I giggle.
“I woulda given you a ten, but I don’t want to raise any suspicions that I’m biased.”
“Looks fair to me.”
Kelly tosses me her purse. “Look.”
I look inside. “It’s empty.”
No keys. No wallet, phone, tampon.
No tampon.
I look up at her, a question, and she nods. She needed the tampon. She tackles me—her normal, affectionate, huggy self—but when I let go, she holds on.
“Clean sets today,” Matt says, watching me check out the water over her shoulder.
A pod of dolphins dodges through the surf, and my friends open their mouths in awe. I tap Kelly to peel herself off of me so she can see.
Niles asks, “Does that happen all the time?”
I think of that one morning surfing with Jake when a bottlenose shot through the wave next to my board. “No, but when it does, it’s magical.”
The air horn sounds, indicating ten minutes until the first heat, so I blow them all a kiss and take off on a short jog to warm up.
I slow when I see Trevor and Cecilia under a red canopy. Trevor catches my eye and smirks. “Looks like I’m not in your heat.”
“Good thing,” I say, “you might distract me.”
He recognizes my dripping sarcasm, but he’s usually the one dishing it. Before he can offer a retort, I spot Alix and jog over to her. Immediately, she hugs me like we’re old friends.
“Thank you so much.”
“Me?” She throws a hand across the air, shooing off the compliment. “Did you see what your brother and your friends did? Who are you, like the second coming of Tim Kelly?”
My breath catches. There’s no way she knew all the times I thought about Tim Kelly, stopped at his statue, talked to God about him. It feels like God just hugged me too.
“Well, there’s no way any of this could’ve happened if you didn’t loan me your board.”
Again with the hand shooing. “Bum deal about your boyfriend. Your brother filled me in.”
I don’t know what to say except, “I better finish warming up,” and she shoos me off again with the one hand.
Back at our canopy, I remove Jake’s hoodie and shrug on the rest of my wetsuit, zip up, and attach the Velcro leash to my ankle. Kelly puts the blue bib over my head, and Lydia hands me her latte to sip, simultaneously, like they’re my pit crew. Niles pats me on the back, and Kaj holds his phone up to my face, blaring an Eminem song.
“Seriously?” I say.
“Just getting you pumped.”
Matt stands away from my friends, arms folded, checking out the surf, checking out me. I see his stance. Stiff and unmoving.
“I’ll be fine,” I say to him.
“Course you will,” he says. He looks back out at the mighty waters, and his jaw tightens. He’s facing the ocean that took him out of life and rearranged his future. It’s different for him.
I walk over to him, set my board down at my feet, and put my arms around him. “Thank you.”
He pats me twice on the back, and then the air horn sounds again. I pick up the board and sprint out toward his nemesis, my peace.
* * *
The biting cold of the February water seeps into the crevices of my wetsuit neck, and instantly I’m wide awake. The rumbling surf growls at me, and I attack with windmill strokes against the current. The tide pushes back, but I’m stronger and I cut through the first set of white-water roughness and head to the outer break. I see the three other competitors in their individual red, yellow, and white bibs: all guys. I’m not used to Alix’s board—it’s narrower and feels a little wobbly until I get my sea legs and discover how it moves with my weight. The tip of her board spears the crest of a wave, and it splashes in my face. The salt burns my eyes and nostrils, and I spit and dig past it.
I made it.
I prop myself up and look out at the endless expanse of water, the wild undulating beast that God quiets with a word. I’m not taking your waves, Jesus, just borrowing them. It’s all yours, and I’m grateful to have it as my playground this morning.
Jake’s right. Fifteen minutes feels a lot shorter when you’re out here. Moments tick by, and there’s a lull in the surf. I see a swell forming way back. I’ve gotta take it. But no. Everyone’s probably desperate too. Sure enough, all three start to paddle. Red looks over at me and slows, but he’s almost caught it. I don’t know why he stopped. Yellow and White make it, catch the wave, but Yellow pulls out because he’s in White’s way. It goes soft on White, dies out, but he scores for the stand and the riding it out.
Behind that wave, another one’s looming, and none of the guys are in position. Red looks like he’s paddling more toward me than the wave, but he can’t make it to either in time. It’s forceful; I catch it and ride left, doing a quick bottom turn but then going back up, staying high for a longer ride. It’s clean, only two small tricks, but the bottom turn and the length of the ride will get me a good score.
The next set comes, and I pop up, but Red sees me and paddles for it too. I’m closest to the peak, so I don’t know why he even goes for it, and I shout for him to pull out, but he stands anyway, blocking any possible ride that I could have. He’ll be called on interference for sure, but I was set up perfectly. I could’ve had a solid point total.
I get three more rides in, but I have to pull out of two because of Red. He’s obviously new to contests and doesn’t understand the interference rules. Still, it’s frustrating.
The air horn sounds. The heat is over, and I know before I look at the tabulations that Yellow has outscored me. Only the top score moves to the finals. The deep pang of disappointment makes my strokes toward shore feel heavier. All I’ve worked for this year. Every 6:00 a.m. workout. Every wind sprint. The drills I repeated, the hours I invested. The shivering I fought through when my wetsuit was done but I still wasn’t, swallowing sea water through chattering teeth but always going back for one more wave.
It’s yet another loss to add to the past day and a half, but when I take a breath and look up at the sky, I’m reminded of how lucky I am that I got to be out here at all today. “Thank you,” I whisper. My friends cheer for me when I approach our canopy, and it fills all the crevices in my heart that my disappointment created. I shrug my shoulders like, “Oh well.”
“You got robbed,” Niles shouts.
Lydia puts her hands on her hips. “Why’d Red keep cutting you off? Pendejo.”
“Who was that idiot?” says Kaj.
“Relax,” I say. “Some newbie.”
“Tough break, Lovette,” Trevor calls out, snickering as he walks by. His canopy’s on the other side of the judges’ tent, so he’s only over here to gloat at my defeat. “Shoulda known not to compete with the boys.”
“Who’s that ass-wipe?” my brother says, but Trevor’s out of earshot.
“Nobody of consequence,” I say. “Let it go. Not even worth your time.”
Alix isn’t up until the third heat, so I carry her board over to where she’s stretching on her towel.
“How’d it go?”
“It went,” I say, kneeling as I set her board down.
She scrunches her nose. “Sorry.”
As I stand, I notice Cecilia behind her canopy talking with some guy. “Hey,” I say to Alix. “That’s the guy who cut me off every wave. The red-bib guy.” Alix and I watch as Cecilia hands him money, more than a few bills.
“What’s she doing?”
“I think she’s paying him for making sure I didn’t move on.”
“Are you gonna say something?”
The injustice rises in me, wants to scream unfair!
“Who’d believe me?” I say. “There’s no proof.” And I don’t feel like fighting. I’m so over it. “Listen, get ready for your heat. Good luck, okay?”
&nb
sp; I walk away, then take one last look at Cecilia, so tickled with herself as she and the red-bib guy laugh, and I say out loud to God, “She’s your battle. I hope you win her over.”
I got to surf today. God made the impossible possible. That’s my victory.
* * *
Back at our canopy, we watch the rest of the heats. The second heat consists of three girls and a guy, and the guy cleanly wins. In the third heat, we cheer for Alix and she comes close, but she’s eked out by a few points. Trevor wins his heat by a landslide. Kaj and Niles ask if I want to stay for the finals. I’m about to say no when I see Old Man Mike emerging from the judges’ tent and making a beeline for me.
“Mike!” I shout.
He pats me on the shoulder. “Hey, kid.” He shakes Matt’s hand. “Long time no see.” He smiles at my friends and then focuses back on me. “Good news. You’re in the finals.”
“Wait, what? I got eliminated.”
“Rules state that if no girls win the heats, then the top four guys move on PLUS the highest-scoring girl.”
“But Alix—”
“Below you by half a point.”
Everyone’s quiet for a moment, then they erupt in cheers.
“Hurry up, come grab your bib. Finals are in two.”
I follow him at a brisk walk back to the judges’ tent. They hand me a black bib, and I barely have time to run back and get the board from Alix again. I start to explain but she does the mosquito-shooing hand again.
“I heard. Go! And do me a favor.” She motions toward Trevor’s canopy, where he’s busy putting on a white bib. “Kick his ass.”
* * *
I jump back into the water, and the five of us paddle out. We’re strong paddlers, strong wave riders, strategic in our positioning along the line. The sets are consistent, giving us plenty of waves to choose from, and we’re all getting our share of style points.
When Trevor’s paddling back out after one of his rides, he gives me a combination of a bunch of different angry faces, trying to set me off. He looks ridiculous. I feel the corners of my mouth lifting, so I turn my cheek away from him. Did Jesus turn the other cheek because he was afraid he’d smile and make everyone angrier?
A wave comes and rescues me, but Trevor goes for it, too. I crane my neck to see how fast it’s coming, and we both stand. It turns out to be an A-frame wave, breaking both directions, so we split the peak and ride down opposite lines. The wave’s holding a nice face, so I hit the lip, turning my surfboard toward the lip as it falls. It smashes my surfboard down, but I maintain control and ride it down the face into an extended bottom turn.
When I paddle back out, I see that Trevor’s starting his return, which means he had a long ride as well. When I sit up on my board, I turn it toward the shoreline. My friends cheer with wild arms, and I wave back. Lydia shakes her 9.9 sign high above her head. Next to them, my brother watches me, tall and proud. Mike’s there, too. But back away from all the crowds, from the clumps of competitors and friends, Dad stands, arms crossed, a lone soldier in a desert of sand. My heart skips ten thousand beats. He came.
I wave, and he salutes back.
Tears join the salt on my face, and I gear up for one more ride.
I’m ready to take the next set to a new level. I remember Jake’s coaching, everything he taught razor sharp in my brain, as loud as if he were next to me reciting every word from September to February all over again. My body knows the perfect ride, breathes it, can execute it.
The sun shoots through the gray, three fingers of light reaching down to the water. It reminds me of Pastor Brett talking about God’s love. “Imagine the sun as God’s love for you. You can hold an umbrella up to it and block out the sun, right? So, technically, you can stop receiving it. But He never stops shining it.”
I let the sun hit my face. I bask in its warmth, soak up what was there all morning, hidden behind the clouds. “You gotta decide what your posture’s gonna be toward Him. That will decide what your life’s gonna look like.”
Posture’s everything. It’s everything on a surfboard. It’s everything in my relationship with God.
I see the approaching set. The other four aren’t positioned for the first wave. Besides, it looks small. They don’t want it. But I know it’s coming for me, just for me, a hill of sea forming in height and growing in speed. I drop to my belly on the fiberglass and soar forward. My arms reach deep into the water and pull until my neck feels the strain. In my periphery, I can sense the disappointment of the guys who wished they had trusted their gut that this nothing would become something, that this rolling water would become a mighty wall of ocean crashing and daring the bravest.
I’m breathless at the top, looking down at the sheer cliff, but I see my line and I take it, standing and tipping over the crest, weightless for a moment. Just enough to know that this wave’s mine to either take on or be devoured by.
I think of all the tricks, how I could own this wave, destroy my competition, leave them in my wake.
I could win.
I could win.
And it’s enough to know. Because Brett’s voice whispers in the waves again, “You gotta decide what your posture’s gonna be toward Him. That will decide what your life’s gonna look like.”
I take off fast and ride the wave high, like it could lift me to heaven if I stayed high enough. I purposely miss everything except for a floater, and then I counterbalance and extend. I throw my head back, arms out, palms up, arching my soul up toward my Maker.
This is my posture toward You, I tell Him. This.
I’m so extended that I have to land the floater hard, slapping my board against the bottom of the wave with such force that my knees ring from the shock. The soul arch is brief, not technical, and not worth many points according to Jake. But before today, I’d never succeeded at it on a shortboard.
I start to paddle back out, but the air horn sounds. End of finals. I exit the water and walk straight to Dad.
“You came.”
He clears his throat. “Studying abroad. Matt. We’re gonna try again next year. Provided we get the okay from the doctor. Matt’s invited us to help him move into his new apartment. We’re doing a family vacation. I guess you could come. Kidding. You’re coming.”
I smile. “Dad—”
“Eh. Get back to your friends.”
“Thanks. For coming.”
“Nice move with the arch. Fancy.”
“Not a lot of points. I won’t win.”
“There’s one more of these, right?
I pause. “In May. The final of seven.”
“Put on by Spyder.”
“How did you—”
“Your surfing coach told me. We’ve signed you up.”
I throw my arms around him. “Thanks for talking to Mike.”
He awkwardly pats my back, still rusty in the hugging-his-daughter department. “No. Your other surfing coach.”
I blink. The air’s gone from my lungs.
He grins at my gaping mouth, throws a thumb over his shoulder. “He said he’d meet you over by the showers.” I look behind Dad at the restroom. Jake stands, his back foot resting against the wall behind him. I leave my surfboard. I can’t run through the sand fast enough.
When I get there, I’m breathless, but not from running.
“How long have you been here?” I gasp.
“Long enough to see you tank. A soul arch? Really?”
I smile, relief coursing through me. I can’t believe he’s standing here. “Yes. Really. But how did—”
“Kelly called me in the middle of the night last night. Then Niles. Then Kaj. Then Lydia. I didn’t want to make you nervous, so I stayed out of sight. They knew I was here.”
I turn and look back to our canopy. Dad’s there too, now, and everyone’s watching. They all knew!
“Unbelievable.”
“No. What is unbelievable is this shower. You push it and crazy things happen.”
I laugh. “Oh really.”
He pulls a hand around my waist, and I reach up around his neck. He’s warm and inviting, like a gulp of water after being parched for days. He leans in. “My flight still leaves tonight.” My stomach sinks, but I know. I mean I knew if he postponed his flight, it was postponed, not canceled. “But I couldn’t not be here for this.”
I lean into him. “I’m in love with that.”
“I’m in love with you.”
He says it with such confidence, I can’t say anything in response. My body becomes rubber. I can’t speak. I can’t form words. So instead, with a shaky hand, I reach up behind him and press the shower button. Water pours out like a hose on full blast. He steps backward into it, and water gushes over him, drenches his hair, his clothes. I step forward, and the water cascades over me too, the spray making it hard to keep my eyes open. But I do just long enough to find his lips with mine, losing myself in his kiss, his embrace, this moment.
“Breast to breast!” I hear my friends shouting from under the canopy.
We laugh through our kiss, and he pulls me behind the bathroom wall where we can share a moment alone. We look at each other for a really long time, our gaze unblinking, searing and powerful and speaking so loudly of a love that words would minimize.
“I don’t want to leave,” he finally says, wiping the beads of water from his face.
“I don’t want you to go.” We grip each other tightly, and he presses his lips to my forehead. I feel a tear drop from his chin to my cheek. “This year has been”—he stops to clear his throat—“more than I expected.”
“Exceptionally more?”
He laughs, and it gets garbled in the back of his throat. It’s him who’s crying for once, not me. I take his hands, link my fingers firmly with his.
“Hey,” I start, “I’m not ready to do ‘us’ apart. I don’t know what that looks like.”
Beyond the Break Page 27