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On any other given day of the year, Lando Norris would claim to be a man that knows how to swim.
The second weekend in January finds him sprawled across a beach towel, baking in the early afternoon Sydney heat, sweat glistening across his brow and skin several shades of pale having been smeared with multiple layers of sunscreen. Whomever had him agreeing to a summer holiday in the southern continent during his off season, fresh of his maiden championship title, deserves to be melting in this heat.
Said offender however lounges beside Lando, feet crossed over one another, sunglasses optimistically perched over his nose as he snores gently in the summer sun. Beside him, Pietra shoves at Max to wake him.
“Oi, stop being so undignified in public!”
Max startles awake. Glare obvious despite the disguise of sunglasses as he gazes at his girlfriend. “It’s called relaxing.”
Pietra snorts, “It’s called being a slob.” The two continue with their bickering back and forth. A cute, if not somewhat obnoxious love language between them meant with the utmost affection.
“You have a chance to look over Will’s draft yet?” Max pokes at him after he doesn’t answer after a suspended moment. He flicks his eyes open to glance quizzically at Max.
“Holiday remember. I’m back to the MTC next week, feel it can wait another few days.”
“I thought you said on the way over here that you’d already been in the sim?”
“Sure,” Lando agrees, “but every other hour it’s updating with the way these regulations are playing out. The difference between those initial trial runs in the later half of last year mean squat now, and judging by how rapidly the modifications to the car are still developing this close to launch I’d say by tomorrow they’ll be just as different.”
Max nods, “Still, couldn’t do any harm to look over it if Will thought it worthwhile sending to you when he knows you’re all the way over here.”
“Maybe. But can’t do much about it lounging on a beach can I?”
Bondi beach is somehow not what he’d been expecting. For a beach with such worldly renown, he’d been picturing more of the glistening blue seas of the Mediterranean. Of the view he captures outside his apartment each morning hidden in the scaling walls of Monaco. Instead, Bondi beach is seemingly an overcrowded – ok sure, it’s January, meaning it’s summer school holidays in this part of the world – concrete lined (truly, the walkway could do with some artistic decoration rather than slabs of concrete), rocky (yes, the rocks do cut at your feet), rip filled water hive of activity. At least amongst all the chaos and swarm of bodies he’s yet to be recognized. A cap and glasses do seem to be paying off in this instance.
Still, it’s a treat being able to take time away after what had been a truly hectic previous season. His first championship. A battle which had seen him victorious over one ever-hungry Max Verstappen, forever snapping at his heels. And sure, he’d had quite convincingly the superior car to have only finished two points ahead of the four time world champion, but he’d done it none the less.
It had been Pietra’s idea to drag them across to the other side of the world. He’s been to Melbourne of course on several occasions, and had spent a season in New Zealand in his teenage years racing in the Toyota Racing series, but otherwise he’s yet to explore the bottom corner of the southern hemisphere. All it had taken was one too many Tik Tok’s across Pietra’s fyp of sun soaked beaches, tan lines and matcha’s, and here they were. Lando, as ever, had been dragged along with them. Though he’s loathe to admit that it had been an offer he’d hardly felt discouraged to accept, third wheeling and all.
“I’m baking mate, wanna head to the water?” He asks, feeling the near burning white sand thread over his feet as he experimentally presses them through the surface. Regretting it almost immediately at the grainy, hot texture.
“Mate you didn’t want to join when we went just half an hour ago, I’m still drying!” Max argues in return.
“Yeah well.” He mutters, already standing to brush off lingering clumps of sand indented to his chest. Somehow reaching him despite the large beach towel he’d been laid upon. Max laughs, shoves at him as he gestures with a hand to pass him the sunglasses.
“Keep the cap with those curls but at least don’t go losing the glasses in the surf.”
“Yeah yeah.” Lando mutters back, handing them over.
“Don’t drown!” Pietra calls out as he wanders down towards the water.
It takes a bit of weaving, stepping around where people are strewn in clusters over the hot sand. Feet burning slightly at the sensation that has him longing for his flip flops. There’s an array of colourful outfits on display. Bodies of all shapes and sizes in various states of undress, flamboyant swim trunks and artful bikini styles. A group of people doing yoga, several swarms of people playing volleyball like a scene directly out of the original TopGun, music hums from a number of different speakers, melting ice creams drip into warm hands, parents keeping a watchful eye on wandering young children intent on exploring. It’s all so very normal, just another weekend spent at the beach. Observing the water, drawn to it like so many throughout history.
The water seems, at least to his mostly untrained eye, relatively in order today. Waves crash languidly against the shore, surfers sit lazily on boards far out into the surf. Currents merging and rolling over one another marked by different shades of blue hues. The sun high above gleaming down across it all.
Lifeguards in blue shirts keep watchful attention on their charges from various points along the beach. Some in the tower situated in the center of Bondi beach, others towards the swimming pool, the southern cliffs, and various points along the beach itself in buggies.
The water is somewhat cooler than he’d been thinking. Not cool enough to snatch a foot away from as he takes his first steps into its embrace, but enough to snap through his skin. There’s a small child in the arms of its mother whom flounders with glee at the small break of waves ahead of him, a pair of teenage lovers giggling to one another as they splash at the other, an older woman content with standing in the small surf gazing out over the horizon. Dozens of others scatter around him as he makes his way into the water, none of whom linger their gaze on him past a cursory glance. There’s perhaps more glances from women his age, some men too, at his very much in shape physique (though hardly to the extent of some of the body builders he’d spotted on the grass as they made their way down onto the beach earlier). He’d recounted a joke to Max and Pietra at the sight, remembering a joke one of the New Zealand boys had muttered during his time in the racing series there several years back, they’d been in Invercargill at Teretonga Park when James Munro had pointed to the north west and said “Now if we took a boat and sailed across the Tasman for about seven days, we’d find ourselves in a land filled with marsupials and no rugby trophies.” Lando had wondered at the sight earlier if those beefed up men hadn’t been on the rugby pitch instead, whether that tease would have a different ending.
The current is easy enough to navigate as he dives into the surf, dunking his head beneath the surface as a wave crashes gently over him. He swims out several more meters, treading at the water for a moment as he takes in his surroundings. There’s several surfers not far to his left, not having much luck catching a wave, and a few fellow swimmers out to his right. He swims for several uncounted minutes, floating on his back, feeling as the water encapsulates him as his body acclimatizes to the temperature and sensation.
It’s an enjoyable feeling being just another one of the masses here. Just another person here to enjoy their day. Not put on a media face, not to smile and act in a manner befitting of a Mclaren Formula One driver. A world champion. Here, now, he’s just Lando.
The feeling is gradual for a time and then launches onto him before he’s given a split second to recognize what is happening. It sweeps up on him in a manner that he’d not have expected when he’d heard discussions of rips before now. Knows them, in concept at least, to be dangerous. Very dangerous. And certainly something to always keep vigilance about when swimming in open water. Bondi is no exception, in fact it’s well documented the different rips and currents that sweep through the area. People have lost their lives, been swept under, swept out to sea, exhausted by the monumental effort required if you want to attempt freeing yourself from its embrace.
One moment, he’s swimming freely, treading at the water with easy strokes, the next it feels as though something has grabbed hold of his legs and yanked. The sensation of being pulled beneath the surface is terrifying. There’s no other word for it. In the blink of an eye water has filled his mouth, he’d inhaled with surprise at feeling himself being dragged under and in that primal human instinct, he’d gasped for oxygen. He splutters as he’s shoved by some unknown force from below, the current, back above water, gasping as he takes a big lungful of air. He’s granted a split second of sight where he can see the shore, somehow having been pulled out into deeper water without him even noticing. The surfers and swimmers are now some fifty meters away from him. A hollow sense of dread spreads through his body as he moves to yell for aid, though he’s swept back under before he is granted the opportunity.
The water pulls at him, spits him out in rapid succession. It’s the single most horrifying experience of his life. He’s had crashes, big ones. Had taken a nasty fall from his bike as a child which put him in hospital for several days. Been spiked with a drink in a club in Madrid, requiring nurses to pump the fluid from his stomach and leaving him with horrible hallucinations for a few days. None of it compares to the feeling of drowning. The bitter, raw and desperate need to survive what has befallen him, clambers over every morsel of strength in his body as he fights to push his way to the surface. The horrible thing about drowning, is that it disorientates you to the point where you don’t know which way is up. The water is too dark to see, salt stinging his eyes as he attempts to spot sunlight and fails. Flails his arms and kicks his legs frantically to push for the surface. Cannot distinguish whether he swims towards salvation, or further into ruin.
Lando thinks he’s imagining the feeling when he feels something tighten around his arm. But amidst the chaos of the moment, it’s too real a sensation for him to conjure from imagination as a hand clamps around his bicep and hauls him upwards. He’s not far beneath the surface in that moment, truly it must only have been seconds that he’d been under that time, but breaking the surface feels like breaching some impossible force. He gasps, air violently filling his lungs as he splutters away the saltwater from his throat. His nose streams out a ribbon of it, eyes stinging with tears from when he’d tried to open them. He’s shaking, limbs feeling drained from exhaustion despite the adrenaline rush.
“You’re alright mate, I’ve gotcha. I’ve gotcha.” A heavily accented voice comes from nearby. A breath of warmth tickles over the nape of his neck as he feels another arm wrap securely around his waist, pressing him into a firm body. “Deep breathes alright, you’re ok.”
The ledge of a jet ski appears in front of him and Lando’s never been so grateful for the sight of a vehicle. Albeit one of the water. His hands fumbles for the ledge, latching onto the frame like a lifeline as he draws deep breaths into his chest.
“That’s it, just keep taking those deep breathes for me alright. You’re doing great.”
The hand leaves his bicep and he flings out a hand of his own, grabbing blindly and making contact with a wrist. He latches on, desperate to keep that feeling of security.
“I’m gonna help you up alright, I’m not leaving you. Can you tell me if you’re hurt anywhere before I move you? Have you hit your head at all?” The voice is patient. Deep and filled with a calming undertone that settles over him. The hand at his waist trails reassuringly over his skin. Lando’s never been so grateful for the contact in his life.
He takes in another lungful, voice raspy when he finally murmurs, “No. No I’m not hurt.”
“That’s good, you’re doing great mate. I’m gonna help you up now alright, there’s a ladder rung there see, think you can reach that?”
Lando nods, places a foot to the ladder rung descending down from the idling jet ski and hauls himself up into the seat. The hands of his rescuer shove at him as he moves, propelling him up and into place before retreating. The leather is warmed by the sun yet damp with a layer of water. He lowers his head to the dash, eyes slinking closed as his breathing returns to a more normal rhythm.
He hears more than sees the motion of water splashing before a body eases into the seat behind him. Two forearms, skin surprisingly pale in the summer sun though laced with corded, practical muscle stretch either side of him to grip at the handles. He lowers the idle and switches off the engine, leaving them sitting in relative silence out at sea.
“You alright mate?” The accent disguises the word, the sentence forming more as ‘you alri’ mate’.
“Am now.” Lando mutters with a shallow nod of his head. “Thank you, I…” his words falter as he turns his head to glance towards his rescuer.
In his profession, Lando is quite accustomed to looking at pretty men. Although pretty doesn’t seem the right word to describe the man seated behind him. Not with the golden toned brown locks scattered sea swept over his head, smile lines intrenched into the elegant line of his cheek bones and sculpted jawline. Not at the bare chest, glistening as trails of water rivet down his skin, broad muscled shoulders and tendon lines trailing down his neck. The man is a sight to behold. Lando feels somewhat dumbstruck.
If asked, he can blame the experience of nearly drowning.
“Well,” He continues, realising he cannot just falter in the middle of sentence like that, “that was embarrassing.”
The man cracks a smile. Lando nearly turns away, unwilling to keep taking in the man as the smile shifts his features into something more than his brain can currently comprehend.
“You’re not the first, won’t be the last.”
“You lot should really put up some signs,” He jokes in a flat tone, “warn people about the dangerous water.”
“Ah,” Says the man, “hadn’t thought of that.”
Lando huffs a laugh.
“Thank you though, truly. You saved my life.”
The man flushes a beautiful shade of pink. Bare chested there’s nowhere to hide as the flush spreads from his neck onto his checks. Illuminating the pale skin. “Just doing my job.”
“Proficient at it apparently.”
“Should hope so. Training’s a bitch for this gig.”
A full cackle escapes him at that, seemingly surprising them both as he slaps a palm over his mouth. His turn to flush.
The man is dry with his humour, tone escalating just enough to pull off the intended sarcasm in a way that is hopelessly endearing. He turns a questioning, more serious look over him in the next moment however, “You sure you’re not hurt? Was a nasty sweep that, didn’t hit anything when you went under?”
“No nothing. Might have inhaled some saltwater along the way but I’m ok.”
“Didn’t swallow a fish?” Lando must make a face as the man raises a brow and asks, “Not a vegetarian are you?”
“More like the opposite of a pescatarian. Everything apart from fish.”
“Ah, the worst kind!” The man jokes. A radio cackles to life on the dash, both turning to look at the device.
“Everything alright out there Oscar? Over.”
The man, Oscar apparently, reaches around Lando to grab for the device, flicking a thumb over the comm button as he raises it to his lips.
“Copy, secure. One young adult male, no other casualties. Returning to shore, medical not required. Over.”
“Ah so I’m a casualty am I?”
“Of the rip? Certainly.”
The engine fires to life with a twist of the key fob. Lando isn’t well versed on the mechanisms of riding such a thing, he’s only ever ridden a jet ski solo, but he’s fairly sure most times he’d be seated behind the driver. Instead, Oscar’s forearms wrap securely either side of his waist as they reach for the handles, beginning to guide them back into promised safe harbour of the shore. They’d drifted somewhat further out during their brief discussion but the shoreline edges closer quickly.
Over the sound of the waves there cannot be much more than the press of Oscar’s body to his as they make their way into shore. He’s bracketed by Oscar’s knees, toes curling into the metal of the foot rests as they summit over waves and edge their way through bodies the closer they come to shore before finally the engine clicks off.
Oscar stands the moment they draw into the safe harbour of the beach. Offers out a hand once off the jet ski himself which Lando takes full advantage of. Feels the callouses on his palms worn into his skin from many repetitive hours spent on the sim and out racing, graze against those on Oscar’s palms. Notes that despite Oscar’s slight height advantage on him, Lando’s hands are noticeably larger as he grips lightly and hauls himself off the leather seat. Of course, to add tally to his embarrassing moments of the day, in that next moment he promptly feels his ankle give way beneath him, sending him plummeting into the shallow surf.
“Shit!” He hears from Oscar, a splash sounds and Oscar appears in front of him, crouched down as he places delicate fingers on his chin to lift his head. His eyes scan Lando, noting the twinge of discomfort and promptly darts his gaze down to his ankle. “Thought you said you weren’t hurt?”
“Thought I wasn’t. Adrenaline’s not quite wearing off just yet. I’m alright, just took an awkward step.”
Oscar gives him a look, clearly not believing him.
“I’m taking you up to central.” Lando goes to protest but Oscar shuts him down with a sharp look, “I’ll have Reily, our medic, check you over up there.”
“Truly, I’m alright.”
Oscar helps him to his feet once more, watches with keen interest as Lando rolls out his ankle before deciding it feels decent enough to put weight on it. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
He moves next to step forward towards the shore but an arm wraps once more around his waist, supporting him as a buggy races into view, coming to a stop some meters ahead of them. A cliched, long blonde haired wiry man jumps from the driver’s seat and grins at them both, shoving a pair of sunglasses into his long unruly hair.
“Osc! Got yourself a straggler! You two alright?”
“Fine, thanks Bans. Give us a lift to central?”
“Sure mate, hop in. Reily is just with a heatstroke patient, waiting on ambo but he won’t be long if ya need to see him.”
“Just a check over.” Oscar reassures as he settles Lando into the buggy. A small number of people had been gathered at the commotion, none thankfully seem to recognize him and he thanks what must be his somewhat flattened, wet curls for hiding him from camera views. Last thing he needs is for this humiliation to end up on one of the F1 gossip pages.
He eyes the buggy with interest as they zoom off towards the central lifeguard watchtower. It takes weaving and careful swerving from their driver to navigate the strew of bodies that lie and frolic about the beach.
“I’m Lando by the way.”
Oscar glances at sidelong at him for a brief moment before his gaze darts elsewhere, head lowered somewhat and in a voice more sheepish than otherwise known he says, “Yeah, I ah… I’m aware. I’m Oscar.”
Oh. Ok.
“You watch F1?” He questions with slight wariness.
“Yea you know, it’s a popular sport and all.”
Right.
He nods, unsure of what else to say.
“Congratulations by the way.” Oscar seems shy as he says it. Delivers it in a way that Lando is immediately able to identify as genuine. Some people say this to him, after race wins, good races, or his championship title, in a way that seems obligated, or finding an angle towards entering his social sphere. Lando understands this, or has at least learnt this, over the years. People in his manner of lifestyle often want something from other people. Fame, exposure, connection. Distinguishing between those who are genuine and those who are not becomes an artform. Lando is still learning, but he can tell immediately that Oscar is one of the good ones. “On the championship.”
“Thank you.” He answers in kind.
“Though I was rooting for Max…” Oscar says and Lando sees right through the sarcasm. Shoves an elbow into the mans side with playful glee.
“Quiet in the cheap seats. No Verstappen talk allowed while I’m on holiday.” Oscar smiles in reply, eyes crinkling as central moves into clearer view.
Bans, their driver, deposits them with a cheery wave at the bottom of a set of stairs at central before he zooms back off down the beach.
“Got a fair bit of energy that one.”
“Yeah,” Oscar agrees with a fond huff, “need it with this kinda lifestyle.” They both glance to the stairs. “Think you can navigate this champ or need me to carry you?”
Lando glares. “Wasn’t born yesterday. I can climb a set of stairs”
“Your swimming ability says otherwise.” Oscar deadpans and Lando gapes at the man.
“I nearly just drowned out there in your treacherous water!”
“I swear I saw some flags and signs somewhere…” Oscar trails off, exaggeratingly looking over his shoulder off down the beach.
Lando petulantly feels like sticking his tongue out at him like a child, he refrains. “Ha ha.” To prove his point, he promptly turns to the stairs and begins to climb. Hears Oscar follow along behind him.
The door to the command center is open, letting the warm salted air drift into the space. There’s two middle aged men sat overlooking the beach from his right, one head buried in a set of binoculars scouting the beach, the other with a radio in hand. The man with the radio glances over as he and Oscar enter, nods to Oscar and scans a critical eye over Lando.
“Spun in quick like aye?” Radio man exclaims.
Oscar steps past him towards where a Red Bull logo’d mini fridge contains bottles filled with chilled water. Oscar gathers one, unscrews the seal and passes it to Lando.
“Yea, thirty seconds ago it was swirling over at the pools, next thing it was out behind those set of yellows.”
“I told ya mate, gotta watch that and the one up near Icebergs, move like shifty bastards those two.” Oscar hums in agreement.
“Reily around?”
“Ah he just went out back.” Binoculars chimes in, “just with a youngin spent bathing too long in the sun. Shouldn’t be a minute, went out to yap with the meds once they get ere’. You two alright?”
Lando would appreciate not hearing that question every other minute.
“Just want to check him over. Took a tumble out there.” Oscar replies for them.
Binoculars nods and returns to scanning over the vast crowd below.
“Come one, quieter back here and there’s a bed you can rest on.”
Dutifully, Lando follows Oscar behind to a small closed off section at the back of central. Sure enough, there’s a medical bed lined with a fresh cover at the far wall. An oxygen tank, defib and row of medical jars are locked in a cabinet nearby.
“Have you got anyone here with you?” Lando spins to look at Oscar. Perhaps he’d been wrong, maybe Oscar does want to pry but before the thought can form further Oscar seemingly catches the look that comes over his face and continues, “So I can try contact them. Let them know you’re here and safe.”
He feels foolish. Of course that was the reason.
“Uh yeah actually. Max, no not that Max,” He corrects before Oscar can spin a joke, “my best mate, and his girlfriend Pietra. I don’t have my phone on me so…”
“Obviously.” Oscar smiles, “whereabouts were you sitting with them last? I can send someone to find them if you give a description.”
Lando nods, prattles off about their location and waits as Oscar disappears to arrange just that.
Left alone with himself he begins to understand just how close a call that was. How quickly his world had changed and been swept away into the unpredictable, ruthless nature of a riptide. There wasn’t any amount of force he could have emitted to combat what he’d been dragged into. He’s lucky to have been spotted, to have been found as swiftly as he was.
Oscar returns a moment later, tragically with a shirt on. A shame that. A blue wrapped ice block in one hand which he sheepishly holds out to him.
“It’s uh, lemonade. An ice block. Sugar is good when recovering from shock.”
Lando smiles as though he doesn’t know that already, reaches out a hand only for Oscar to retreat it towards him. “Wait? Are you even allowed sugar?”
He laughs, scratches at a spot over his knee. “I don’t think one ice block will get my trainer breathing down my neck, especially in the off season.”
“Right, of course.” Oscar mutters, handing over the treat.
The ice block is a welcome, cooling feeling as he sucks at the lemon flavour. Watches as Oscar takes a seat on a plastic chair opposite the bed.
“Aren’t you on duty?” He questions after a brief silence.
Oscar’s gaze returns to him, a slight tilt to his head. “I am. I mean, after a rescue such as that, as the primary rescue lifeguard, it’s protocol to remain until you’re medically cleared.” And ok, that makes sense. Less sure, Oscar adds, “I can leave you in peace for a minute if you’d prefer though.”
“No!” No you’re ok, just making sure I’m not keeping you from saving some other poor soul out there.”
“I’m technically due on break now, the crew have it covered.”
“Ah, so I’m your excuse now am I?”
“A convenient one actually yeah. Saving me from a killer sunburn.”
“Yeah what’s up with that? Aren’t you Australian’s meant to be super tan? I mean, you’re literally a lifeguard and spend all your time in the sun, on a reflective beach with white sand at that.”
“Mutant genes.” Oscar explains, “Just a year round icicle.” Lando snorts, licks a drop of melted ice block off his fingers, notes the way Oscar catches the movement.
“So you what, grew up in Sydney”
“Ah no actually, Melbourne. Moved here a few years ago.”
“Melbourne huh? Been to the grand prix?”
Oscar shuffles on his chair, one knee rising so that his heel rests on the edge, hands intertwined over the knee. “Once or twice. Dad made sure I was a Webber fan growing up, didn’t need much convincing.”
“My condolences. 2010 must have been fun.”
“Ah that Abu Dhabi final.” Oscar shakes his head, “Never forgetting it.”
“Ah so you’re a fan fan then. Any other grievances you have with the sport?”
Oscar launches in a tirade, recounting races, championship years, driver pairings that date back into the seventies. All the way to Lauda and Hunt. It’s an enthralling ten minutes as the two banter back and forth, seemingly mutually deciding to not touch on his own years in the sport. It’s fun. Easy in a way that filming such interactions for social media content is not. He can’t help but wonder how much more enjoyable he’d find such tasks if it were Oscar beside him.
He asks, because he can’t not, about whether Oscar ever tried to make it in the sport. Oscar tells him of chances at karting growing up, of piloting remote control cars, before ultimately his family couldn’t sustain funding a full career path into the sport. Not with other siblings to think of also. The whole interaction feels organic in a way Lando hasn’t experienced in some time.
Oscar is passionate and insightful about the sport without feeling overzealous about it all. It’s clear he follows along with the season and he carries a respect for the sport Lando can appreciate. Ultimately, in another life, Lando can picture Oscar as driver.
Or perhaps the man doesn’t even have his road license. He asks that too and Oscar laughs in reply.
“Did you learn to surf here or in Melbourne?”
“Melbourne. I practically grew up on the water. My mum is super into it, dragged me and my sisters out from a young age. We fell in love with it fairly quickly after that.”
“Yet you moved here?” Lando queries, wondering how far he can stretch his questions.
“Different scene you know. Good job experience, and as a lifeguard where else do you want to be other than Bondi?” He muses with a fond expression.
“You know,” Lando begins, “It’s not what I was expecting this place.”
“Oh yeah? How so?”
“I don’t know. The photos and stories you hear of it, created this sort of aura around the place. It feels different to step into it rather than view it from the outside.”
Oscar studies him, “Yeah I get that. I think Sydney in general is a place that draws you in though, the deeper you explore it. There’s much of the city that is known to the world, the opera house, harbour bridge, Bondi, but when you take a moment to explore it further that’s when it comes to life.”
“Spoken like a true believer.” Lando muses with a soft smile.
“You don’t have that? With places you visit around the world?”
“Honestly,” Lando takes a moment to think of his many memories of the cities his occupation takes him to, “mostly it’s airports, hotel rooms and race tracks. I love my job, truly. Wouldn’t change it for the world, but it has limits. Many of them. We go to these places but don’t get to explore them. There’s always the next race to think about, spending time at home, getting back to the factory for more testing, seeing friends and family. That’s why getting away on these trips is so necessary. Gives me time to destress from it all.”
They’re quiet for a moment. Two relative strangers confessing something personal. Maybe it’s trauma bonding, at least on Lando’s part. But he likes Oscar, the energy he has. The calm confidence and ease with which he carries himself. As though even at his young age, for Lando assumes he’s somewhere around the same age as him, he’s sure of himself. It’s a trait Lando has always found appealing in others. As someone who feels insecure of himself more so than he cares to admit, it’s a reassurance to him when others are more steadfast. Findings it grounding. A route forwards.
“That’s a fair answer. I hope the rest of your holiday isn’t quite as eventful as today then.”
They both chuckle softly to that.
“Same to you, no more dramatic rescues.”
“Ah I’m off in a few more hours. Might just need a beer after today thanks to you.”
“Might join you with that.”
At that moment the backdoor bursts open, and in storms a flustered Max Fewtrell.
“Lando Norris. What the fuck!”
Oscar blinks, rising from the chair as a mask of professionalism folds back over his features having slipped over the last several minutes.
“You must be Max.” He holds out his hand. Max takes it blindly, gaze intent on Lando. “I’m Oscar. Lando found himself caught up in a rip.”
“Of course you did Bob, honestly man what were you doing out that far?”
Lando stumbles his way through an explanation. Pietra coming to his side and wrapping him in a quick, firm hug before she turns to Oscar.
“You saved him?”
Oscar nods demurely, “Just doing my job.”
“Thank god you saw him. One moment we could see him, the next he vanished from sight! There was so many people out there we didn’t think much of it but the longer he was gone the more we started to panic. Thanks for thinking to come find us.”
“Of course.”
Max asks, “Did you hurt yourself?”
“No?” Lando replies.
“Then why are you in the med bay?”
“Because someone,” Lando stares at Oscar, “insists I need a check up.”
“He fell getting off the jet ski.”
“Lando!” Pietra whorls on him. “I am not explaining to Cisca why I’ve returned her son home damaged from vacation.”
“I’m fine. Honest.” Three blank faces stare back at him. “Ok maybe a little traumatized but physically? I’m just fine.”
The resident medic, Reily, choses that exact moment to step through the door into the med bay. “Huh, what have we here?”
So for what feels like the utmost time, between him and Oscar they explain their way through the events. Reily is quick but efficient as he runs his hands over Lando, asks him a series of questions. Lando, after his years racing is used to the contact, answers the questions easily enough and is promptly given the all clear from Reily.
“Maybe just take it easy for a few hours. Make sure to have some good food, replenish a bit and keep your electrolytes up.”
A nod and call of thanks from him, Max and Pietra sees Reily turn to leave up towards the main area of central, parting with a clap of acknowledgment to Oscar’s shoulder. “Good save buddy.”
“See now I feel I can release you back into your own custody.”
“How very gracious of you.” Lando responds, pushing himself up off of the med bed as he locks eyes with Oscar.
“Just maybe avoid the water for the next few hours.”
Pietra and Max glance between the two of them from beside the door.
“Have you got a pair of thongs?” Oscar asks.
Lando whirls on him, “Have I got a pair of what?”
“Flip flops.”
“Why didn’t you just say flip flops?”
“Cultural appropriation Lando, you’re in my country.”
“Uh huh, and well…” Lando glances at Max who shrugs.
“Sorry man, wasn’t really thinking of thongs when we got tracked down by a lifeguard who’d found our missing friend.”
Oscar turns, rummaging for something in a cubby hole at the far side of the room. “Hold up, I’ve got a spare pair lying around here somewhere.”
“Oh no, it’s ok…” But Oscar turns, a pair of inconspicuous black flip flops held out between them.
“Can’t have you burning your feet out there. You’ll only go and end up right back in here.”
“Maybe it’s an excuse.” The words filter out his mouth before he can stop them. He blinks at himself yet catches as a faint trim of red skims over the outline of where Oscar’s shirt rests against the nape of his neck.
“Just take the damn shoes Lando.” Oscar says with fond exasperation.
Lando takes the shoes, slipping him onto his feet and stands once more before Oscar. “Now I’ve got to get them back to you though don’t I. Maybe they’re your excuse?” He continues his bold angle, encouraged by the flushed responses.
“They’re a fifteen dollar pair of thongs Lan, hardly a crime.”
“Fifteen dollars could buy a fair few lemonade ice blocks.”
“That was on the house.”
“Dinner then?”
Oscar blinks at him. “Dinner?”
“You know the concept surely?” He teases. “Unless you have other plans for your evening?”
“You want me to join you for dinner? Why?”
“As thanks for saving my life.”
“I save a lot of lives.” Lando likes the dutifully won confident tone in his reply, “Don’t do many dinner’s with those I save.”
“An exception then. We weren’t done with our conversation, and besides, it’s just dinner.” He says, a knowing smile lighting up his face.
“Honestly, how harmful can one dinner be?” Oscar responds with a smile of his own.