“I don’t know how you do it,” I admitted. “How you watch her on waves that dangerous and unpredictable.”
Caleb grimaced at whatever he was seeing.
“What is it?” I asked.
“She’s fine,” he said. “She just bailed on a wave at the last second. Either her instincts told her to, or she got nervous, which isn’t really like her.”
My own instincts told me it was the latter and that it had something to do with the crunchy-granola assholes behind us.
“But to answer your question, I think it all goes back to being there with her from the very beginning, seeing her at twelve on that board like she was born to do it. And even after my training with the Coast Guard, and all the years I’ve spent in that same ocean, my little sister is still more at ease than half of the rescue divers I work with. Not because they’re bad. Because she’s that good. My job asks me to understand tragedy and the ocean’s very fickle nature. So I know I can’t predict accidents. I can, however, trust that she knows what she’s doing out there.”
Dora had said something similar back at the pool. All those arguments, when I was terrified something bad would happen to her while surfing, did she feel like I didn’t trust her? Because nothing could have been further from the truth. But it certainly would explain her frustrations with me.
The crowd started the early rumblings of a cheer that then dissolved into sounds of disappointment. I didn’t even have to ask.
“She bailed again,” Caleb said. “I think it might be nerves.”
I peered discreetly over my shoulder at Marty Lattimore. He didn’t seem fazed by Serena’s performance. He was talking excitedly with a group of people, hands on his hips like he was about to lead them on a field expedition.
“I worry… I worried about her, constantly,” I said.
“Me too,” Caleb replied. “I’ve learned that you can worry about someone while trusting them at the same time. It’s not easy, but it’s possible.”
I peered up from the sand to find Caleb watching me.
“I taught my sister every single thing I learned in my training. And everything she learned, she taught me. We know that water, the sheer power of it, and we respect it. Always.”
I nodded and squeezed his shoulder. “I know you do. And I know she does too.”
As he turned his attention back to his sister, I risked another glance behind me. Marty was now studying the water, where Serena was, and he did not look friendly.
It was quick—only for a moment and concealed just as fast.
But Marty had stared at Serena like he absolutely hated her.
19
Serena
Prue was towing me toward the next set, about two minutes out, situated over a deep, cold channel. It was why this part of Trestles Beach could sustain monster waves that frequently measured thirty feet and often higher.
I was sprawled on the back of my board with my fingers wrapped tight around the handle that tethered me to Prue’s jet ski. With the waves as heavy and unpredictable as they were, towing out was the safest way to make it past the break without tiring your arms while paddling.
I was going to need every ounce of strength I had. I’d already bailed on the first two waves and by my own count had less than nine minutes remaining on my heat.
We raced through the water, Prue instinctively heading alongside the barrels starting to form. I was so happy she was the one behind that engine right now—trust in this situation was paramount, but so was communication. I knew she’d understand when I wanted to let go and when I wanted to bail. The seconds that existed between making those two choices were precious, and I needed her to act quickly every time.
The wave approaching us was smooth and glassy and curling up fast. Prue gunned it as we hit a patch of bumpy water, and I held on tight to keep from flying off. That smooth wave became a wall of water, and for a fleeting second, I thought I was going to have to fall off my board and dive beneath it.
But Prue hit the curve hard, whipping me behind her, and suddenly I was angled just shy of ninety degrees. My stomach dropped and a cold sweat broke out on my skin. It wasn’t that I hadn’t paddled right up the face of a wave before. It was that you had to nail the timing just right if you didn’t want the lip of the wave to catch you and send you tumbling over backwards.
The few times that had happened to me had been some of my most terrifying wipeouts. To free-fall into a churning ocean and then have the wave crash down on you and then have the force of it whip you up and around like a rag doll wasn’t an experience I wanted to relive.
“Go, go, go,” I yelled at Prue. I knew not to look behind me and see how high above the water we were. Her ski broke the top of the wave, and I joined her a second after, and then we were rocketing in front of a freshly curling barrel.
If there was a time for me to go, it was now. I caught her head turn slightly, a nonverbal question of yes? I was going to miss it if I didn’t pull the trigger, but my mind was stuck on an anxious spin cycle.
You got lucky at Jaws, and everyone’s gonna know it at Trestles.
This bitch can’t surf for shit.
We know you have it.
I forced out an angry breath and went to push up. Prue was clearly waiting for me, holding us in front of the wave while I was indecisive.
“Go,” I yelled again, waving my hand so she could see it. She revved up fast so I could use her momentum.
I looked down.
I shouldn’t have.
Most surfers, myself included, had a respect for heights, a deep fascination with how high you could go. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel fear—though that was often speculated about extreme athletes—it was that I understood the difference between healthy apprehension and your gut telling you don’t do it.
Because we were too high, the angle too steep, and if my board went over that ledge, there was no doubt in my mind I’d be nosediving into the water.
In the mayhem and doubt, I’d let go of the handle. Now I reached so far, I almost fell off my board, balanced on the edge of a thirty-foot wave. I screamed for Prue. Through sheer luck, my fingers closed around the leather and held, but I almost plunged over.
She turned, saw me, and immediately corrected, driving us away from an oncoming set through a spray of harsh white water. When she stopped, she twisted around in her seat.
“Are you okay?” she yelled.
I nodded, gave a thumbs-up. Talking was impossible out here. It was too loud. But I gave her the universal keep going hand gesture.
She waited a beat, probably to see if I’d change my mind. But then we were back and racing towards the next set. I wasn’t sure how much time I’d lost on that last wave—goddammit—and I needed to catch at least one to not be a total embarrassment. The next set seemed decent. The barrels weren’t as tall or as clean, but they would have to do.
We dashed up and over the first wave as the second one began forming. She dragged me along the foamy edge and this time, I allowed myself to think of Cope.
Cope, laughing with me on our bed. Kissing me beneath the shower spray. Gazing at me in that Vegas wedding chapel as I said, “I do.”
“Go, go, go,” I yelled, letting go for real this time. The water was already frothy as I pushed up with steady hands and went right over the lip.
There was nothing in the world like going over the edge of a twenty-five-foot wave. The tip of my board slid down a steep side of water, and the sting of the spray slapped my face.
Balanced on light feet, I dropped all the way down the face with the roar of a steam engine in my ears. I could sense the barrel starting to curl over me as the force of the water propelled me twenty, thirty miles an hour. Grinning, my fingers trailed through the water as my heart slammed hard in my chest, and every muscle of my body worked to keep me upright.
To my left, the wave started to break, sending up more spray. All I could see was the dark blue of the barrel and the white foam. My feet wobbled, my board wobbled, b
ut then the wave shot me clean through the end as whitewater crashed alongside me.
San Diego’s bright blue sky hurtled into my vision as my velocity eased, and I arced my board away from the rest of the wave. I hailed Prue, already on her way, and dropped cleanly into the ocean. I only submerged for a second—anything longer wasn’t safe—but I popped up, wiped the salt from my eyes. She pulled up a few moments later.
“You’re a bad bitch, Serena Swift,” she yelled with a grin. I whooped, grabbed hold of the handle, and let her haul me all the way to shore. I was out of breath but totally wired, and my body was pumping so much adrenaline through my veins I could have stayed out there for hours. Instead, we coasted up easy onto the sand. A few competition assistants grabbed my board for me, and I threw my arm around Prue’s shoulders as she jumped off the ski. I kissed her cheek, and she laughed.
“Did you see it?” I asked, out of breath.
“No, but I’m guessing Kalei did.”
A whirl of motion with black hair almost knocked me back into the water.
“You were amazing,” Kalei squealed. Then she kissed her wife properly on the lips. “And you were queen of the jet skis.”
She pressed a cell phone into my still shaking hands. Kalei leaned down and pressed Play. I saw a very, very tiny version of myself paddle fast, press up. I went over the wave like it was second nature, looking strong. Powerful. I disappeared into the barrel, and it was shocking seeing such a heavy curtain of water hide me from the world but still protect me in the end.
There was a bright burst of white foam, and then there I was, crouched low and holding the edge of my board. The camera flipped around, revealing Kalei jumping in the air and screaming with a group of our friends.
My hand flew to my mouth, eyes filling with rare tears of relief. And when I scanned the small collection of onlookers waiting for us on the beach, it wasn’t my friends or even my brother that I searched for desperately.
Cope stood frozen in his formal bodyguard position. He lifted his sunglasses slowly. A charming smile appeared on his face.
I returned it.
20
Serena
An hour later, after Caleb, Prue, and Kalei left, I stood next to Cope and waited for the judges to announce the winner of the women’s big wave competition. Despite the threats and secrets and scandal happening in the background of this day, my most pressing concern was whether I won.
The competition judge grabbed for the microphone at the podium and began announcing the first, second, and third place winners. Malia Kim, a mentor of mine, took first place, and two good friends received the others. I jumped up and down with joy, cheering their names and clapping before I realized that my name hadn’t also been called.
Turns out, I didn’t win.
Not even close.
I came in seventh.
My phone buzzed, and I was instantly cautious. But it was only Dora with a message: You did a great job, kid, and I’m really proud of you.
I smiled and pressed the phone over my heart, appreciating her kindness amid the chaos. Once, a few months after she and a lawyer friend helped me with my emancipation, I’d admitted to her that my parents never said they were proud of anything Caleb and I had done. I was barely fifteen and told her it didn’t matter to me, that I’d have to learn to be proud of myself if no one else was.
Shortly after, she made it a point to share her pride in anything and everything that I did, no matter how small.
And I learned that it did matter to me.
I turned it on at the gym and watched it with the regulars, her next text read. They couldn’t stop talking about how incredible you were.
I blinked down at the screen, my racing thoughts finally catching up. That’s right. It wasn’t only the spectators in the audience who had seen me bail on wave after wave because I was too in my head. It wasn’t just supporters either. Men like Kyle and Chase, who doubted my talents and abilities, had also seen it or would read about it tomorrow. The people who’d written nasty YouTube comments, the famous surfers who’d declared me reckless and undeserving. Even Aerial had proclaimed me the surfer to watch and thrown a giant spotlight on my face for all to see.
And I had lost.
I had certainly held my own during my first elite event, surfing alongside some of the best women big wave surfers in the world, people I admired, who had mentored me on my journey. Seventh place should have felt like a badge of honor.
Instead, I only felt a surge of failure, a spike of embarrassment, and then, finally, anger.
I dropped my phone back into my bag as a dull fury coursed through me. Although this time I was mad at myself. Mad at my own distraction and self-doubt out there. Mad that I hadn’t trusted my own skill, that I’d let the opinions of others dictate my success.
Cope’s arm brushed against mine. He’d stood next to me—silent and still—during the whole ceremony. Now, he leaned down and whispered, “Would you like me to punch the ocean in the face for you, Ms. Swift?”
It startled a grateful laugh out of me. “Thank you, but the ocean wasn’t the problem this time. It was me.”
He cleared his throat, drawing my attention to his pensive expression. “I know it isn’t scientifically accurate, but my dad used to say that some days the ocean just hated your fucking guts.”
“He used to say that?” I asked, delighted. Cope was always deliberate about which memories he shared of his father. Each reveal was meaningful.
“Oh, yeah. It would make me and Billie laugh and laugh to hear him come home and say, ‘Well, I don’t know what I did to piss the ocean off, but she gave me the worst waves and pushed me right off my board.’” He very gently nudged my shoulder with his. “Sounds like you must have flirted with the ocean’s boyfriend or something. She gave you all the worst waves.”
My ire cooled down a little, and my shoulders relaxed. “In my defense, her boyfriend is very cute.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that,” he said with a wink.
Marty and Dave appeared in my line of sight so abruptly I startled back an inch. Only Cope’s steady hand kept me from falling.
“Serena,” Dave said. “Nicely done out there. Just a beautiful performance.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Their posture was relaxed and happy, which only upped the weirdness of the moment. The cold truth of what Cope told me earlier and the threat of that text message tied my stomach into hard knots.
Not every publicly ethical company is ethical behind closed doors.
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” I managed.
Marty touched my elbow, and I felt—rather than saw—Cope’s hackles go up. “And it’s really okay that you didn’t win. We’re investing in you as a person, a champion for change. Medals will come and go.”
I swallowed thickly. That was a nice thing to say. But I no longer believed these brothers were nice.
“That’s very true,” I said. I took another step backward until Cope’s palm steadied me again.
Dave rubbed his hands together. “Exciting news. While you were surfing, officials called The Wedge for two days from now.”
My jaw dropped. “In two days?”
He nodded. “They say the perfect waves will be firing in forty-eight hours. And we know Aerial’s newest ambassador is going to crush it.”
The waves at The Wedge were famous for their peaked shape, formed by the rock jetty that caused huge sets of water to converge into steep, sharply pointed pinnacles.
They were gorgeous. They were highly erratic. And they created a powerful backwash that could suck a person back into the break if they didn’t swim their way free or sink below the surge.
The timing sucked though. My body usually needed more than just a day of rest. But we were surfers, beholden to the weather and forever bound to our god: the surf report.
“I’ll certainly try,” I said. “And you two will be there as well?”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Marty
said. “Plus we’d like to do a more formal press conference about the Barcelona Olympics at The Wedge, have you there doing more interviews.”
“Speaking of,” Dave continued. “Before you go greet those adoring fans, let’s get you in front of the local Channel Six news for a quick taped interview. You good? You feel ready? Do you need anything? Water?”
Marty and Dave peppered me with questions as Cope and I, dazed, followed them to a reporter and camera man standing beneath the Aerial company banner.
“It’s okay, I’m fine,” I said slowly, even as my thoughts were a jumbled mess of confusion and resentment. Was I about to represent a company that lied? And what did it mean that I was their new spokeswoman?
But there wasn’t a second to dig my heels in or hesitate. The Lattimore brothers shoved me in front of a microphone before I’d even caught my breath.
The reporter was a younger woman with light tan skin and short, curly black hair. “Serena Swift? I’m Rosa Hernández with Channel Six news. This is a taped interview we’ll be doing with Dave and Marty, so if you mess up don’t worry. We’ll be editing this for time either way.”
I tucked a strand of hair back into my high ponytail and hoped that I appeared somewhat presentable. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ll try not to mess up too badly.”
She pursed her lips but didn’t respond, touching her earpiece. She nodded at whoever was speaking to her, and then her face lit up with an easy-going smile. “We’re here today with hometown heroes David and Marty Lattimore, the founders of Aerial, and their new ambassador, pro surfer Serena Swift.” The mic flew right back to me. “Serena, you did not win, even though you were favored to by a lot of people here today. How does that feel?”
My eyebrow arched of its own accord before I reigned in my original response. “I wanted to win, of course, especially since Aerial is doing so much for my career. But I was up against some incredible athletes today, so it was really an honor just to compete alongside them.”
Out of the Blue Page 14