Clash (3 page)

She only managed to catch the back end of an older-model tan sedan with a broken taillight speeding away.

“Unbelievable!” Bethany muttered.

A few moments later, her mom appeared at the car door. “Okay! Let’s go surfing!”

“Malia isn’t back yet,” said Bethany with a distracted frown.

Then the slap of flip-flops could be heard as Malia ran to the car.

“Sorry, sorry!” she said. “I got behind a guy who paid for all his stuff with change.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Bethany said teasingly, then turned back to her mom. “Mom, what would you do if Noah, Tim, or I ever swore at you?”

“First, I would cry,” said her mother.

“Cry?”

“I’d cry because I would be hurt by your lack of respect.”

“Oh,” Bethany said softly with a side glance at Malia, but her best friend was turned, looking out the window.

“And then I would tell your father,” said Cheri. “And then you would cry.” Bethany’s mother smiled.

“Ah!” Bethany said. “Then it would be Ivory soap time.”

“A full diet of Ivory soap, followed by restriction to your room until you’re eighteen, and hours of slave labor — oh, and surfboards hacked to pieces.”

“You mean you wouldn’t pull off my fingernails too?” Bethany laughed.

“Honestly, I don’t know what your father would do,” her mother said. “But I’m sure it would cure the situation once and for all. Why? Are you thinking of cussing me out?”

“No, I just overheard some girl cursing at her mom, and it kinda made me sick to my stomach. I just don’t get families that do stuff like that.” She glanced at Malia, who appeared to be thinking hard about all that was being said.

“We’ve taught you well, thank God. It should bother you. Who was it? Someone we know?”

“We don’t know them,” Bethany said and then wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think I want to, either.”

Malia didn’t say a word, which seemed odd to Bethany. Instead, Malia turned and looked back out the window. But not before Bethany had caught the troubled look on her friend’s face.

two

The conversation was soon forgotten as Bethany’s mother steered the minivan around the narrow cliff-side roads, passing new million-dollar homes of movie stars and the ramshackle houses of a few old-time residents. Bethany and Malia hung their heads out the windows, drinking in the rich smell of blossoming plumeria trees and laughing at wild chickens that darted quickly out of their path, hustling young chicks in front of them.

Then the road dropped down a steep incline that opened up onto a majestic bay. Bethany felt her excitement rise. At the near end of the crescent, there were only a couple of cars with empty surf racks that bore greasy stains from melted surfboard wax on their rust-eaten roofs and trunks.

Plenty of room left for us, Bethany thought happily.

Just past the cars, a long rugged point of black volcanic rock loomed out into the sea. Around that point in the ocean steamed head-high waves that marched toward the beach before suddenly pitching forward, like a huge arm reaching for shore.

Bethany spotted a surfer racing across the standing wave. She motioned for Malia to watch while he tucked himself into a ball as the lip of the wave tossed over him, placing him in the tube for a few seconds before spitting him out in a burst of spray.

“Wooo! Looks like fun, Malia! And it isn’t too big — just fun size.”

“I wish I hadn’t hurt my shoulder playing tennis the other day!” Bethany’s mother said wistfully.

“What’s that you always say?” Bethany patted her mom’s arm. “The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree!”

Bethany winked, and Malia laughed. The wind and waves had erased whatever it was that was troubling her, and Bethany could tell her best friend was itching to hit the surf.

Within moments, the van was parked, sunscreen applied, surfboards waxed up, and the girls were trotting quickly along the sand toward the paddle-out spot.

Bethany glanced over her shoulder as her mom pulled out the video camera and tripod from the back of the van. She gave her mother one last wave, and her mom waved back before turning to talk with a group of tourists who were slowly encircling her. Bethany shook her head as she continued to jog toward the ocean.

Bethany still didn’t get it — all the attention of people wanting to have their pictures taken with her and wanting her autograph. She didn’t get it, but she was trying.

“What an awesome opportunity you’ve been given!” she remembered her mom whispering to her after an interview at the hospital. “To share your faith with so many — people you might have never met if this hadn’t happened.”

Yet, she didn’t know how she was going to help someone else when she was just learning how to help herself.

Bethany felt Malia reach for her hand as their bare feet slapped on wet sand — time to pray. Malia had picked up the habit from Bethany — and Bethany from her father, when she was first learning to surf.

The prayer was simple. Bethany, aloud and without shame, thanked God for his creation and for the privilege of enjoyment he had given. Then she asked that he would give them his protection while in the water.

Considering what she had gone through only a year ago, the request had a powerful ring to it —one that seemed to hang in the air between them for a moment.

“Amen,” both girls said at the same time and then laughed and sprinted out into the waves.

The first twenty feet of ocean bottom was covered with thick, large-grained sand. After that, it was replaced by coral-encrusted rocks that fanned out into a sharp reef. The girls quickly scrambled onto their boards as the bottom turned rocky, and then they paddled toward their surfer’s playground on a riptide.

Rips, as they’re known by surfers, are spent waves that create their own pathway back to the ocean in a kind of a reverse but under-the-surface river. They also cause the greatest danger for visitors, small children, or those unfamiliar with the ways of the ocean. Most people who have drowned in the waters around Hawaii stepped into a riptide and were dragged out to sea by an invisible surge far too strong to swim against.

Surfers like Bethany and Malia, with their greater understanding of the ocean and its dangers, often use a rip to get a free ride out to the action.

The girls ended their trip on the rip by racing each other to the lineup, laughing and duck diving under several clean but not terribly powerful waves along the way.

The other faces in the water were familiar ones — like Pete, the old-school guy on a thick, long board who actually surfed wearing a baseball cap to protect his balding head. To keep track of his hat, Pete had leashed it to his leather necklace. The other surfer watching the next set of waves was Eddie, a hefty, dark Hawaiian guy who spoke thick pidgin English with a happy smile.

“Hey, Bethany!” Eddie said as the girls paddled by him.

“Hey,” Bethany chirped back in greeting.

Bethany paddled out farther than the others. She was gunning for the larger of the waves, and from her experience at this surf spot, she knew exactly what objects on the beach to line up with in order to get the most exhilarating ride.

She didn’t have to wait long. A bump in the water appeared on the horizon and raced toward the surfers. Bethany guessed that the second or third wave would be larger than the first. She scrambled toward the bump that was now taking the shape of a swell by pulling powerfully with her right arm and compensating for the pull toward the right by correcting with the lean of her body.

The first wave rolled under her board, unbroken. The second wave stacked up in front of her. This was the one!

Bethany spun her board toward shore and paddled hard. Like a plane racing down the runway, she paddled hard into the wave. When it hit the shallow reef, the wave suddenly jacked straight up. The offshore winds tore away at the lip of the wave, casting off a plume of spray. Bethany took one last stroke and felt the bottom fall away. This was the critical point — the takeoff.

With years of experience that made the difficult look effortless, Bethany planted her hand flat on her board and did a one-hand push-up. Then in one lightning-quick movement she drew her legs beneath her and bounced to her feet as both she and the surfboard dropped down the face of the wave.

Now planted firmly on her feet with a strong but elegant stance, Bethany let gravity take her past the vertical face of the wave and out into the fl at water before throwing her weight and speed into a hard bottom turn that threw a sheet of spray into the air.

Rising back to face the wave, Bethany found what surfers call the sweet spot — the place where the wave has the most speed and where the prospects of the wave curling over her in a tube were the most likely.

Bethany’s heart soared! She was born for this. The wave stood up all the way across the end of the cove as it unwrapped on the shallow reef. A stall or misstep now would not only create a wipe-out but would toss Bethany up on the shallow, razor-sharp reef. She was unafraid.

The crest of the wave began to pitch out. Bethany tucked her body down to keep the lip from hitting her in the head, and a spinning circle of powder blue and green water enveloped her in a tube. The sound changed to a kind of hollow, gentle roar, as if she were inside of a can.

Bethany could see out the end of the barreling wave. She could see Malia smiling and hooting as she stroked out of the way and over the wave.

It lasted only a second or two, and then with a terrific burst of speed, Bethany shot out of the tube and raced down the wall of the wave, pulling huge turns off the lip of the wave and ending her ride with a magnificent attempt to break her airborne record.

Grinning from ear to ear, Bethany rejoined her friend in the lineup. “Okay, Malia, just one more for me. I’m starving!”

“Right behind you,” Malia called after her.

A medium-sized wave rolled in, and Bethany scratched toward it at an angle. Having spent a lifetime in the ocean and knowing this particular surf spot, she quickly read the incoming wave and positioned herself in the right place to catch it. A few strokes later, she was sailing past Malia, shouting “food!” at the top of her lungs.

Moments later, an even larger wave scooped up Malia, and after a wild ride, she swept forward in a spray of white water to join Bethany as they paddled the rest of the way to shore together.

Jenna wasn’t in the mood to admit she was wrong. But she couldn’t help thinking that the sun did feel pretty good and that the ocean was incredibly beautiful. She felt the ocean inviting her to wash off in its cleansing waves.

Wading in up to her knees, Jenna felt the strong fingers of the waves grab at her calves and try to pull her back to sea with them. She even caught a glimpse of a sea turtle as it poked its head out of the water before stroking away.

This was a first for Jenna. She had never actually been in the ocean before. Its endless expanse made even the biggest lakes she had seen at home look puny. Like the intense sun, a few rays of hope warmed her heart.

Maybe I could learn to like this place, she thought, daydreaming.

She didn’t notice the two girls coming in from the surf until they were almost right on top of her. For a moment, Jenna was dumbfounded by the shock of seeing a girl her own age, dressed in a cute bathing suit, tanned and rising up out of the water . . . with only one arm.

Then she remembered seeing the TV reports about a girl from Hawaii who was on her way to success as a pro surfer until she lost her arm to a shark. She’d also heard about the girl’s miracle comeback. Gotta be the same girl, Jenna thought.

“Hi,” the blonde girl said. Jenna smiled shyly.

“Hi.” Jenna felt her face turn as red as her hair as the girl and her friend’s eyes traveled to the red mosquito bites that covered her body.

“Looks like some skeeters got to you,” the blonde girl observed.

“Yeah, they attacked while I was asleep,” she said. “Terrorists.”

Both girls grinned at her. “Did you have a fan going?” the blonde asked.

“Fan? No . . . why?”

“If you set a fan up to blow on you, you won’t get bit,” the dark-haired girl explained.

“That’s news to me,” Jenna said. “Good news.”

“Yeah,” the blonde nodded. “It’s a trick most locals know about — hotels should tell you guys that stuff.”

“Oh, I’m not visiting. I live here. Well, I just moved here.”

“I’m Malia,” the dark-haired girl said, offering a wet hand to Jenna.

“I’m Bethany,” the blonde girl said, then grinned. “I’d offer you a handshake, too, but I’m holding my board, so there’s none to spare.”

Jenna dusted the sand off her hand and shook Malia’s hand. “I’m Jenna. Thanks for the tip about the fan. I would’ve needed a blood transfusion if I had to go through this for another night.”

Both Bethany and Malia laughed.

“Well, see ya later,” Bethany said.

“Yeah, see ya,” Jenna said.

And with that, the two surfers jogged up the beach toward a woman who appeared to be waiting for them.

Jenna watched from the shoreline as the girls buried their faces in towels and pawed through an ice chest.

She noticed the tourists lounging on their cheap grass mats turning their heads toward the girls, pointing and talking among themselves.

Then she saw one of them, an older woman in a bright fl oral print bathing suit and floppy beach hat, pull a camera from her beach bag and wander over to the girls who were busy stuffing slabs of fruit in their mouths.

Jenna couldn’t hear the conversation, but she could tell that a request for a photo was in the works.

Not long after the photo opportunity, more cars pulled up to the beach. Most had surfboards stacked on top or poking out of the rear windows or truck beds. A group of teenage girls piled out of two of the cars, laughing and greeting each other. The Hanalei Girls Surf Team — an unofficial mix of young girls of the same general age, who lived in the same area, attended the same schools, and most important, surfed together — collected their towels, small ice chests, and surfboards, and waved at the adults who had given them a ride.

The resourceful girls had phoned around and discovered that Bethany and Malia were at Kalihiwai getting some waves and that it wasn’t crowded for a change. This was Bethany’s gang, the group of girls who had been her friends since childhood. These were the people who knew her and liked her before and after the loss of her arm. These were the girls who stood with her, who understood her, who accepted her for who she was and would be her friend if she went on to be a world champion surfer or if she decided to go the soul surfer route and surf only for personal enjoyment.