The flyer advertised the 7th Annual Montauk Junior Surf Tournament, August 27- 28. Ugh, I thought. The surf contest that refused to die. Every August it came around to remind me of my first public display of complete and total humiliation. And while I no longer considered myself a “Shy Person All-Star,” I was definitely not an easy breezy “Type A.” I was still, after seven years, firmly in the performance anxiety “B-Group.” So, while Jimmy may have been psyched about the goddamn tournament, I was sick to my stomach, and felt as if I had just eaten a plate of slugs.
“This is the first year that the all-round winner gets to keep the prize money. No more charity donations required,” Jimmy said. “I think it’s gonna be like four thousand bucks! So maybe we’ll see you out there?”
Not on your life, I thought. But all I did was shrug.
“Word is there may be reps from the big surf companies coming this year, looking for new surfers to sponsor.”
“Reps?” Sara demanded, coming around the front of the Jeep. “From which companies?”
“I dunno exactly,” Jimmy said.
Sara looked at me. “So? Maybe this year you’ll try?”
Since my surf tournament disaster six years before, all discussions of competitions had been short-lived, exasperated exchanges. Over the years, I had developed a backbone when it came to my mother; at sixteen, I could usually give as good as she gave. What she didn’t know was how desperately I wished there were a cure for my performance anxiety, for my brand of shy. If only I could be rid of my Shy-Person-Type-B disease, take on the world, and make my mother—and myself—proud.
I shook my head. “No. No. Triple No.”
“Oh God,” Sara groaned. “You’re impossible!” Walking back to her side of the Jeep, Sara resumed her show. The men in the parking lot were clearly riveted as she shimmied into her skintight rash guard and pulled butt-hugging board shorts over her Brazilian-style bikini bottom. I wondered which guy, if any, might score some post-surf-session private time with my mom.
“Sorry,” Jimmy said. “I just thought—”
“Whatever, Jimmy,” I said. “Thanks for thinking of me.”
Chapter Three
The rest of our morning surf session prep passed in stony silence, until Sara cried, “Oh my god! There’s Steve Mezzi!” A muscular guy with a gray buzz cut was hoisting a short board out of the back of his slick red convertible. “You remember Steve, the lawyer from Long Beach, don’t you?” Before I could muster a response, Sara left in a whiff of heated sunscreen.
Sara was an incredible surfer, and, occasionally, an okay mother, but her guy-centric behavior sent me over the edge. There were times that I wanted to scream, “Why can’t you just be normal like other moms? Why do you have to behave like a flirty, love-obsessed teenager?” But speaking my mind with anyone—even Sara—was not my forte.
Offshore winds and warm water meant summer, but so did Sara’s surf-seasonal affairs. Few ever lasted longer than a couple of weeks, and only I had to endure the fall-out. To the rest of the world, my mother was easygoing Sara Dugan, a veteran romance junkie, always up for a good time. If only it were that simple.
In younger years, I also got carried away with the
possibilities and promises each new romance seemed to offer. I wanted Sara to find true love almost as much as she did—we were both dreamers, Sara and I. But now I was nearly seventeen, and had grown increasingly embarrassed by Sara’s constant man-hunting. My dreams, now, were reserved for Wavehouses.
While my mother fluttered and flapped in front of Steve, I grabbed my board and ran down the beach to find my own spot among the waves. The tide was low, which meant negotiating over fifty feet of slimy rocks before the water got deep enough to lay a surfboard and paddle out. Even the best surfers slipped on these rocks at Early’s, like clowns on banana peels. “Watching the Falls” was a local tradition, a spectator sport where boards dropped and buff bodies went kerplop. Surfers and just plain regular folk sat on the beach to clap and laugh at every fall. I never laughed at anyone, but I had slipped on the rocks a few times. It was a rite of passage—a painful and humiliating one, and every time I had to walk out over those rocks at low tide, I prayed I would make it without a tumble.
In spite of my performance anxiety, I couldn’t care less if I messed up on a wave at Early’s. Everyone in Kendall’s Watch had seen me ripping on waves like an Easy Slide zipper for years, so I didn’t have anything to prove. Plus, I surfed so far away from the pack that even if some a-hole did laugh at my rare surf mess-ups, I didn’t have to hear it. But on land? On the rocky entrance to Early’s? I never got used to that form of shame.
Wrapping my leash around the board, I gingerly tested each rock with the ball of my foot before committing to a weight-bearing step. Avoiding rocks with a slimy, green sheen, and those speckled with sharp mussel shells, I managed to make it to the water without any slips. In thigh-high water, I attached my leash. Lying belly-to-board, I paddled out toward the relative safety of the calm ocean beyond the sizable swells. Churning my arms like the wheels of a steamboat, I avoided a five-foot wall of water about to break over my head.
My surfboard was a narrow teal-blue beauty with a sharp nose and thin rails, just about my size: five feet, eight inches of fiberglass and foam to my five feet, six inches of muscle
and bone. Once I’d made it through the swell, I headed toward my own semi-private spot, which I had privately named Surf Siberia. As I passed a cluster of local surfers, I gave a few quick smiles and nods, but paddled rapidly by. While they found comfort in numbers, I was happier by myself, even if the waves in Surf Siberia didn’t compare to the A-frames rolling in at the main break that morning. I’d rather ride bumpy, less consistent waves than jockey with twenty other surfers for those perfect peelers.
“Hey, Super Surfer Girl!”
“Hi there, Shredder!”
As usual, certain guys I knew wouldn’t let me pass without some kind-hearted grilling. The older surfers in Kendall’s Watch—the guys who had grown up with Sara—whose partying days had long since been traded in for wives and kids and tourist-industry jobs, had nicknamed me Super Surfer Girl and Shredder. The nasty teenage boys—some of whom were these nice guys’ sons—called me Idiot Surfant. I guess they couldn’t relate to my no-frills, no-chatter, no-hype approach. I was a weirdo to surfers my own age—a loner with bobbed black hair, eyes too close together, and monkey arms. But I could out-maneuver them all.
“Yo, Anna! Get your butt over here and surf with us for a change!” Phil Agnew hollered, a powerful shortboarder who had almost gone pro in the 90s, but instead took over his family’s landscaping business.
“Put these assholes to shame, Dugan!” Michael Flannigan—Jimmy’s dad— yelled.
These men, who had known me since I was a baby, were always inviting me to join them. I guess since I didn’t have a father they felt like they had to watch over me. While I occasionally surfed with them in the off-season, in August—when the water was filled to the brim with surfers of every age, shape, size, and ability—I preferred to go off by myself. Besides, Sara, in her tiny board shorts and form-fitting rash guard, would soon be positioning herself in their midst—more than making up for my absence. I smiled, waved, and kept on my merry way.
From Surf Siberia, I could look even farther east toward the unpopulated coastline of Kendall’s Watch, to land that had been protected from development since before I was born; with sheer rock cliffs, brush and pine, and the occasional hawk careening out of the trees, the view was beautiful.
Staring out to sea, I waited for the waves. There is a lot of downtime during surfing, lots of time to ponder the wonders of the universe, obsess about your shitty, fabulous, okay, or complicated life, or just enjoy the calmness and serenity of the ocean.
This particular morning, I got into a groove with a nice three-footer coming to me at a go-with-the-flow pace.
Paddling for it, I eased to standing, slid down the face of the wave, carved up and down in a whipped design, then cut back deep into the wave—like a knife through butter.
The next wave was bigger, perhaps five feet in height, but already forming a bunch of threatening mini-peaks, like it couldn’t decide where it wanted to break. This was typical of waves in Surf Siberia, where the ocean floor was rocky and uneven and the waves responded in kind, often more like whirlpool splash than swell. This one was a big, swirling mess with no clear entry point—a walled-up bruiser about to crash over me in a churlish splat unless I moved quickly. Paddling rapidly, I managed to get to the wave’s shoulder where I caught a short but intense drop, and popped up inches away from the foaming lip. I regained my footing, only to be consumed by a gnarly stew that sent me and my board tumbling a short, bumpy distance. The ride had been short and not all that sweet; more like crash and burn.
Losing it, taking chances, and getting creamed were all part of the deal for me. Surfing cruddy waves was often harder, and better practice, than consistently surfing clean waves. Once the mishmash calmed, I hoisted myself back on my board and paddled back to my spot.
Wave number three was a beauty, six feet on the face with a nice peaky lip that would hold me tight. The drop was steep, so hoisting my hips in the air and landing my feet in a solid stance was a snap. This wave was a playdate, not a battle, and, hugging the curl, I trailed my fingers along the inside of my barreling friend, tickling the wave, and reveling in our shared speed. Then, pushing out in front, we played follow the leader, the wave and I. Eventually, however, the wave began to lose juice, as all waves sadly must; I milked it the last stretch with a few carves, shifting my hips one way, my shoulders the other. Then, finally, charging down, I snapped back up over the crumbling face and softly touched down—a falling leaf on a glassy pond. The game was over. It was time to paddle out and find another friend.
Propelling myself through the water, I saw something strange: a surfer at Chompers. Around the next cove to the east, was a really gnarly break referred to by locals as Chompers, named due to the giant teeth-like rocks that threatened to end any decent ride by tearing your board, your body—or both—apart. No one surfed there, it just wasn’t worth the effort or the risk; and it was a bitch to get to: a ten-minute paddle against the current from Early’s, with no other entry or exit point along the coastline.
That guy is crazy or stupid or both, I thought. He’s gonna kill himself. I’d better warn him.
Paddling over, I saw a set beginning to form, with telltale humps rising on the horizon. Being in a safe zone, I stopped, but freaked out when I saw the lunatic surfer paddling out for a ride.
“Oh shit!” I cried. “Don’t do it!” He didn’t hear me; I was still too far away, but could tell by his paddling that he was no beginner.
It was clear this guy had serious surf chops. When the wave jacked up, looking as ominous and hell-munching as any wave at Chompers had a right to look, this crazy man was ready for action. He was a master, managing to catch the steep mess of the wave in a smooth pop-up with a graceful stance that kept him flying. Once in the chomping area, he maneuvered himself between the rocks like a slalom skier, keeping his ride going in zigs and zags, and ending in a smooth, glorious finale slide.
This master surfer then paddled calmly back out—as if nothing special had happened. Then, suddenly, he veered in my direction.
I was a jumble of conflicting desires. The shy me hoped he would paddle past, toward the regular Early’s break. Don’t stop, I thought. No pit stops in Surf Siberia, please. I don’t play well with others. The Super-Surfer-Girl-Shredder me, who had seldom seen such talent, wanted a closer look at this guy.
The stranger stopped short, just at the edge of the cove where he was still hidden from view of the beach. He was close enough that I could now see him clearly. He looked young, around my own age, with dark skin, wild, curly shoulder-length hair, and white teeth that flashed a broad smile. Raising one arm in a wave, he revealed one of those male torsos that belong in a fancy underwear ad or on a statue in a museum.
I sat on my board, totally agog.
He waved again; he must have thought I hadn’t seen him the first time. I tentatively lifted my own hand in a tepid, shy girl return.
Resuming his paddling, he headed east, away from me.
Don’t go! I wanted to yell—an urge that took me completely by surprise. When had I ever wanted another surfer to stay? I watched him until he disappeared behind the next bend in the coastline. It was as if he had emerged from somewhere in the mid-Atlantic and then just as quickly disappeared; like he was a selkie, or a merman, or some other type of exotic sea creature.
Or maybe he was just a loner—like me.
Chapter Four
After recovering from my alien surfer sighting, I went back to my spot in Surf Siberia, catching four more waves—two beauties, and two silly rides to nowhere; each one as good to me as I was to them. I was happy in my carefree zone. But my go-with-the-flow, serenity surf ended with the sound of Sara’s high-pitched girl-giggle.
Sound carries across the ocean in a manner that can be disconcerting. Most surfers know to keep their voices low, unless they want their conversation telegraphed all over town. Sara, surrounded by a bunch of guys, was just laughing but her giggles carried all the way to my quiet spot and somehow undid my easygoing time.
When the next set of waves approached, I watched Sara instead of taking off on my own. She was set up perfectly; the first wave was hers, if she wanted it.
My kick-ass surfer mom paddled faster and better than any of the guys around her, went for the wave, and nailed it. Graceful and strong, she leapt to her feet with the lightness of a fairy; but once she got going, she charged like a bull. Her back and shoulders were powerful, and her arms moved with the precision of a Kung Fu master. Many women surf with their butts sticking out—even if they’re really good surfers, which makes them look like they’re taking a dump. Sara never stuck her butt out. Her back was always nicely curved, her pelvis tipped perfectly forward.
Her ride ended with a typical Sara flourish: turning from her board and swan-diving back into the wave instead of cutting back with her board under her feet. That was Sara, always out for the big effect. As she started paddling back to her adoring fans, I shifted my gaze to my own little slice of ocean.
“Yo, Super Surfer.” Jimmy Flannigan startled me from behind. He’d paddled over undetected while I’d been deep in a wave-waiting trance, mesmerized by the undulating surface of the ocean for the bajillionith time.
“Yo, Jimmy,” I sighed. “What are you doing over here? Do me a favor and go back to your friends. Leave me to my sub-par waves.”
“Just thought I would let you know someone was looking for you,” he said.
“Someone who?”
“A scout for the Stella Junior Women’s Pro Tour. Dude is asking everybody if they know Anna Dugan, and if so, where he might find her in the line-up. Said he’d heard she was worth watching.”
“Yeah, right, Jimmy. You’re so funny that I forgot to laugh.”
“No kidding, Anna.” Jimmy’s expression was serious, and he had called me by my real name.
My heart flip-flopped. I swallowed hard. Jimmy grinned. “And everyone’s told him it’s true. You are worth watching.”
“Does my mother know?” I asked.
“I told her just now. She’s the one who sent me over to tell you.”
I looked back at Sara and her posse. They were waving, shouting my name, hooting, and pointing. Sara, with both arms pumping victory style, was the most conspicuous.
“He’s probably here because of your YouTube clip,” said Jimmy. “I was gonna say ‘way to go’ about that in the parking lot, but I could tell you didn’t want to talk.”
“What YouTube clip?”
“The one of you shredding like the d
emon beast you are; that YouTube clip. Who shot it by the way? Awesome camera work.”
“Jimmy, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“So, you don’t know about The Surfing Siren?”
“What’s the surfing siren?”
“Not what,” Jimmy said. “Who. A siren is, like, one of those beautiful half-bird, half-woman creatures that lured sailors in the olden days with their bodacious voices. Kevin Claussen told me about them. He knows all about fables, and myths and shit.”
I stared at him dumbfounded.
Someone had filmed me surfing without my knowledge? It had to have been Sara, or someone she had hired. Squinting toward the beach, I saw the usual combo of dog walkers, surfers, and morning joggers. “Is that scout guy still there?”
“Nah. Dude drove off in his fancy SUV. Couldn’t get a good enough visual of you over here in this slosh-fest you love so hard. Said he’d come back mañana.”
I was trembling. This was too much to take in, and I needed to think. All I wanted was to find a nice big rock to hide under. Or at least a safe ride home. “Later, Jimmy,” I said and began paddling back to shore.
“Hey, Dugan. The waves are the other way,” Jimmy yelled.
“They’re all yours,” I called back.
I had to pass my mother and her guys to reach the shore. I wanted to paddle over to her and scream bloody murder; I would have, but for all those strangers hovering around her, shielding her from my fury.
Wavehouse Page 3