Wave Warrior

by Lesley Choyce

  Wave Warrior

  Lesley Choyce

  orac soundings

  Copyright © Lesley Choyce 2007

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Choyce, Lesley, 1951-

  Wave warrior / Lesley Choyce.

  (Orca soundings)

  ISBN 978-1-55143-649-4 (bound)

  ISBN 978-1-55143-647-0 (pbk.)

  1. Surfing--Juvenile fiction. I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8555.H668W29 2007 jC813’.54 C2006-907055-5

  Summary: Ben wants to learn to surf but he is terrified. When he

  meets an aging surfer, Ben learns the way of the wave warrior.

  First published in the United States, 2007

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2006940638

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design: Doug McCaffry

  Cover photography: Getty Images

  Orca Book Publishers Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 5626, Station B PO Box 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.

  010 09 08 07 • 5 3 4 2 1

  For all my fellow Nova Scotian surfers.

  LC

  To live with fear and not be afraid is the

  final test of maturity.—Edward Weeks

  Chapter One

  All my life, surfers had been coming to my beach—Lawrencetown Beach in Nova Scotia. There were tall surfers, short surfers, skinny surfers and fat surfers. Hairy surfers and shaved-head surfers. Smart surfers and stupid surfers. Surfers with great cars. Surfers who hitchhiked. Surfers who were friendly and surfers who were rude and nasty. There were even girl surfers who sometimes smiled at me.

  Even though I lived by the ocean, I had never surfed. I was a lousy swimmer, and I knew the sea could be dangerous. There were rip currents near the headland that pulled swimmers so far out to sea that helicopters had to save them or pick up whatever was left. And sometimes there were huge killer waves.

  It was a dangerous world out there once you left dry land. My grandfather—a great old guy—had been a fisherman.

  “Ben,” my grandfather told me one day while we were watching some kids from the city surf overhead waves, “you don’t play around with the North Atlantic Ocean. I used to risk my life to go out there and catch a couple of darn fish so we didn’t starve. But you don’t just go out there in that friggin’ cold water for the fun of it.” He had died last spring, and I still missed him.

  His words stuck with me. He was right. It could be dangerous. People had drowned at Lawrencetown, unaware of how treacherous it could be. And it was bloody cold, even in the summer. Surfers had to wear wet suits almost all the time. There were a few warm days when people came out from Halifax and swam in their bathing suits, but they were rare. Usually the water was so cold it was painful. Maybe I was smart to avoid the ocean.

  But it was driving me crazy. Despite everything my grandfather said, despite every reason there was to avoid it, I wanted to surf so bad it was ripping a hole in my head. I had to at least try.

  My parents were opposed to it.

  “I’m sixteen,” I told them. “I can decide for myself.”

  “You remember what your grandfather told you,” my father said. He had not become a fisherman like his father but worked at a place in Burnside that made cardboard boxes.

  “You’re going to get hurt, I know it,” my mom said. “What if you drown?”

  “I’m not going to drown. I’ll have a wet suit on. It will keep me afloat.”

  “You’re going to put your body in one of those rubber things?” my dad asked. “I’d rather eat nails with ketchup.”

  “I’m going surfing,” I said. And left, slamming the door.

  Chapter Two

  It was a sunny Saturday in the middle of June. Goofy’s surf truck was parked by the rocks that acted as a seawall to keep the ocean from washing out the road. Goofy rented boards and wet suits to anyone silly enough to brave the early summer sea that was just a few degrees above zero. It didn’t look cold but it was.

  I paid the money and went behind the rocks to put on the wet suit. It felt tight and weird.Goofy, smiling that idiotic smile that gave him his name, had also rented me a six-foot “fish”—a shortboard with a V in the tail and four short fins. It was the board I’d seen the hot surfers use to really rip.

  I was gonna be like them—on my first day. If I could only stop my heart from racing so fast and my knees from shaking.

  I watched a few experienced surfers paddle out. The waves were shoulder high, not small, but not too big. I wrapped the strap of the leash around my ankle, took a deep breath and waded into the ocean. I had on boots, but without gloves the cold water knifed into my hands. I tried to lie on the board and paddle like I’d seen the others do. In no time I slipped off and went right under. Talk about a wakeup call. A voice screamed inside my head. I surfaced and gasped for air. I knew it was going to be cold, but not that cold.

  I was still in the shallows, ready to quit and run home to momma. I faced the shore. Then I heard someone behind me let out a loud whoop. I turned to watch Gorbie Kessler riding a beautiful blue wall of water. He kicked his board high up into the wave, made a radical turn and fell off face-first into the water. When he came up he was laughing.

  I pointed my board away from the beach. I lay on it. I wobbled. I paddled. A wave came at me and I paddled into it, tucked my head down and then I was over it. I kept paddling straight out to sea. I didn’t even look up until I was near where the other surfers were sitting close to the takeoff zone. I was breathing hard. Man, was I out of shape.

  “Yo, Ben.” It was Weed. You can guess why he was named that. “Thought you didn’t surf.”

  Still gasping for breath and trying to sit up on my board, I said, “Times change.” Or not.

  “Just go for it,” he said, laughing. Nothing bothered Weed. He probably didn’t even feel the cold. I watched as he paddled and caught a nice little waist-high wave. It looked like there was nothing to it.

  I missed the first seven waves. I flailed and thrashed my arms. I dug deep and paddled. But I couldn’t get it. I’d been in the water about forty-five minutes when I heard someone yell, “Outside!” I’d been around enough to know that this meant there was a wave coming that was bigger than the rest. I turned. Yeah, it looked like a killer to me. I didn’t know what to do, but the lunatic who resides in the back of my brain repeated what Weed had said. Just go for it.

  So I went for it.

  And got eaten for lunch.

  It went like this. I paddled toward shore with all my strength. I felt the wave catch up to me and begin to lift me into the sky. I was holding onto the rails of my board for dear life. I was moving faster than I could imagine. But it all happened so quickly. I was dropping down the face of a steep wall of ocean.

  My mouth was open. I know that because when I did the face-plant into the bottom of the wave, I was gargling salt water, thinking that maybe I was about to die. The wave drove me deep into the water. I flapped my arms around, thinkin
g that going back up to the surface was a good idea.

  But it wasn’t. At least not then.

  I surfaced just in time to open my eyes and see my airborne surfboard eclipsing the morning sun. And aimed straight for my head. Wham.

  The next thing I knew I had this awful pain from where the board had slammed onto the bridge of my nose. The fin had connected just below my eye. And there was blood.

  Blood and pain and floundering around in cold water with another wave about to break on you. This is not a great combination.

  Weed saw what happened. “Man, you got nailed. Better get to shore.”

  I didn’t know which way shore was.

  “That way, Ben. You okay?”

  Okay was not the word I would use. But I was alive. I nodded and tasted blood. At least I hadn’t been blinded. I dog-paddled to shore, my board in tow.

  I swore I would never, ever, do that again.

  Chapter Three

  My mother wanted to take me to the hospital, but I said no way. She could see how I was feeling and tried to be nice. When my dad came home he slammed into the told-you-so lectures. I loved my father, but he could be a pain in the butt sometimes. I finally told him to go to hell and stormed out of the house.

  I biked to the headland and sat high above the sea, facing west. The sun was going down and the sky was beautiful. Below, at the mouth of the river, some guys were surfing. I knew all about the river current here that could pull swimmers out to sea. But tonight, the tide was high and there was no danger of that. From here it all looked so graceful, so easy. I was jealous of the surfers, and I hated myself for being such a loser. And then Tara appeared, walking up the headland toward me.

  I touched my nose and it hurt. I knew Tara surfed. I’d watched her putting on her wet suit in the parking lot. I’d seen her grab her board, run across the sand to the ocean and paddle out. She was new at it but she could ride waves. She was also beautiful with her curly brown hair, freckles and funny T-shirts. It seemed odd that she was always alone when she arrived, and she kept to herself. Not once had I gotten up the nerve to even say hi to her on the beach. I sure as heck didn’t want to talk to her now. But I sat there frozen.

  I just stared out to sea, hoping she’d walk on by. But it wasn’t going to work out that way.

  I knew she had stopped but I didn’t turn.

  “Ouch,” she said. “How’d that happen?”

  I took a breath and half turned toward her. “A wipeout. I got nailed by the board.” I didn’t tell her it was only my first wave, my first real attempt at surfing.

  She knelt down beside me. “It got you on the nose?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the black eye?”

  I didn’t know I had a black eye. I didn’t know that was the way it happened. Get socked in the nose hard enough and a while later you have a black eye. “Oh great,” I said.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Waves can be brutal.”

  So can life, I wanted to say. “How do they do it?” I asked, pointing to the surfers below.

  Tara was now sitting on the grass with me. Our feet were dangling over the edge of the cliff. The sky was on fire as the sun began to set. At least when it was dark no one would notice the black eye.

  “No one just gets in the water, catches waves and rides. It takes a lot of practice. A lot of wipeouts.”

  “Can you imagine what I would look like by my third day of trying to learn?”

  Tara laughed. “When people ask about your eye, don’t tell them. Let them make up their own stories. It’ll be much more interesting that way. Let me look.” Then she leaned toward me. I could smell the sweetness of her and I felt paralyzed. She was looking right into my eyes. “That’s amazing,” she said.

  “What is?” I asked.

  “By tomorrow morning, you’re gonna look like you had a fistfight with a gorilla.”

  “And lost.”

  “Gonna try it again?”

  “No way,” I said.

  “I’ll teach you.”

  I don’t know why I did what I did next. I guess it was my pride. And I was sure she was just feeling sorry for me.

  “Yeah, right,” I said sarcastically.

  “What?” I could tell I’d hurt her feelings. Now I knew just how big of an idiot and loser I really was. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything else.

  I got on my bike and rode the grassy path back to the road. It was the beginning of summer and already I was wishing it was over.

  The next day was Sunday. At breakfast my mom stared at me. “You sure we shouldn’t go to the hospital? What if your nose is broken?”

  “It’s not broken. Besides, I’m not going to wait around for hours in an emergency room all day.”

  “He’s right,” my father added, oddly coming to my defense. “Besides, it’s no big deal. I’ve had worse than that. It builds character.” He was smiling. I think he was secretly proud of me. A black eye meant I was becoming a man. I could take the punishment.

  “I’ll be okay,” I said. “I just feel like hiding for a while.”

  “You can’t hide, Ben,” my mom said. “It’s summer. You need fresh air.”

  My father cleared his throat. “Well, I was talking to my boss about getting you a summer job in the plant.”

  Working in a factory that made cardboard boxes sounded like a death sentence. I knew that anything I said now would be the wrong thing. Luckily, my mother agreed with me. “I don’t think Ben should do that.” She paused and looked at me. “He’s still a boy. He shouldn’t have to grow up yet.”

  “When I was his age...” my father began, but he was cut off by my mother.

  “We all know about what you did when you were his age, dear.”

  That was the end of that conversation. The job at the box factory would hang over my head all summer unless I found something to do that would keep me out of the house. And I wasn’t sure my mother’s small victory was going to save me altogether. My old man would keep alive his dream of getting his son a job at his factory. And if he had his way, that would be the end of my so-called life.

  Chapter Four

  I wasn’t sure why I kept going back to watch the surfers. I would sit on the rocks and watch Genghis, Gorbie, Weed, Tim and all the others arrive in their cars with music blasting. Then they changed into their wet suits, sometimes stripping naked and not caring who saw.

  I watched wannabe surfers renting boards from Goofy at his surf truck and paddling out into the shore break. By one o’clock on a weekend afternoon, the beach would be crowded. Everything out here had changed. When I was little and my mom and I walked on the beach, it was almost always empty. Maybe one or two old-guy surfers. But nothing like this.

  Tara was there too. She looked at me, but I avoided her. She’d probably never bother to try to talk to me again.

  Goofy was between rentals when he yelled to me. “Benji Boy, c’mere.”

  I walked over. He had that big goofy grin on his face. He smelled like he’d been toking up.

  “Benji, you paid for a day and used the board for maybe thirty minutes. Why don’t you give it another go?”

  “Duh,” I said, pointing at my face.

  “Salt water would do it good. Fall off a horse, you gotta get back on.”

  “Thanks, Goof, but no way.”

  I watched as Tara picked up her board and ran for the water. She looked as if she couldn’t wait to get out there and surf. Part of me still felt the same way. But the horse had knocked me off and then kicked me hard. I was afraid to try again.

  I turned to walk home and saw this old dog. And I mean old—graying hair, ancient filmy eyes and droopy jowls. I stooped and petted him. It seemed to take all the effort he could muster to wag his tail. I glanced around and it didn’t look like he belonged to anyone.

  “Whose dog are you?” I asked.

  More tail wagging.

  “Lost?”

  Those sad eyes again. B
ut he began to walk, and then he stopped and looked back at me like he wanted me to follow. I followed.

  The dog trotted slowly off to the empty end of the beach, where he stopped by an old Ford camper van. The van had California plates and four longboards strapped to the racks on the roof. The license plate read Surf’s Up and the side doors were open. Inside, an old guy was napping on the bed. The dog began to lap from a steel water bowl.

  “California dog, eh?” I said to my slobbering friend.

  The man inside stirred and then suddenly sat bolt upright. He glared at me. “You trying to steal my dog?” he snapped.

  “What?”

  “Mickey D there. You weren’t thinking about stealing him and selling him for medical research?”

  “What are you, crazy?”

  He laughed. “You better believe I’m crazy. I’ve got scars to prove it and three ex-wives that would testify on my behalf.” He got out of the van, moving quickly as if he was just a kid. But he was old. “I was only joking. Mickey D finds people and brings them to me.”

  “Mickey D’s the dog, right?”

  “Yeah. Named for Mickey Dora. Surfer I once knew. You surf, kid?”

  His eyes were blue and they seemed to penetrate deep into me. His skin was tanned like old leather and he had a scraggly beard of gray and a head of thinning blond-gray hair. The Hawaiian shirt, cutoff jeans and leather sandals completed the picture.

  “Tried,” I said. “Tried and failed.”

  He stared at my face. “Oh, I see. Heck, I thought that was a tattoo. Where I come from, people pay to have something hideous like that put on their face.”

  “California, right?”

  “What are you, a boy genius? You go to Harvard or what?”

  He made me laugh. Crazy or not, I liked this guy.

  “School’s out, so I’m giving my brain cells a rest.”

  “At least you have brain cells. And they still work. You’re in good shape by my estimates.” He stuck out his hand. “Ray,” he said. “Ray Cluny, from Santa Barbara.”