by Paul Mosier
“This must be the place,” Summer says. She lays her board on the sand, just before where it gets damp, pointing it at the sea. “Lay your board next to mine.”
I do.
She gestures at the ocean. “Obviously when we’re surfing we’ll be facing the shore instead of the sea, but looking at the water is nicer.”
“Right.”
“But first we have to pray to the surf gods.” She drops and sits cross-legged on her board, doing a sort of lotus pose with her eyes closed. I stand watching until she opens her eyes and frowns at me. “Come on! You mustn’t anger them.”
I look around us and see that practically everyone is watching Summer, but for the usual reasons. She seems to be pulling it off, this weird behavior, so I lower myself to the pink board and sit cross-legged.
“Opposable thumbs!” Summer barks.
I comply, making loops of my index fingers and thumbs, the backs of my hands resting on my knees. Like I’m meditating in some temple with incense and gongs.
Summer glances at me and smiles. “Repeat after me. Oh, gods of the waves.”
“Do we have to do this?”
“Only if you want to catch a wave.”
I’m still frowning.
“And this worked pretty well when Hank taught me to surf.”
It’s impossible to refuse when she puts it that way. I sit up straight.
“Repeat. Oh, gods of the waves.”
“Oh, gods of the waves.”
“Neptune, Little Mermaid, Charlie Tuna, legions of sea monkeys.”
“Neptune, Little Mermaid, Charlie Tuna, and sea monkeys.”
“Please allow me to bum a ride on the sick crest of your fury.”
“Please allow me to bum a ride on the sick crest of your fury.”
“And do no harm to my cute friend Juillet.” In the corner of my eye I see her smiling.
“And do no harm to my friend Summer.”
“Boom shaka-laka.”
“Boom shaka-laka.”
She jumps to her feet, and I stand. She shows me how to attach the leash of the surfboard to my back ankle. Then she begins instructing me on how to position myself on the board before the wave comes, either on my knees or lying down on my belly. How to cup my hands to paddle fastest when the wave comes. She gets back to her feet, and so do I.
“The surf schools teach people to pop up with this one, two, three, four thing. But by the time you go through all the positions and get to four you’re either crushed or the wave has left you behind. You really need to just throw yourself from position one to position four.”
“Will I be able to do that?”
Summer swings her arm toward me, taps my shoulder. “Of course! Probably. Those yoga poses have built up your strength. And all the boogie boarding. Okay, watch me.”
She lies back down, belly to her board. She looks over her shoulder.
“Okay, here comes the wave. I scoop the water to get some speed. Left, right, left, right. When it kisses my toes, just before it stands me on my nose, I throw myself from position one to position four.”
Like a spring she flies to a crouched position, feet parallel. She rises slowly, unbending until she is half-standing.
“Both my feet are straddling the spine of the board. Front foot right in the middle. Back one about a foot’s length from the end of the tail.”
She shows me how the surf pose is similar to the warrior pose, but with both hands pointing forward, my right arm across my body. She calls it the surf warrior. She says that putting more weight on my front foot makes me go faster, and more pressure on my back foot slows me down. She says that steering is pretty much like a skateboard. She tells me that after I ride the wave in, I should bail in the shallow water rather than come up on the sand, which is fine with a boogie board but apparently not with surfing.
“You’re gonna wipe out every now and then,” she says. It’s the first thing she’s said that I’m sure I can do. “And when you do, you wanna try to go backward, and throw your arms and legs out to slow you down.” She takes a step toward me, and speaks with an uncharacteristic seriousness. “If by any chance you fall forward, especially headfirst, cover your face and head with your arms. Like this.” She puts her hands on the back of her head, her elbows pointing at me. “Show me.”
I do what she did. Like my arms are a bicycle helmet.
Summer nods. “Good. Now let’s practice the pop-up.”
It’s my turn to get on my belly, palms facedown on the board beneath my ribs.
“Okay, your position is good. Look over your shoulder.”
I look over my shoulder. I see the snack bar, but I pretend I see a wave rising.
“Scoop some water. This one looks primo.”
I scoop at the sand, picking up speed on an imaginary swell.
“Palms to the deck!”
I bring my hands beneath my ribs on the board, my palms flat but flexed, ready to spring.
“Jump!”
I throw myself to my feet, twisting to my right. Miraculously I land in a crouch, and though I almost lose my balance and fall back on the sand, I stay on my feet. I rise to the surf warrior and move my arms to the left, toward the nose of the board.
“Betty! That was amazing!” Summer walks in a circle around me, observing my form. “But don’t stand too quickly,” she says. “Unbend your knees slowly so you can make sure you’re properly balanced. You don’t want to be anywhere close to vertical until after the drop.”
“The drop?”
“Yeah, that’s when you ride down the face of the wave. It happens really fast, but it’s the best part. If you can stay on the board through the drop, you’ve got a good chance of having a killer ride.”
I keep listening to everything she says as I practice lying facedown on the board, paddling scoops of sand that we’re pretending are water, then popping up, rising slowly, adjusting my feet like I’m riding a skateboard. Not too far forward on the deck, and not too far back. But the whole time I’m practicing, I’m thinking about how she told the surf gods I was her cute friend, but I just told them she was my friend, instead of calling her gorgeous, or beautiful.
After half an hour of practicing the pop-up, my arms and shoulders are exhausted.
“Photo shoot!” Summer announces, and crawls to her bag, takes her phone from it. “Okay, stand on your board and face the shore.”
“We’re on the shore.”
“You know what I mean. Look at the snack shack.”
I look at the snack shack.
“Adjust your feet or you’ll go over the falls. You might go over the falls anyway, but at least look like you’re trying to ride a wave.”
I put my left foot in front, parallel to my right, both straddling the spine and pointing to the side. Knees bent, like I’m between sitting and standing.
She raises her phone, the one that has no service plan and a cracked screen.
“Now look determined. But happy.”
I smile. I hold the pose. But Summer frowns and lowers the phone.
“This is no good. Your hair is dry.” She looks around. “Don’t move.”
I do move, just a little, standing straight as I watch Summer borrow a sandcastle bucket from a kid nearby. She dips it in a wave that rolls in to accommodate her. As she turns back toward me, she reaches down for a clump of seaweed, then runs to my side.
I look at the little yellow bucket. “Are you planning on dumping that water on my head?”
She dumps the seawater on my head. “Am I what?”
I wait for the water to fall past my face, then open my eyes. She’s grinning. She raises the seaweed and drapes it from my hair, across my face.
“Seriously?”
“Oh, this is gonna be epic.” She arranges the seaweed, curls it around my eye, across my cheekbone. She backs away and raises her phone. “Bend your knees.” She squints my way. “Watch out for the waders who’ve strayed into the surf zone. Now pretend there’s a shark.”
<
br /> My arms fall to my sides. “You said the Big Kahuna scared them away.”
“He did. Well, the one he punched, anyway.” She sees my dismay. “Okay, no sharks. Pretend there’s a depth charge.”
“A what?”
“Never mind. Just keep smiling, like you’re riding the best wave ever. Great. One more.” She lowers her phone. “Perfect.”
I stand straight. I pull the seaweed from my hair and face. “Will you send me those pictures?” I’m thinking I’ll show them to Fern, if she’ll ever talk to me again.
“I can’t,” Summer says. She reaches down for her bag, and drops her phone inside. “Remember? No service plan.”
“Ugh. Why don’t you have a plan?” As soon as it comes out of my mouth I regret it. Maybe money is too tight in her family? But she seems to spend money pretty freely.
Then Summer turns from me to face the shore. She stares out at the waves, past the waves, past everything. She solemnly marches down to the smooth, wet sand. Bending down, she writes something with her index finger, moving to her right as she forms the big words. Then she turns back toward me and pauses on her way to her beach bag, her board.
“I never wanna see another text message,” she says.
I reach for her but I’m too slow. She’s already passed by. So I look toward the water’s edge as a wave comes in and washes away the words written in the sand—washes them away so she never has to see them again.
Hurry home! Hank is hurt.
20
THE NEXT DAY we’re out past the break zone, in the calm beyond the place where the waves originate. Swells roll beneath us, heading toward the beach, but they don’t break until they’ve left us behind. I’m facedown on Summer’s pink surfboard. She’s beside me on Hank’s, sea-foam green.
“Okay,” she says. “Show me your pop-up. Here comes the wave.”
I look out to sea.
“Not really,” she says. “We’re just practicing.”
I look at my hands gripping the rails, which is the surfer word for the sides of the board. “Are my hands good?”
Summer shakes her head. “Hanging on to the rails is perfect when you’re boogie boarding, and when you’re duck diving through waves on your surfboard, or paddling out to the break zone. But remember that to pop up on your surfboard, you start with your hands flat on the board beneath your ribs, head peeled up to admire the beach you’re about to land on, then spring up to a crouch, all in the blink of an eye.”
I sigh. Then I take a deep breath, flatten my palms beneath my ribs, and quickly push myself up. But the deck squirts out from under me and I fall back into the water. My board would have flown away if it weren’t leashed to my ankle.
“Good try,” she says. “Toes to the nose just a little bit more. Bring your left foot a little further forward and make sure your balance is good before you rise.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know you are. You’re doing great. And remember, you can’t catch a wave without falling off a few times first.”
“I know, I know.”
I pull myself back on the board, again and again.
Again and again my imbalance throws me off.
“I think I’ve got the falling-off part figured out.”
“One more try,” she says. “Almost there.”
I don’t believe her, but I do it anyway. I flatten my palms beneath my ribs, then arc them, and this time I feel like instead of bringing my knees and feet forward to get my left foot in front, I’m dragging the board back toward me. I land on my feet, fully crouched, then unbend myself just a little.
I can’t believe it. I’m standing on a surfboard in the middle of the ocean. The continent kneels before me.
“Betty!” she shouts. “You did it!”
I grin, then look down at my feet. My left foot is in front, my right foot is in back. They look like they’re ready for action.
Then the board squirts away from me and I drop with a plunk into the deep water.
Summer laughs. I laugh too, because now I know I can do this. I did it once, I can do it again.
I do until my arms and shoulders are exhausted.
“Smell that?” Summer asks. “That offshore wind is making the waves mushy, and it’s also advertising the treats of the snack bar. I’m ready for a portobello burger.” She breathes deeply into her nose. “And onion rings.”
That sounds really good. But. “Aren’t we gonna try to catch a wave first?”
She smiles. “Really? Haven’t you had enough for today? ’Cause I’m starving just from watching you fall off your board.”
I splash her. “Can’t we just try one? I mean, we’re heading in anyway, right?”
“You have a point. And I like your spirit. So, remember that it’s very much like boogie boarding. Paddle forward when it comes so you’re as close to the speed of the wave as you can be. That gives you a bigger window to catch it. Then, right when the wave is pushing at your feet, you pop up. Ideally you’re on top, right on the lip, and then you drop down the front and angle into it. Which is very much like bending your way into a turn on a skateboard.”
“Got it.”
“Really?”
“Heck yeah.” I try to sound brave.
Summer smiles. “Okay, Betty, let’s see what you’ve learned.”
We paddle in, facedown, toward the impact zone. We go slowly, until we’re at just the spot she’s looking for.
“Okay. See how the wave made a face right there? Its back is to us, but the faces should show themselves pretty consistently at this spot. So if we start right here, maybe even back up a bit, then we can paddle into them and pop up right on top.” She looks over her shoulder at the swells. “Ready?”
I nod.
She turns from me and paddles away so that we aren’t close enough to crash into each other. She gives me a shaka, and I shaka back at her. I watch as she observes the ridges of baby waves coming at us. With each wave she looks at me and shakes her head, until the one when she doesn’t.
“Catch it!” she shouts. She starts paddling in, looking like a cat stalking a bird, and I follow her lead. I take a last glance to my left just as I feel the wave behind me. I press off the deck and pop up.
It feels right. For a split second I see the shore in front of me. But then the view tilts, somersaults, and I plunge headlong over the nose of my board, into the water.
The wave crushes me. My forehead hits the sandy bottom, my nose fills with burning salt water. It drags me along, holding me down. I can feel my board’s leash, tugging at my ankle.
This is how it will end, like I knew it would. It started with getting my feet wet. It ends on the ocean floor, held down by the weight of trillions of gallons of salt water rolling over me like a freight train.
But the wave finally passes, and I push off the bottom and gasp for air as I break through the surface.
I cough uncontrollably as I pull myself onto my deck. I stay low, hugging it tight, then begin kicking feebly toward the shore.
Another wave breaks over me, and I fall off the board again. I’m struggling to climb back on when Summer reaches me.
“Are you okay? Are you okay?” She looks panicked. “Oh no! Your head!” Her eyes search my hairline. “What’s my name? Do you know my name?”
“Summer.”
She kicks alongside, watching me. The beach draws near.
“And you? What’s your name? Do you remember?”
I smile, then drop off the board onto my feet in the shallow water. “I’m Betty,” I say.
Summer smiles grimly. “Yes. You certainly are.” She hurries along beside me.
I fall to the dry beach. Summer drops beside me and unleashes me from my board. The sand is warm, but I’m shivering with the wind coming off the sea. Salty snot hangs from my face. I hack and cough, and spit up a mouth full of goo. Beneath me there’s a tiny sand crab that I’m pretty sure just came out of my mouth.
“Lie on your side,” Summer says.
“Keep coughing.” She stands and waves at the lifeguard shack with both arms.
I keep trying to cough. My head is killing me. I stare down at the sand, but in a moment I see athletic, tanned guy legs and red lifeguard shorts.
“What happened?” It’s a deep voice.
“We were doing a party wave,” Summer answers. “She went over the falls and banged her head on the bottom. I looked over my shoulder and saw her tombstone bobbing. She was in the spin cycle for a while.”
“Can you look up?” he asks, kneeling down. “Let me see your eyes.”
I do. I see the face of Jack, Summer’s favorite lifeguard.
“Ouch,” Summer says.
Jack grimaces. “You got beat down pretty well.” It’s more of a lifeguard diagnosis than a medical assessment, but it sounds about right. “How does your head feel?”
“Throbbing.” I cough, then throw up a little, which is rather embarrassing.
Jack stands up straight. He waves at the lifeguard hut, does some sort of hand signals. “Protocol says you should get to the hack shack. You’re doing a lot of coughing. And you got a gnarly blow to the coconut. Better to have them make sure your puffers are clear and that you don’t have a concussion.”
“I’ll go with you,” Summer says. She looks spooked.
“Where are we going?”
“The hack shack,” Jack answers. “The emergency room.”
I shake my head. “I can’t go there.”
“You have to,” Summer says.
I look at her, and this time I see the girl whose big brother hit his head, and now—
“Okay,” I say. I reach to Summer. “Stay with me?”
“I won’t leave you.”
Summer strokes my right arm until it almost hurts, but I don’t tell her it almost hurts. Jack stays with us, one eye on me and one on the beach. Two more lifeguards come around.
The lifeguard ambulance arrives. It has thick, wide tires for the sand. It looks like a beach toy. They strap me to a stretcher that’s like a board. They say they want to keep my neck from bending since I hit my head on the ocean floor. Jack takes our surfboards, says he’ll keep them in the lifeguard shack.