starting to learn my rules of attraction.
But still, I couldn’t or wouldn’t press. Feeling nervously unrequited was such a bitch. I’ll always regret that Sarah didn’t get what I think she craved and truly deserved: my first kiss.
Nevertheless, I’m totally grateful to my first crush. That summer taught me a universal truth: finding love must start by accepting who you are. It took time, only at Sydney University could I finally wean myself from the pretense of being the same as others and, in doing so, present myself as lovable.
All because Sarah had shyly grinned on passing me a salted caramel ice cream. Seemingly not a biggest deal; yet that smile if not the ice cream was life changing.
