Living in Sydney, I've taken the chance to start surfing again.

Host: The morning sun rose slow and amber over the Sydney shoreline, brushing the horizon with a soft golden hue. The ocean shimmered, restless but kind, its surface a living mosaic of light and memory. The air smelled of salt and sunscreen, the sound of waves folding into sand — steady, ancient, forgiving.

A surfboard lay half-buried in the wet sand. Jack stood beside it, his hair windblown, his eyes half-lost in the horizon. Jeeny sat cross-legged nearby, her toes digging into the cool granules, a cup of coffee in her hands, steam curling upward into the morning mist.

The city skyline loomed faintly behind them, but out here, it felt miles away — a different country altogether. Between the rhythm of waves and the quiet, Jeeny spoke softly, her voice catching the rhythm of the sea itself.

“Living in Sydney, I’ve taken the chance to start surfing again. One of my best memories of growing up is catching my first proper wave and surfing across it and my brother cheering at me from the shore.” — Markus Zusak

Jeeny: “You can hear the nostalgia in that, can’t you? The innocence of motion. The first time you do something and realize the world’s larger than fear.”

Jack: “Or smaller than we thought. For a second, you balance — and it feels like control. But it’s just the illusion of it.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You always find the shadows in the sunlight.”

Jack: “And you always romanticize them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why we talk.”

Host: The wave crashed, throwing spray that sparkled like liquid glass. Jack shielded his eyes, watching a surfer cut across the surface — clean, fast, free.

Jack: “You ever surfed?”

Jeeny: “Once. Bali, years ago. I fell every time. Got caught in the rip, swallowed half the ocean. But when I finally stood — just for two seconds — it felt like forgiveness.”

Jack: “Forgiveness?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. For falling. For doubting. For being afraid of the deep. The sea doesn’t punish you for failing. It just keeps moving, offering another wave.”

Jack: “And people?”

Jeeny: “People remember your falls. The sea doesn’t.”

Host: The sunlight stretched, painting long shadows across the sand. The waves softened, catching the rhythm of her words.

Jack: “When Zusak said that, about his brother cheering… I get it. There’s something about being seen — just once — at your best moment. Someone witnessing your becoming.”

Jeeny: “You mean validation?”

Jack: “No. More like confirmation. Proof that your joy was real.”

Jeeny: “It’s funny. He didn’t say his best memory was surfing perfectly — it was his brother cheering. The love was the thing that lasted.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what childhood is. A time when someone’s always waiting on the shore.”

Jeeny: “And adulthood’s realizing no one’s watching, but you still have to ride the wave anyway.”

Host: The wind picked up, scattering sand, lifting her hair across her face. She didn’t move it — just smiled faintly, eyes on the horizon where sunlight and sea tangled endlessly.

Jeeny: “You know, surfing’s the perfect metaphor for memory. You can’t hold onto it — it’s gone the second you try. But you can ride it, feel it, and let it carry you for a while.”

Jack: “And then?”

Jeeny: “And then you paddle back out.”

Jack: (nodding) “You make it sound poetic. But in reality, the ocean doesn’t care about your metaphors.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it holy.”

Host: The waves rolled in, steady and hypnotic. The tide was coming up now, claiming footprints, erasing evidence, as if memory itself were being rewritten by salt.

Jack: “I envy that — the simplicity of something so vast. The ocean doesn’t hold grudges. It doesn’t cling. It just renews.”

Jeeny: “It’s the opposite of us. We hoard — emotions, failures, old versions of ourselves. The sea lets everything go.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why people keep coming here — not for recreation, but redemption.”

Jeeny: “To be reminded that movement is the only cure for heaviness.”

Host: The sound of laughter drifted across the sand — a child chasing gulls, the faint echo of joy carried by wind. Jack’s expression softened.

Jack: “You ever notice how the sea makes you feel small and infinite at the same time?”

Jeeny: “That’s its trick. It humbles you without humiliating you. The waves knock you down, but they don’t mock you for it.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why Zusak remembered his brother cheering — because the world, for that moment, didn’t demand perfection. It celebrated presence.”

Jeeny: “And that’s all any of us want — someone to cheer, even when we’re half-drowning.”

Host: The surfboard glimmered, catching the sunlight like a relic of simpler faith. Jeeny picked it up and traced her fingers along its edges, her expression distant.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s strange how memories work. They’re not snapshots — they’re sounds, feelings, smells. Salt in your hair, someone’s voice breaking through the wind.”

Jack: “And the knowing that you can never get that exact moment back.”

Jeeny: “Which is why it’s beautiful.”

Jack: “You find beauty in loss?”

Jeeny: “Always. Because loss means it mattered.”

Host: The sun climbed higher, bleaching the edge of the sky. A wave broke near the shore, and for a heartbeat, it looked exactly like the kind she’d described — the kind you fall for and forgive yourself in.

Jack: “So tell me, Jeeny. What’s your wave?”

Jeeny: “My wave?”

Jack: “Yeah. The thing you caught once — perfectly — and spent the rest of your life trying to find again.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Moments of peace. They’re rarer than they should be.”

Jack: “And yours?”

Jeeny: “Probably this one.”

Host: Jack laughed quietly, the sound swallowed by the wind. He reached down, picked up a shell, and tossed it toward the tide.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what living is — catching small waves of peace between the storms.”

Jeeny: “And cheering for someone else when they do.”

Jack: “You sound like the brother on the shore.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we all should be.”

Host: The sea shimmered, the tide creeping closer, as if to join the conversation. The world around them glowed brighter, and for a moment, it didn’t matter who had fallen or who had stood.

Only that the ocean, like life, kept offering new chances.

And in that stillness — between laughter and silence, between sky and sea — Markus Zusak’s words seemed to drift with the breeze:

that the waves we remember aren’t made of water,
but of wonder,
of motion,
of the sound of someone cheering from the shore —

the echo that reminds us,
even years later,
that we were once brave enough to stand.