Riptide Summer

by Lisa Freeman

  “I am going to move to the moon,” I said, cuddling with Mrs. Beasley, my doll.

  I decided to pray to David Bowie. I pressed his new album to my chest. It had his picture on it, with a red-and-blue lightning bolt painted down his face. I got on my knees, folded my hands tightly together like a little girl in a pew and prayed, Help me, David Bowie. Please, pretty David, lipstick man. Ziggy boy, star traveler—I pray to you. Give me something beyond hope. I need your voice to protect me. I can’t touch your spirit without the music. Swallow me whole. Please take me away from here. Show me where to go. Please help me.

  It was a mantra entrusted to me from the great beyond, not something inspired by somebody else’s religion.

  I put my headphones on, even though there was nothing to plug into, and sang along with an imaginary Bowie, remembering his deep voice and the saxophone on songs like “The Prettiest Star.” I sang like a soprano, snapping my fingers as if the two of us were creating a vinyl harmony. Then I crawled into bed and waited for sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  No Panic in Detroit

  At exactly 3:10 a.m. on the dot, my eyes opened. I don’t know why, but it’s been like that since my dad died.

  I left my room barricaded and squeezed out the window. I was so sore from surfing the night before. It hurt to bend or lean forward. Even when I arched my back, my neck tensed up.

  But I didn’t let it stop me. I definitely had the jitters, but I was ready to try again. I had to get back on my board. It was like what the cowboys on the Big Island say about riding a horse: when you get bucked, you have to get right back on.

  I slipped in and out of Mrs. Kinski’s backyard without making a sound—hair up, hat on, with my wet suit and board tucked under my arm.

  The waves sounded bigger tonight. I walked out until the water reached my chest, then paddled slowly. Once I got past the white water, I hoped that I could calm down. Paddle, paddle, paddle, I told myself as crashing waves replaced cricket sounds. But it was grueling. My arms felt like they were going to fall off.

  I was determined not to get stuffed—pushed under by a wave. I don’t know if it was luck or skill, but I made it past the break. I lay flat, arms stretched forward, gripping the tip of the board until my knuckles went white. Waiting, wondering if I really belonged out here. My dad used to say there were lots of ways to surf. You could be on your belly or your knees. But I knew I had to stand to make it real. Not in a wide-legged survival stance, but smooth and silky. I wanted to surf like Jerry Richmond.

  I tried to catch the shoulder of the wave but chickened out. The next one had to be at least four feet high. I caught it, but didn’t pop up. I let it glide me to shore, doing a full-on belly ride through the foam balls. How pathetic. Still, I refused to let anything stop me.

  I inhaled loudly and exhaled deeply, pointing my board back into the surf. The current was changing and moving. I extended my arms to make long, stretched-out strokes, and paddled as hard as I could.

  As I cleared the break, I could almost hear my father’s voice saying, “Attagirl.” That’s when I realized I was inside his unmarked tomb. The ocean was his coffin, and I was floating in it alone.

  Thousands of people had been lost at sea. The dead outnumbered me. It was as if I could see ghost gods scattered out in the clouds. I felt winded and creeped out until I got my dad’s smiley face back in my head.

  From my vantage point, I could see the bluffs. I tried to line myself up to the left of Mrs. Kinski’s window, but my vision was blurring from the sting of salt water. I had a good feel for State on land, but being out in the ocean was a different thing altogether.

  I smelled something extra fishy. Of course you do, I told myself. You’re in the ocean, for crying out loud. Concentrate! I sat back on my board. I had to stay sharp. Waiting was the hardest part.

  I kept my eyes peeled as something swirled upward in the ocean. I flinched. It bobbed up again. Sharks don’t bob like that, I reminded myself. I had no idea what it was, but it left me feeling suspended between heaven and hell. I had to handle my panic, so I sang to myself, “No Panic in Detroit,” rewriting Bowie’s song.

  Waves are shadows at night. You can’t really see them, but you can feel them. When I saw a shadow coming, I paddled as hard as I could, popped up, then lost my balance and wiped out. I didn’t like swimming in the ocean with something else out there. But I found my board fast and went for it again.

  When I sat up, exhausted, I realized Mrs. Kinski’s house wasn’t where it should have been, and neither was I. The riptide had me. My instincts were wrong, like every other bozo’s: I wanted to go against the tide. The pull was relentless where I was, and if I didn’t catch the next wave, I’d be halfway to Catalina in a few minutes—sucked out for good, and no one in the world would know what had happened to me.

  Though I was getting really tired, I knew I couldn’t drown while I was holding onto my board, so I started paddling diagonally toward shore, as hard as I could. I heard somebody scream before I realized it was me.

  Then I heard a second voice on the wind. “Are you okay?” A guy stood on the bluffs, waving his arms over his head.

  What is he doing up there? I thought. I must look like a bumbling idiot. How long has he been watching?

  There was no way I was going to get rescued. I had to get myself out of the rip. I held on to the sides of my board for dear life, resting my head to the side and making sure I didn’t swallow any water.

  When my dad was a beach boy he found a dead lady. She had been eating lunch at the Royal Hawaiian in the rich people’s dining room, and she choked to death on a tiny shrimp. The story goes: she swallowed wrong and excused herself from the table. Maybe she was on her way to the bathroom, but she didn’t make it. When my dad told me the story, I had asked, “Why didn’t she get someone to help her?” He guessed she was too embarrassed to ask. And he told me to never be ashamed to ask for help. Since I didn’t want to be like that dead fancy lady, I sat back on my board and swung myself into position, never looking back. I could feel it behind and underneath me: water surging. I caught the wave and popped to my feet.

  I stayed low in a crouch; with my knees bent, I almost got tubed. I had my balance and managed to build up speed and keep it. The wave would tell me what to do next.

  That’s when I understood: I needed to take what Nāmaka gave me and go with the flow.

  I didn’t try to carve back or do anything special. I just floated and faded in closer to the curl. Then the magic ride ended. I hit a flat spot and glided all the way to the shore. I felt like I was floating on air—until I fell on my face, thanks to wobbly legs.

  I rolled in the sand. I had done it. It was like I was waking up from a deep sleep, and every light in the world had turned back on. I fell to my knees and bowed, thanking Nāmaka for blessing me with a wave.

  The guy from the bluffs came trotting down the beach. Clumps of sand were lodged my ears so deeply that I could barely hear him at first. He set his board at my feet and said, “You’re awesome.” He pointed up and said, “I heard singing. I thought there were mermaids. Then when you yelled, I thought you were in trouble, but you were cranking.”

  Unbelievable. It was Jerry. He had no idea it was me. I adjusted the baseball hat low to cover my face, and I slumped a bit as he began waxing his board, moonlight dappling his shoulders.

  He continued, “You can surf, man. I never had the balls to go out at night.”

  As he introduced himself, he fixed his eyes on mine. I smiled, which I do when I’m nervous. Nothing could disguise the space between my teeth or the color of my eyes. Jerry jerked his head forward. His eyes almost fell out of his skull. “Nani! What are you—suiciding?” If I hadn’t been holding my board, I would have slapped him.

  “How do I go from a guy who could surf to a girl suiciding in one second?”

  Jerry was visibly mortified. I stepped back, carefully, into the water.

  “It’s going off,” I told him.
r />   He looked at me like I was from another planet. “I’ve heard rumors about girls who surf, but I’ve never seen one.”

  “Well, now you have. Can I use some of that?” I pointed to Jerry’s wax. He gingerly placed it into my hand, still looking at me in this weird way. There was no sand or anything in his wax, and it smelled like coconut and mango.

  “Keep it,” he said. “You’ve got a lot of bald spots.” He pushed his hair back. “That looks like Lopez’s board.”

  “It’s identical,” I told him.

  He touched the board with great reverence, and a smirk spread across his face. This was the second time my world had split open when a guy smiled at me. It was the same as Nigel McBride last summer—but this time, with Jerry Richmond, it was even better. I waxed my board, knowing it would be a brave new world surfing on something that didn’t feel like a Slip ‘N Slide. “Follow me.” Jerry Richmond led the way.

  “You’re heading into the rip,” I warned him.

  “Exactly,” he said.

  After just barely surviving the rip, the idea of jumping back into it did not appeal to me. But I knew to trust Jerry. He moved confidently, steering himself into the rough water, which instantly pulled us out. I didn’t even have to paddle. My fear fell away as I followed him right out of the rip.

  He paddled up next to me. “See? That way you don’t wear yourself out. You need to hold on to your strength.”

  That was an understatement.

  As we waited for a set, I asked him, “What were you doing on the bluffs?”

  “I was thinking about Rox.” He looked away and slapped the water. “You know, you shouldn’t surf out here alone. How long have you been doing these night sessions?” he asked.

  I knew I could either make it pono and tell him the truth, or start another web of lies. I chose to tell him everything—right down to how my dad bought the board for me before he died. When I was done, Jerry Richmond was looking at me differently. There was genuine respect in his eyes, and I could tell he understood.

  I didn’t even see the set coming, but Jerry turned his board and effortlessly dropped into a wave. I watched him sail away. He was more than a surfer; he was a promise of good things to come. And next time I would be right behind him. In the water, a girl is just like a guy and has to earn respect. The playing field was leveled, and I liked it.

  Jerry was watching my every move, just to make sure his eyes hadn’t played tricks on him when he saw me surf.

  “Come on! These are just ankle busters.” Jerry was paddling out toward the looming shadows.

  What he saw as little waves were huge to me. Maybe because in Hawaii we measure a wave from the back, and on the mainland they measure from the front. Regardless, I had to follow him. I turned in on the shoulder of a wave that was about to break. I was committed. I dropped in and held my balance. Once again, I didn’t think; it just happened. Energy jetted out the tips of my fingers, and my hands felt like wings as I stretched my arms out as far as they could go. Putting my weight on my back heel, I cut deep into the wave. It felt like I had just been saved—as in: saved by Jesus, saved by Pele, saved from falling off the edge of a once-flat world. I knew what I wanted: I wanted to be fluid. Far from the brittle, solid, Earthly Nani. I looked over at Jerry, who raised two fingers to his forehead as if giving me a little salute. He couldn’t see the singe of heat rushing into my cheeks. I felt a thrill of finally being seen for who I really was: a surfer. Not a girl or a boy, not Funny Kine, gay or straight, white or brown. Out here I could just be myself.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Oscars

  Jerry and I waited for waves. It had been quiet for about a half hour. I traced the patterns of stars in the sky. Mars actually looked red. It must have been closer to the earth. Venus shimmered and twinkled so much it looked like it was changing colors. The glassy reflection that mirrored the moonlight on the water seemed to come from inside the ocean, rather than from the sky.

  As I sat on my board, I told Jerry the story about waves, and how Dad said they are the last breath the ocean takes as she travels into shallow waters. It’s as if their final desire is to reach up to the sky before the weight of eternity forces them to disintegrate on the sand.

  Jerry responding by telling me that each wave has its own vibe. Like girls, some are sharp and serious, others loose and playful. We floated side-by-side, weightless, bumping into each other every now and then as we kept watch.

  I had lost that feeling of dread until something swished, and the water crested over. It looked like something skimmed the surface just a few feet from us. It was the same unusual shape I’d seen before, and whatever it was, it was getting closer. I pulled my feet on top of my board and told Jerry, “Try not to freak out but—”

  He didn’t let me finish my sentence. “Yeah, I can smell them,” he said. “It’s the Oscars.”

  He pointed in the direction of two small heads poking out from a thick bed of kelp. One was wiping his face with flipper-like paws. The other was peeking out with just his nose above the water.

  “Oh, ‘ilio-holo-i-ka-uaua!” I said, relieved.

  “What does that mean? Seals?” Jerry said.

  “No, it means ‘dog that runs in rough water.’” I splashed him.

  “They’re the real locals,” he said. “Want to meet them?”

  The last time someone asked me if I wanted to meet the strange local creatures of State Beach, it was Mary Jo talking about Rox and Claire. I hadn’t thought about them or Windy or the lineup for hours. The similarities between the Oscars and Rox and Claire made me laugh. They were all unapproachable and yet totally inviting, cute and lovable, but biters if you got too close.

  “Here they come.” At first I thought Jerry meant more seals, but then I saw him paddle forward as fast as he could and align himself to catch a wave.

  I followed into the set. I had to maintain my grip and dig in. There was no way I was going to let him get this one without me. Paddle, paddle, paddle. Please, wave, was all I had time to think before it lifted me. I felt strong and popped up faster than I ever had.

  Jerry looped gracefully into the wave and tucked low, sailing past me so close I could have reached out and touched him as he glided by. As he crouched down, I did the same, locked in right behind him—until both of us got closed out. The wave just collapsed, and we fell into it. Underwater we each held tight to our boards to keep them from hitting the other.

  As Jerry paddled back out he said, “You rip.”

  I felt heavy chains break apart, and I was free. With Jerry, I knew all the answers.

  I dipped my hand into the next wave. It was a full-on overhead. Inside the churning ocean again, I didn’t think. There was a sudden peace and quiet. Then everything shattered into water pounding all around me, until my speed picked up and thrust me into the sparkling foam. I could almost imagine the lineup in front of me, on their feet, cheering, as I walked off the tip of my board onto land again.

  I felt a giddy sense of euphoria swishing down my back as I paddled out again, meeting Jerry as he moved at a breathless pace to the takeoff zone. He would only take the best waves, so we waited. He reached for my board and pulled me close, both of us sitting with our legs spread.

  “I didn’t know it was so sexy surfing with a girl,” he said. Jerry Richmond was strong and secure; he did not fear a girl invading his ocean. He seemed to actually like being out here with me.

  The current drifted us closer and closer. We could talk without shouting over the break. I told him about Jean smashing up my room and destroying my turntable. I cringed as I thought about it again. “No music,” I told him.

  “That’s the worst,” he said.

  Then in one gentle move, he took off my cap and put it on backward. My hair fell past my waist. He watched the tips float in the water, while he put his hand around the back of my neck and dipped his lips into mine. I liked the taste of ocean on his tongue. And when the kiss became more intense, I felt like I was pa
rt of a new solar system, filled with planets to be discovered, surrounded by liquid, in the presence of the gods.

  A swell lifted our boards. We pulled apart. I took back my cap.

  “We can never do that again,” I said.

  Jerry kissed me and said, “Okay. But Rox and I aren’t good. We haven’t even done it since the time that got her pregnant.”

  I was relieved. That meant he couldn’t have the—you know—the clap thing. Regardless of whatever mind-bending conversation we were starting, when we felt another swell lift our boards, we turned and paddled out.

  In the water, just like on land, Jerry Richmond was like love potion—only more intense. I wasn’t sure I could keep my distance now that he had touched me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Genesis of a Secret

  Rox held one secret.

  Jerry held the other.

  And I held them both.

  I’d never noticed what gravity felt like before. I walked with Jerry through the squishy sand as if there was nothing to it. We were so blissed out that, as we passed hundreds of seagulls huddled together, they didn’t seem to mind us.

  In the showers, Jerry held my board as I hosed off. I knew he was looking at me—the way I untucked my hair from the cap and rinsed it under the water, then unzipped Nigel’s wet suit and let the shower jet down the two tiny triangles of my bikini top that were exactly where they should be. No girl could recover her status if her boob sticks out of her bathing suit. He was watching me so closely; I couldn’t dig the sand out of my butt. That would have to wait until I toweled off alone.

  Of course I returned the favor and held his board, but I made a point to look another direction. I already had an idea of how good he looked; seeing more could be hazardous to my Funny Kine self.