Riptide

Woodbury, Minnesota

For Eric,
who took me surfing on our first date.

Copyright Information

Riptide
© 2013 by Lindsey Scheibe.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

First e-book edition © 2013

E-book ISBN: 9780738736730

Book design by Bob Gaul
Cover design by Lisa Novak

Cover image: Woman © iStockphoto.com/Stígur Karlsson

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Surfer Lingo

|
Comb
|
A comb is used to scrape the wax on the surfboard to create texture and friction.

|
Duck Dive
|
When a big wave is coming, a surfer can push the surfboard underneath the water and let the wave pull them below it, which is easier than getting hammered by the top side of the wave.

|
Foamies
|
Foamies are leftover waves that crash in closer to shore; they aren’t as clean and have a lot more whitewater. Most people learn to surf on foamies, since these waves are less powerful and don’t require much paddling to get to. The consequences of falling are less severe also.

|
Leash
|
The leash goes around a surfer’s ankle and keeps the board from escaping if the surfer falls off the board. A surfboard not connected to a surfer and propelled around freely by the ocean can be dangerous. It would also require that the surfer to return to shore to fetch the board, and then paddle all the way back out to make a second attempt.

|
Lineup
|
Surfers waiting to catch their next ride sit in a loosely formed lineup where people “know” when it’s their go. It’s also the area where it’s easiest to wait for and catch good waves. The lineup is not always based on who was there first. Sometimes seniority and/or localism comes into play.

|
Party Waves
|
Party waves are crowded waves where there are multiple surfers trying to catch/ride the same wave.

|
Riptide
|
A riptide is a strong current that pulls away from the shore. Riptides typically occur along sand breaks, where an underwater sandbar (or other topography) changes and forms a strong seaward current that can take objects and people out to sea. In order for someone to get out of a riptide, they need to paddle sideways to exit the current, or risk exhausting themselves as they panic to swim to shore only to go nowhere.

|
Wax
|
Wax is used to help surfers stick to their board, and also to wick the water off the board so the board is less slick.

one

Surfing is for life.
—Bruce Jenkins,
North Shore Chronicles

I stretch out my legs, enjoying the hot sand against my calves. Early morning sun creates an orange sheen on the ocean as I search for a big set of waves. The endless white formations roll in; lines of blurred corduroy become distinct opportunities—or not—as they roll closer to the local surf break. A few surfers are already out there, dotting the horizon and catching waves. Alluring, sexy waves. The kind that promise to wash away anything but the moment you’re riding them.

I look over my shoulder to see Ford walking toward me, his board under his arm. He’s late. But no point in being frustrated. Ford is Ford. I put up with it because he’s one of the major reasons I’m sane. Well, him and surfing. I flex my toes and bend them down, digging them into the sand. Ford’s been my best friend since the summer before sophomore year—he was a newbie from Huntington, wearing surfer clothes and looking the part. I was obsessed with surfing that entire summer. After a couple of arguments about which surfers on the junior tour had the best sessions on YouTube videos, we agreed to disagree until one of us kicked enough ass to compete.

Ford lays his board down and sits next to me. “There’s a set coming in and you’re catching rays? C’mon on now, Grace.”

“At least I show up early to pay homage to the waves. Where’s your dedication, Mr. Surf God?”

“I’m dedicated to my friends and the waves. It’s Esmerelda’s fault I’m late.”

Ford could drive almost any truck in existence, as tricked-out as it gets. But he prefers Esmerelda, a wonderful old beater he can work on. He probably had to coax her to life this morning. Lately, she’s had a funny knocking sound.

I try not to check him out too obviously. His dark legs and lean body have changed for the better since last summer. I can’t help crushing on him, but we’re BFs and that’s off-limits. Besides, every ounce of energy I have this summer is going toward figuring out how to get a surf scholarship to UCSD.

He kicks off his Reefs and I add, “Nice board shorts. You have excellent taste.”

“Yeah, since you picked them out, Gidget.” His eyebrows rise and his left dimple shows. There’s a playful challenge in his grin, one I can’t ignore.

“Oh yeah? Gidget?” When people hear that name, regular folks might not know what it means. Older folks might think about the old movies, TV series, or books. But when surfers hear “Gidget,” they usually think about a woman who still gets listed as one of the top surfer girls ever. They also think “pint-sized.”

Standing up to my full height, I come eye-to-chest with Ford. I give him my best intimidating stare. Fighting a smile probably isn’t helping the stare-down thing.

Ford throws his head back and laughs. I step toward him, hands on my hips. In one quick swoop, he bends down and slings me over his shoulder. I hang onto his torso, trying to lessen the jostle, as he runs toward the water.

Flailing and slapping his back, I protest. “Ford Watson, put me down.”

“Ford
Watson
,” he mocks, simultaneously laughing and wading into knee-deep water before tossing me in. I squeal in protest at the cold. My butt hits the hard sand before I spring up, ready to get even, but by the time I wipe salty water from my eyes Ford is on the beach waxing his board—a ten-foot Stewart Regal, single fin. The seductiveness of his surfboard is ridiculous, a new take on a retro design. Tribal spears hug the outsides of the board, which is a blue that blends in with the ocean, making him a god commanding the waves.

Charging out of the water, I make a beeline for him.

He waves me off. “Aww. Be a good sport. Go wax your board.”

“Fine, but only ’cause a solid set is coming in.”

Since it’s the summer before senior year, this is
the
year—my last chance to get noticed by college surf coaches. If I want to have a snowball’s chance in the Bahamas of making it happen, then I gotta tweak my skills and make a local presence. That’s what it takes to get noticed.

My board is an old yellow beak-nosed from the 70s. It’s a six-foot ten-inch Bing model with faded red lettering. Dings show off the vintage factor, if the shape of the nose weren’t telltale enough. Thin red lines outline the edges. A couple of patches draw attention, screaming
fixed by girl owner
. I love it.

“Grace, the waves ain’t gonna wait.”

I flick sand at Ford’s feet. Feeling antsy to catch some, I go tug on my summer wetsuit. It may be June, but the water around here is still in the upper sixties.

I slide my suit over my legs and hop a little as I try to pull it over my shoulders. My boobs jiggle a little in the process. I glance over at Ford and notice how he turns his head quickly. I tug at the sleeves of my wetsuit, slightly amused and slightly embarrassed. I turn around so he can zip me up. It’s not like I can’t; it’s just something nice he does for me.

My leash is all knotted up. Ford untangles it and attaches it to my surfboard. Most boards have a place embedded on the underbelly to attach the leash, but for some reason, mine is special. It attaches to the fin.

“Thanks, Ford.”

“I’ll be an old man by the time you’re finished if I don’t help.”

“Whatev.”

I wax my board while he grabs my ankle, attaching my leash. For a split second his hand lingers there. Last night’s dream flickers and I stand up, aware of the inch of skin his hand touched. I grab my board and run toward the water with a long-short, long-short gallop as my leash holds one leg back.

“Last one in loads the boards,” I holler, running at half speed and knowing there’s no chance of Ford catching me when I’m this far ahead.

I reach the waterline, toss my board in victoriously, wade out as far as I can, and then begin the arduous task of getting raked over as I paddle out.

Ford may have reached the water second, but he paddles fast and soon makes it out there to the big dogs waiting for the Wave.

I keep my eye on the locals as I paddle out to the lineup. The water turns rough as a set of waves pass through. I sputter, hang on, and try to paddle past. Two strokes forward, one knocked back. After repeating this scenario several times, I join the rest of the surfers.

“Hey, Parker. Over here,” Ford directs, staking his claim on me. Really, he’s protecting me from a few hormone-raging, I-only-think-below-the-waist potheads. Though not all surf guys are like that. There really are a lot of super-talented, artsy surfers … contrary to some people’s opinions, like my mom’s…

The two other girls out here, Carrie and Talia, usually hang together. They’re stud surfers and sometimes I wish we could be friends. But my mom taught me a long time ago that women aren’t to be trusted. Most girls would think I’m a weirdo or something anyway, because I wouldn’t have a lot to say. The great thing about having guy friends is not having to talk about things you don’t want to.

I paddle to Ford. He’s straddling his longboard, black hair glistening; he greets me with a grin. His left dimple makes me think of the practical jokes he pulled on me after we first met. It also draws my eyes to his full lips.

When I reach his vicinity, I push up off my board and straddle it. Our boards bob up and down, announcing the next set’s arrival.

Damien, a local surfer with gorgeous dreads, says, “Hey babe. Why don’t you come catch some waves over here? They’re a lot bigger.” His insinuation is obvious, but I kind of enjoy being noticed even if he has a reputation for being a horndog. Personally, I think his reputation is more smoke than fire.

Ford steps in. “Prove it.”

The other guys laugh. A few make the
ooh whatcha gonna do now
sound.

Even though Damien talks big, I think he’s really a good guy. He’s always been nice to me. I don’t understand that instant rivalry Ford feels toward Damien.

The perfect wave comes our way. It’s solid, peeling off the water into a tight curl while the face of it keeps growing. Ford starts paddling to snag it at the crucial moment.
I laugh; he’s freaking awesome. He comes down off the face, does a bottom turn, and carves down the line to the right. He turns up and down the face the rest of the ride before he exits the wave and paddles toward me.

“Gnar ride, man,” I say.

Ford basks in the warmth of my praise like a Beach Betty soaking up sun. With a
beat that
smirk, he looks toward Damien and shoots him the bird using both hands.

Damien happily returns the greeting and I try not to laugh. Damien’s so cute about giving the one-fingered salute.

Ford says, “Hey, this next one’s yours.”

I look over my shoulder to see an epic wave barreling toward us.

“Hello? Look at the size of that monster.”

“Parker. It’s
your
turn.” Ford always pushes me. “C’mon. Represent the ladies.”

Ford knows what to say to get my dander up. I eye the wave and paddle for dear life. If I don’t catch it, I’ll drown trying. The wave catches up to me, and I start to get sucked up to the top. Falling off your board is one thing, but getting stuck in the wave when it comes crashing down is another. The force of the water pummels you, and rolls you until you don’t know which end is up. Desperate, I try to paddle my way back toward the bottom of the wave. To represent. To show the guys what’s up. More than anything, to prove to myself I’m tough.

I pop up on deck, right foot forward. I barely make the bottom turn, and then I notice the wave curling over my shoulders. For the first time in my life, I’m inside the barrel of a wave. Amped, I let out a tribal yell. The rush is incredible. Zooming through a wall of water, still breathing like normal, I enjoy the magic of feeling free and alone. I would stay in this water wonderland forever if I could. But the ride won’t last; I bear down and transfer my weight to my front foot, accelerating my speed, and throw my left arm out to graze the wall of water as I shoot through it before it crumbles.

Euphoric, I cut back and ride what’s left of the line. Cheers erupt. Whistles and applause. I paddle back toward the group. I swear I’m on top of the freaking world. Ford winks and gives me the
sweet move
thumbs-up. The two of us might be acting low-key, but the truth is, I’ve trained for this moment. Hard work makes victory that much sweeter. The whooshing sound of being barreled, and the feeling of running my hand through an ocean wall, play on repeat as I make my way toward the crew.

After another hour of surfing—and laughing at the guys jawing back and forth about their boards, their “packages,” and the waves—I paddle in. Actually, I catch a wave and ride it in as long as I can, savoring the floating, lazy sensation of letting the ocean carry me toward shore until I’m in knee-deep water.

Once my feet hit the sand, I walk out of my Pacific haven and disengage my leash. That’s when I feel the reality of life hit me head-on. I dig frantically through my bag and slather on more sunscreen in case the ocean washed off the first application. Then I fish for my visor and sunglasses. If I come home with one more sunburn I’m gonna be grounded for life, or worse—I’ll receive the hour-long lecture about skin cancer, leathery skin, and rapid aging.

It’s fun watching the breakers roll in and surfers catching rides. There are some girls who are ripping extra hard this morning. It’s hypnotic watching them. Women bring fluidity and grace to the sport that not many men can claim. Watching a woman catch a wave is like watching a dance where the partners take turns leading.

Doubt creeps in like the ocean tide. My getting barreled once, here at Ponto, won’t attract buzz. There are so many more tricks to learn, and I’m not even sure I can repeat today’s victory. How much was luck and how much was preparation? Then I remember a quote Ford once wrote on a notecard for me to carry in my wallet, since he knows what a freak I am about quotes.

Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.—
Lucius Annaeus Seneca

I plop down in the sand and frown, wondering how in the world I’m going to convince my mom to let me enter a couple of local comps in the fall, not to mention wanting to go to college in-state. Maybe I can get Dad to help convince her on the competition front, but that will be about as tricky as catching a seven-foot double-up at Big Rock. I grab my surfboard wax and play around with it, molding it with my fingers.

For me, surfing is survival. It transcends everyday life; it’s all about the ride and the moment.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Everything else disappears.