"Breath" is pathologically Tim Winton-y and western australian-y in the alienating, vast, lonesome tradition of so much Aussie lit (it's like Australia itself isn't far enough for these authors, they have to push their stories to the far edge of oz). The spare style had more crunch than dry bush in summer and more ocker than the back of Bourke (seriously, the old story of Snowy Muir?), but there was something honest about the surfing theme at the end of the day. Pikelet and Loonie come into adolescence testing their limits in deep dives in the local river. When an old surfing legend, Sando, takes them under his wing, they learn to put themselves on the edge of consciousness, norms and self through surfing big breaks. Winton nails just how scary waves are, but what hit home was the broadening of the story to include that never winter/never summer nomadic set of skiers and surfers who crisscross between remote locales until their knees give out (where do they end up?) These are characters very much out to sea. The risk taking and very real vulnerability at nature's hands was familiar. It is very much an adolescent story of stubborn existentialists, cut off from their families young, and dropped in a windy, rattling landscape. The ending wasn't terribly satisfying - a story rooted in the visceral memories of singular physical moments sort of sunk under the exposition. But I did enjoy the novel, even got a little homesick for "the coast." Winton sort of picks up where Malouf left off; surfers dancing on their boards. For people who hate books: it's like "Point Break," but the only thing they're gambling is a normal future! Liked it far better than the Winton I read previously. Bit of okay.
Great line: "come on! you can't just float there like a bloody tea bag."