fifteen
Failure seldom stops you. What
stops you is the fear of failure.
—Jack Lemmon
It’s been over a week since our heart-to-heart. It’s crazy, but ever since Ford basically said he didn’t want me anymore, I can’t stop thinking about him.
I watch the ocean roar, curling in perfect corduroy lines toward the coast. Waves are hella good today. Perfect sets. And Ford is standing next to me as we watch the ocean crash toward us.
It’s not a beginner day. The wind whips my hair around. Today, Turmo feels like a wild place, and I’m a wild thing coming home. Ford zips my wetsuit, which sends a million little tingles down my spine. I whirl around, forgetting everything but the way I feel right now. The way I’ve felt the past few days. Yeah, we talked and made our peace. We said all the right words, but all the right words in the world couldn’t erase the unspoken tension we constantly juggle or ignore. It’s like h fleacethe only way to get past this wasteland of words-not-said is to pull him to me and kiss him. Just do it already and release the tension. I want to pull his face down to mine, and lean in until his lips are so close we’re millimeters apart.
Something snaps and I realize what I’m doing. I step back and clear my throat and futilely try to throw some distance between us. I say, “Better get the boards waxed. Don’t want to miss out on the surf.”
Ford pulls at the collar of his wetsuit. “Um, yeah.”
Confused, I bend down to work on my board. I say, “Are you ready for the Pumphouse?”
“I was planning on surfing the Point today.”
I pop up to standing in a flash. “I’m not ready to surf the Point.”
“Yeah, you are. C’mon, it’s not the same when we surf different breaks.”
I take a deep breath and look at fierce waves blasting the Point; the sets are never-ending. Thanks to some crazy weather, the waves are freakin’ epic and everyone’s out today. “I don’t know.”
Ford checks out the surf and grins. He reaches over and gives my shoulder a quick rub. That’s it; all he has to do is touch me. That spot his hand touched feels hot, like every inch of my skin is dry tinder, ready to catch fire.
He says, “I do know, and you’re ready. Don’t you need to practice the big waves for the comp? What is it, like four weeks away?”
I duck my head and wax my board. It’s like his touch scrambled my brain, my heart, my existence.
“Look, Grace. It’s not like you have to surf the Point. It’s just I know you can totally kick butt out there.”
“I wish I knew. I’m gonna sit on the shoreline and watch for a while. If I’m feeling brave, maybe I’ll paddle out. I need a moment to psych myself up.” I hug myself, unsure if I’ve got what it takes.
Ford’s eyes linger on me for a moment before he attaches his leash.
“Remember it’s a northwest swell today,” I tell him. “Watch out for rip currents. It’s high tide, so you’ve got a limited window before the rocks become a problem.”
He nods and grabs his board, leaving me behind with a slight nod of the head. He marches out to the five-foot swells like they’re nothing. I swallow and watch, wishing I had the guts to follow him. Sometimes I feel like I’m living life on the sidelines, and sometimes I get this totally ballsy mentality and go for it. I wish this was one of those times. What will happen if there are epic waves on comp day? I’ll turn paddlepuss and back out?
It’s times like this I’m not so sure I’m a winner. Not so sure I deserve anything. Lately, I’m feeling even more like I’m walking through a minefield—at home, everywhere—waiting for the eventual step when everything blows up in my face.
Ford’s confidence makes me nervous, but I guess when you’re surfing a more advanced spot, you have to own it. When he hits the shoreline, he turns around and gives me a surfs-up hand gesture, his middle fingers curled in with his thumb and pinky pointing out. I sign it back with a half smile.
He paddles out on a current, duck dives some big curls, and joins the crowd. The wind blows my hair around. I take a rubber band off my wrist and capture wild strands flying about getting knotted, and turn it into a high ponytail. Then I rest my chin on my knees and watch everyone else. Normally being at the beach is what makes me feel like I’m floating untethered by anything. Right now, I feel weighted down like rocks are tied to my ankles, like I’m at home. I’d been psyched to surf the Pumphouse, but the Point? You mess up, you get messed up—most likely by Grimace rock.
Today is turning out to be an ugly reality check. I’m not so sure I’m ready for the competition. Not so sure I will be ready. How am I ever going to pull this off if I’m too chicken to surf the Point?
A huge wave swells and three guys are lined up to fight it out. I’m sure they all think it’s their time, their turn. Things will get territorial fast. Some guys will duke it out. Most don’t. But even pacifists are likely to call the bro who bunked their wave an assmunch, or give him a dirty look.
The three dudes paddle hard to catch the wave at the sweet spot. It’s all about timing. One of them gets sucked up to the top, which means he’s going to get dropped hard and caught inside the wash. The other two bros catch it. They could stay out of each other’s way, but then they wouldn’t be able to pull the moves they want. Their boards come dangerously near each other, and after a brief shove they carve in different directions. Of course, one of them has the better side and totally dominates before he cuts out. The second guy flips the bird as his ride fizzles.
Other surfers show up, drifting on the beach, wandering toward the water, looking like they’re still recovering from Friday-night parties. A blond guy blows chunks about fifteen feet behind me, near a trash can. Nasty. The retching sound is followed by, “Dude, can a bro get some water?”
I turn around, watching in grotesque fascination. His friend keeps waxing the board. “Chuuuuf. Sorry, dude. You backwash.”
Hangover Guy asks, “Got any gum?”
“What do I look like, a freakin’ gas station?”
I chuckle silently to myself and dig into my bag to find some gum. I turn back around and lob a few pieces of Bubble Yum in their direction. “Hey, catch.”
Hangover Guy misses by a few feet and trudges over to sweep the gum out of the sand. “Thanks.”
I laugh. “Wouldn’t want your breath to attract sharks.”
Gas Station Guy cackles. “Dude, the femme totally saved your butt and ripped you a new one.”
the"Adobe Garamond Regular">I grin. This kind of back-and-forth is part of what makes the surfer crowd fun. This is the world where I belong. Not with my mom and her stupid tailored shorts. Not with my dad and his need for a spotless house and total control. These people get me.
Hangover Guy pops the gum into his mouth. “Yeah, but can the femme jazz the glass or does she only play in the foamies?”
Now he’s ticking me off, pushing my buttons in a way only Ford can get away with. But I’m stuck like gum on the sidewalk. Because it’s true. Today, I’m shunning beautiful glass swells to watch from the shoreline. And if I were planning on surfing any part of the Point, I’d probably surf the foamies. Leftovers on the edge of the break are a bit calmer.
His buddy tucks a small bit of wax into the calf of his wetsuit. “Dude. Femmes always surf foamies. Real bros surf the big dogs.”
Then he heads out to the ocean without a backward glance, leaving me steaming on the beach.
Mr. Hangover cackles and says, “Ouch. Later, diva. Spanks for the gum.”
I sit on the beach fuming. There are so many surfer girls that shred as hard or harder than most guys. Those chumps are 1950s in the worst way. Sexist. Some spark of anger inside me fans my competitive side. I’m going to show those tools what’s up. They think I don’t have what it takes? I can hang with them. I’ll prove it.
I wax my board with a vengeance, focusing on building up a thick coat. Then I comb it, attach my leash, and march out to the ocean, my bare feet stomping across the hot sand. It feels like my heart is pumping blood ninety miles an hour. I zone in on the current I’ve seen everyone paddle out on. The lineup is full of surfers dotting the horizon. I guess I’ll find Ford after I paddle out.
I take a deep breath and speed into the water, enjoying the sound of the slap-down when my board hits a wave rolling under it.
Huge waves crash over me and I gasp for breath every chance I get. Maybe this is suicide. I paddle harder than I ever have to stay on the board and keep moving forward.
The next set gains momentum and I paddle as fast as I can until I reach calmer water. My arms may be noodled, but I’m stoked that I made it. I sit tall on my board and flash the Chumps a what the heck do you know look.
It’s a sausage fest. A bunch of guys make catcalls and whistle. Ford swims over. The pride on his face melts me. It makes the accomplishment of getting out to the lineup that much sweeter.
“I knew you’d make it. You just needed a little time to get your edge on.”
“Yeah, something like that.” I bristle when I think of the idiots who implied girls pretty much suck. I’ll show them girls can rip as hardcore as guys.
We straddle our boards and wait. After an eon of watching other surfers rip hard, it’s our turn. My heart cli. M8" alimbs into my throat. I hadn’t really thought this far.
Ford yells, “Go for it! Paddle, paddle, paddle.”
And I do. But not hard enough. Realizing I’m too late, I lean back, grab the board nose up, and cut out so the wave doesn’t take me. I spin around to look at Ford. What am I doing out here? Besides royally screwing up?
Some guy with a buzz cut says, “Hey femme, no time for foreplay. Go to the back of the line.”
If I get called femme one more time today …
Ford gives him the stink-eye. “Ignore the douche. You can have my go. See the second bump of the next set. Your name’s written all over it.”
That gets me—right in the gut. Ford’s giving up his wave for me.
The chach behind Ford says, “Nice for you your boyfriend is giving you his spot. If you chuf this one, you won’t be that lucky with me.”
“Shove it, bro.” Ford flips him the bird. Then he turns and looks me dead in the eye, full of intensity. “It’s all you, Grace.”
I nod and shake out my arms. I can do this. Once I catch the sweet spot, I’ll be golden. My moment comes, Ford gives my board a push, and I go for it. Thanks to pure luck, I catch the wave and feel my board propel forward on a rush of water.
As the wave crests, the momentum freaks me out. I prepare to drop in, and pop up too soon. The powerful suction pulls my board down the face, straight to the bottom. I’m standing, but I gotta ease back fast. The nose of my board points downward. I drop low and grab the edge to force a maneuver hard left. I add weight to my back left foot, crouching low. The board nosedives forward and I fly off the side.
Falling. Quick breath. Water crashes on top of me with the force of a cabin cruiser. I plunge downward. Shit, the rocks. I tumble in so many directions, I have no clue which way is up. The snap of my surfboard being pulled in the opposite direction yanks my ankle, hard, searing into my skin. I try to grab my leg, but I can’t get my hands down there. After a few more seconds of pain, the leash breaks free. My board. Shit. I’m screwed. Lights flash through my head. I need air. I fight my way, trying to find the top. Can’t hold breath much longer. I burst through the waterline. Deep breath. Another wave crashes hard. Down, down I swirl. This time I’m pushed forward and down.
Bam. I slam into something hard—rocks. Sharp pain grates my skin. I cover my face and head with my arms. The current lets up; I kick hard to swim to the top.
If I don’t make it to the surface, if someone isn’t there …
lungs burn. My body hurts, but a surge of adrenaline helps me swim to the top. I think it’s the top. Can’t tell anymore. As I break the surface, I hear people yelling. I’m exhausted and trying to figure out where to swim, but the saltwater burns my eyes. A surfboard makes a beeline toward me, but I can’t focus so great and I’m doggie paddling just to keep my head above water.
A few more minutes, I tell myself. I can make it. Maybe. The board reaches me, and a pair of strong arms hoists me up, drags me onto something. A surfboard. Not mine. I don’t think. I don’t even know who the guy is, but I feel his weight on me as he paddles toward the shore. It’s comforting.
He says, “It’ll be okay. Hang in there a few more minutes.”
I don’t say anything. I lie there, eyes closed. Wanting sleep. I love the floating sensation of being on a board. I could drift here forever.
In a deep voice, he says, “We’re almost there. I’m gonna walk you in.” Then I feel a little shake and that soothing voice becomes abrupt. “Hey, are you okay? Stay with me. Open your eyes.”
But I don’t want to open my eyes. Drifting. Away from everything. Sounds so good.
I feel the weight of his arm across my waist. Then he lifts me off the board and I’m weightless as he cradles me in his arms. The thunk thunk of his walk jostles me. I wince. I was rescued by an ogre.
I whisper-croak, “Head hurts.”
“I’m sure it does, girlie. Bitch as much as you want; don’t go to sleep.”
Thunk, thunk. Jostle, jostle. Torture.
He stops and lays me down on the sand. A sea of voices buzz like a swarm of angry bees. It hurts my head so much. Someone peels my eyes open and shines a bright light in. I try to pull back, but the sand has me hemmed in.
I attempt to sit up, but my shoulders are pressed back into the sand. Someone holds a towel to my forehead. Why is there a crowd of people around? It’s not like I’m that important. Besides, if I can survive seventeen years in my house, what’s it matter if I get sucked over the falls?
“Everybody back the hell off.” The big blurry guy speaks sharply, motioning at my audience.
“The rest of you back way the hell off. I’m not going anywhere. She’s my girl.”
Ford. He’s here. His girl? My brain feels scrambled, but I like the sound of that.
“Grace, baby, open your eyes. Help us out here.”
His voice feels safe. It floods me with relief. I force my eyes open. He lifts a tangle of wet hair out of my face. I whisper, “Hey.”