Clash (7 page)

Soon a long procession of cars, with surfboards stacked on their roofs, made their way to the Pine Trees parking lot. The water quickly filled with contestants getting in practice runs, while the beach sprouted umbrellas and sand chairs like multicolored mushrooms. Cars pulled up and dropped off spectators and contestants alike, who were prepared for the day with ice chests, beach chairs, and surf gear.

A few miles away, the Hamilton household was on full alert.

In the garage, Bethany’s dad, Tom, was selecting the right surfboards from a quiver of water vehicles. Having a backup board was essential in the event of changing surf conditions or board breakage.

Noah checked and rechecked his camera gear and unplugged oversized camcorder batteries from their charger and stuffed them into a backpack. His role, with help from Tim, would be to take pictures and video of Bethany’s surfing. The images from this contest would go to sponsors and on his sister’s website, and they would provide Bethany with footage to polish her style.

Tim hauled ice chests to the car that his mom had filled with every conceivable goodie. Hawaiians follow a “my ice chest, your ice chest” tradition, meaning whatever you bring to the beach is fair game for all your friends and acquaintances. Bethany’s mom had packed accordingly.

Meanwhile, Bethany debated about what to wear from a number of bathing suits that had been donated to her by a sponsor. At the last minute she decided on a red, white, and blue combination and ran into the bathroom to change as her dad hollered from the van to hurry up.

Nothing like rushing me when I’m nervous, she thought as she scrambled out of the house and into the van.

Soon the Hamilton crew, surrounded by surfboards, ice chests, camera gear, and beach chairs, clattered across the small single-car bridge that marked the entrance to the Hanalei valley.

Bethany heard her dad breathe a heavy sigh of relief as they finally escaped the mass exodus of traffic by pulling into the driveway of a family friend.

“Cheri, which one is our firstborn? Because I think we should give him to the McCoys for letting us park here.”

“It’s a small price for a good parking space,” her mom grinned.

“The least we could do,” Bethany added, trying to sound innocent — until she winked at Noah and everyone laughed.

Before the family exited the car, Dad held up his hand. “Hey! Before everything gets going, let’s pray.” Bethany lowered her head with the rest of her family.

“Lord,” their dad prayed, “we give this whole event to you. If your name will be glorified by Bethany doing well in the contest, we ask for your help for her, and if your name will be honored better by her losing, we will be happy with that as well. We ask for safety for all those taking part today. In the name of your son, Jesus, amen!”

“Amen,” echoed all the voices in the van.

The family quickly loaded their arms with gear and began their slow migration to the beach. Bethany, a single surfboard under her arm, looked over at her brother Tim, who struggled under the burden of several surfboards and an ice chest.

“Hey, Tim, there are times when having only one arm really pays off!”

Tim only grunted in return.

Once the family had established a spot on the sand, Bethany walked over to the registration table, signed in, and picked up her complimentary T-shirt. She would be surfing a bit later in the day in a heat with a friend and a couple of girls from the south side of the island.

Malia, along with a number of other girls, drifted on to the beach, and soon the Hamilton location became an encampment for all the Hanalei Girls Surf Team.

“Hurry, Mom!” Jenna shouted to the closed bathroom door. “I don’t want to be late!”

“I’m going as fast as I can,” said the muffled voice of her mom. “You ought to be happy that I’m getting up early to drop you off at the beach before I go to work.”

Jenna caught sight of her image in the hall mirror and frowned slightly.

Like most people her age, she was not entirely pleased with what she observed. She really liked her new neon blue and green swimsuit. But she wished her hair wasn’t so red and her skin didn’t look so . . . white. Her critique of her body would have continued right down to her toes, but the bathroom door opened and her mom came out and said, “Okay, let’s go!”

Following the surfboard-laden cars across the Hanalei Bridge, Jenna’s mom found Pine Tree Beach easily. Jenna quickly exited the car and waved goodbye to her mother.

The beach was alive with activity and color. Bright pennants, with the names of sponsoring companies emblazoned upon them, drifted high above the tents in the gentle breeze as tanned men and women, surfboards under their arms, swarmed over the beach.

Suddenly, an air horn sounded, and four men wearing colored Lycra jerseys and holding surfboards bounded toward the water. The surf meet was on.

Jenna stood wide-eyed, taking it all in.

Bethany glanced up briefly at the sound of the air horn and then bent over to finish stretching her hamstrings. She and her friends had hiked farther down the crescent bay to a location out of the contest area in order to tune up and practice for their upcoming heats.

Doing stretching exercises on the hard sand was the first step, and the girls, although young and limber, took this part of the routine seriously. Even a slight injury could mean the difference between winning and losing in a contest with aggressive and talented competitors.

A small rectangle of wax was passed around, and the girls scraped it over the top of their surfboards in order to create an uneven surface so they wouldn’t slip off.

Leashes were fastened. Those who planted their right foot in the back of their stance put their leash on that foot. Those who favored their left foot or “goofy foot,” as Bethany did, hooked the leash on that one.

The rolling whitewater grabbed at the knees of the girls as they waded into deeper water. Unlike many places in Hawaii, the Pine Trees area had a smooth sandy bottom completely free of reef or rocks.

When they reached waist-deep water, the girls slid onto their boards and stroked out toward the horizon. Their objective was the smooth blue water just past the breaking point. Even though their movements looked effortless, it took stamina, skill, and a lot of practice to make it look so easy.

As the whitewater from a breaking wave exploded in front of the girls, they quickly grabbed the rail of their surfboards and, with one fluid motion, pointed the nose deep under the wave while drawing one knee under them and throwing the other foot out and up as balance.

This maneuver, if done properly, would allow the girls to dive under the power and reversing force of the wave. If done improperly, the end result could mean that they would be pushed all the way back to the beach. Bethany and her friends zipped through the crashing whitewater like pros.

For the next hour the girls raced along the face of powder blue waves, executing arcing turns and finding the tube time and time again.

Jenna, not recognizing anyone, found a spot on the sand and watched in awe as the remarkably talented, bronzed men and women took to the water in competition.

Behind her, the announcer called out a commentary on what was happening in the water and on the scores of the winners. Every few minutes the air horn would sound, indicating the start or end of a heat.

Just then, Jenna noticed a cluster of girls standing at the edge of the water. Each wore a different colored jersey. One of the girls Jenna recognized, even though her back was turned. She was tall —taller than the others. She had almost white-blonde hair, and the left sleeve of her jersey was knotted. It was Bethany, the girl she had met the week before on the beach.

The starting horn blared, and Bethany raced toward the waves, her long legs giving her a sprinting advantage that she would otherwise lose because she could only paddle with one arm.

Shortly after the shark attack and her return to a competitive career, contest judges had offered her special consideration due to her handicap. Bethany turned them down cold. She would compete at the same level, with the same rules as the rest of the girls. If she had a physical disadvantage, then she would just work harder to overcome it.

Now paddling to the take-off spot with breakneck speed, Bethany and the other girls in the heat would compete for the top seat in a good-natured but aggressive battle.

Points were given for each wave ridden and were also determined by how long a surfer stayed on the wave and how complicated the maneuvers were that were done on the wave. A surfer could win a contest by catching lots and lots of waves with the best rides of those waves being counted for points. Yet it was possible to win a contest by catching just a few waves and outperforming the competitors.

Surfers could suffer penalties as well. Taking a wave that an opponent was already riding would result in a “triangle” for the offending surfer as would shoving or pushing another surfer, trying to dismount them from the wave.

A small wave popped up, and several girls scrambled to take the point position on it. Bethany, her ocean sense honed by many hours looking at the horizon, felt before she saw that there was something more substantial than this wave. Rather than chase the small swell in, she paddled farther out.

Suddenly, a large breaker loomed up. It was one of the larger set waves of the day. Bethany smiled to herself. She knew she had the wave since the other girls were hopelessly inside and scrambling just to avoid being caught by its breaking power.

She spun her board toward shore and took several strokes with her powerful right arm. Bethany felt the bottom drop out of the wave, and she gracefully came to her feet. This wave was now hers to control.

Bethany used the speed of the drop to drive out into the flat water in front of the pitching wave and then dig hard on her inside rail to snap the board back up the face of the wave, stalling midway up on the breaker.

Bethany saw the wall of water stand up in front of her. She knew she had to take one of two opportunities: she could power drive across the wall and use her speed to make huge snap turns, or she could sink her back foot, stall just a moment more, and slip into the spitting tube.

With the ease of a champion, Bethany slowed her drive and let a turquoise lip of water envelop her.

On the beach, people jumped to their feet. Her dad began counting under his breath: “One thousand one, one thousand two . . .”

Bethany had vanished completely behind the curtain of water; only the tip of her board was visible.

“One thousand three, one thousand four, one thousand five . . .”

Cameras whirled and clicked.

With a huge burst of spray, Bethany exploded from inside the collapsing wave. Hoots and cheers went up, and judges, not waiting for her to finish her ride, began to scribble on their pads.

Bethany continued her drive down the wave, picking up speed, which she used in a stunning backslash maneuver, snapping back to a small fl oater as the wave diminished on the shore.

Bethany smiled to herself. She knew that her competitors would have a tough time matching that wave in the limited time each heat was held.

She turned her board away from the beach and paddled back for more.

On the beach, Jenna found herself on her feet, cheering for Bethany. And even though she didn’t really understand a lot of what she had just seen performed, she knew it took real skill to pull it off.

The air horn sounded, and Jenna watched from a short distance away as Bethany’s friends and family went down to the water’s edge to congratulate her as she came sliding in on her belly.

Everyone seemed so happy for her. Jenna inched closer to the group, feeling invisible —but wanting to be a part of something that felt so . . . good. Jenna saw a woman that she didn’t recognize laugh and toss a towel on Bethany’s head as she stood up.

“Great job, kiddo!” the woman said with a smile.

“Thanks, Sarah!” Bethany said, hugging the woman.

“We’re so proud of you,” Bethany’s mom whispered.

“Ho! You gotta come see your ride!” a young man, who must have been her brother, shouted as he replayed the video over and over to the crowd standing around him.

Jenna trailed behind them as they made their way back to the judges’ tent.

“And the winner of the junior division, with an incredible barrel ride of over five seconds, is Bethany Hamilton!” sounded the loudspeaker.

Before long, Bethany was standing on the winner’s platform, a beautiful lei around her neck and a haku, or headband lei, on her head, holding a huge trophy as the emcee continued on about the “Comeback Kid.”

When the microphone came to her, Bethany said a simple thank you to God and her family and then handed it back to the fast-talking commentator and the next round of winners.

Jenna held herself back as a group of girls she didn’t know surrounded Bethany. She recognized Malia in the group, but it seemed too odd — too uncomfortable — to push her way in.

She wanted to tell Bethany that she was impressed with her surfing ability and that she admired the fact that she hadn’t let the shark attack stop her from her dreams. She wanted to say thank you for the small kindness shown to her. She wanted to say that she didn’t know many people on the island that she could call a friend and that she hoped that Bethany and Malia might be those people.

All this was going through her head as Bethany pawed through the ice chest, looking for something. Her huge trophy lay heating up on a beach towel, and her lei, Jenna noticed, was now draped around her mom’s neck.

Bethany found a large bottle of water and guzzled it down quickly and in a very unladylike way.

“Bethany!” her mom said, laughing.

Bethany smiled sheepishly and plopped down in a beach chair, bottle of water in her hand. Then she looked up — looked right at Jenna — and looked down again. But not before Jenna had seen that she recognized her.

She doesn’t want to be bothered with someone like me, Jenna thought, a low, sinking feeling swirling over her.

Jenna walked away as quickly as she could, not pausing to watch the other surfers for fear someone might see the tears in her eyes. She had almost reached her own towel when she heard someone say her name.