The Mermaid's Secret (3 page)

Matthew is like a big brother to me. We've worked together for the past five summers. In the winters, he takes off to run a commercial fishing boat down south, then returns to Ne'Hwas every summer out of some deranged sense of loyalty to Harold.

“Sounds great. I don't know why you keep coming back here,” I say.

“I love it here.” He's about to say something else but Harold marches back into the shop and bombards Matthew with a list of supplies and repairs that need to happen in the next twenty-four hours.

Harold turns to me. “And, Jess, don't forget to sweep out the forward hold. I found mice droppings down there. We need to get ahead of the vermin problem. I'm not about to waste good money on an exterminator when I have employees,” he says, then heads back to his office.

“You heard the man. Better get ahead of those vermin, Creary,” Matthew says.

“Seriously, why do you keep coming back here? I'd be gone in a heartbeat if I had a gig like you.”

“I can't stay away.” He looks at me with a smile that's too big for his face to contain. His eyes actually twinkle.

This embarrasses me, so I change the subject. “I'm stuck on mackerel trips three times this week.”

He grabs a handful of jigs out of the box and helps me stock the display. “Don't worry. I'll get Harold to switch the schedule around.”

If I have any hope of making good tips this summer, it'll be because of Matthew. Not only is he is the best fisherman on Ne'Hwas, and something of a local legend, he's also the youngest islander to ever get his hundred-ton license, and the only person Harold will listen to. A charter company depends on the captain's ability to find fish. And Matthew knows how to find the fish.

“Happy birthday, by the way,” he says, lifting a box of lead sinkers effortlessly.

“How did you know?”

Matthew shrugs and opens the box of sinkers. The sleeves of his T-shirt hug his biceps, which are carved like rocks, from hauling nets and pulling anchors. I wonder if they were always like that or if it's just that I'm noticing for the first time.

“Doing anything special?” he asks.

“Sammy's planning a surprise party.” I swing a jig in my hand, watching the sparkly tassels flop around the head. “I might just blow it off.”

Matthew turns to me, his face pained. “Don't blow it off.”

“So she
is
having a party!”

“Just pop in. Let everyone sing ‘Happy Birthday,' then you can go home and mope.”

“Did she invite the whole staff?”

He nods.

“Even Tony?”

“Even Tony.”

“Ugh.”

He moves closer to me. “You don't feel like celebrating. I get it. You probably just want to go surfing, then crawl into bed.”

That's
exactly
what I want to do. I don't have to explain myself to him. He knows what it's like to lose someone. He lost his father without even knowing him, and his mother when he was a teenager.

I take a deep breath. “Wish I could, but I have to get on those vermin.”

He grabs the tackle out of my hands and looks me in the eye. “I'll cover for you. Go get your surf in.”

“But Harold will murder me. And then he'll cut me up for bait to save money.”

Matthew laughs. “Nah. You wouldn't make good bait.”

“Why not?”

“Too much salt and vinegar in you, Creary.”

I fake punch him in the arm (which, for the record, is solid muscle). “Why don't you come with me? When's the last time you went surfing, anyway?”

“Can't. Got an engine to inspect, an ice maker to fix, and an oil change to finish.” He takes the jigs and starts hanging them. “You go. Have fun.”

My big brother, always watching out for me. My big brother with big biceps I've never noticed before.

 

T
HREE

The wind has kicked up since this morning, sending a dry rage over Nipon Beach. Sand stings my bare legs. Waves that were shoulder-high earlier are Mackers now, as in, big enough to drive a Mack truck through. It's a solid eight to ten feet, with the occasional twelve-footer slipping in.

I wax my board and push away the butterflies in my stomach.

Most surfers will stay dry today. It's too big. Too heavy. Too messy. Waves are breaking too far out the back. It takes courage to get in the water in these conditions.
Cojones
, the surfer dudes would say.

Waves like this never used to bother me; I was fearless. But after Kay died, I didn't surf for a while. I kept thinking about her drowning, picturing it a thousand times in excruciating detail. I would imagine those final moments before she slipped silently under the waves, her lungs filling with water, the cold finally settling into her skin. I wonder what was she thinking about.

Did she think Trip would save her?

All we know for sure about the accident is that Trip Sinclair was driving the boat. It was late at night. It was high tide. The boat ran aground and sank on an unmarked shoal near Tutatquin Point. Trip made it to shore, alone. Five hours later, he called the police. Kay's body was found washed up on shore.

There was no reliable blood alcohol test, since it took him so long to report the accident.

And thanks to his extremely wealthy family, Trip was cleared of manslaughter charges. There was no jail time. We buried Kay. Trip went back to his life on the mainland.

There were no apologies.

I stayed out of the water for a whole year after that. When I got back on my board, I had lost my nerve. My cojones.

But today I'm twenty-three, and being twenty-three sucks, and I need to get away from it all. When you live on an island like I do, the ocean is your only escape.

I take a deep breath, tuck my board under my arm, and run into the water.

Paddling out, I stay close to the jetty, which provides some shelter. As soon as I cross the point, the waves are even more monstrous than they looked from shore.

Suddenly, I'm staring at a rising wall of water. It climbs higher and higher, steeper and steeper, changing its green face with every passing second. A moving mountain. My mind races. It calls on a million other images of waves I've faced before. Surfer brain kicks in. I judge the size, shape, speed, and wind all at once, trying to come up with an answer—
over
or
under
. Over, I decide.

But I misjudge.

The crest curls, then tumbles into a fierce white chute before I make it over the top. There's a thunderous crash around me. The nose of my board catches in the break and lifts out of my hands, sending me over the falls and down into the churning, furious mess. I kick hard against the force of water on top of me.

When I come up for air, my board is behind me, dragging in the whitewash toward the rocks. My mind goes blank. My body takes over. I pull on my leash, hop on my board, and paddle hard, hard, hard.
Get away from the rocks before the next wave.

But the next wave's already here, a wall of water in front of me. This time, I'm ready. I don't think. I don't second-guess. I take in a deep breath and duck dive below the wave just as it breaks.

I make it out behind the wave and paddle like hell to put more space between me and the jetty. Every breath is a struggle as I paddle farther and farther out, duck diving on every wave, even when I think there's a chance I can clear the top.

Learn from your last mistake—one of the principal rules of surfing. I wonder if Trip Sinclair learned from his mistake. There'd be so many lessons from that night: Don't drink and drive. Don't be reckless with other people's lives. Don't leave innocent girls for dead.

Getting past the break zone takes forever with the onshore wind working against me. My body is a sail, driving me in the wrong direction. Every two feet forward is met with one foot back.

By the time I'm out the back, out of the crash zone, I'm completely spent.

Freddie and Josh Collins are the only other souls out here. If the waves were five feet smaller, the lineup would be mobbed. But today isn't for novices. Freddie and Josh sit on their boards, silently gazing at the horizon. They're old-school. Surfing is a religion to them, and you don't talk in church.

I lie on my board and recover, thankful for the quiet.

Once I catch my breath, I push myself up to the seated position and stare out at the waves. A kernel of fear builds deep inside of me until it has words:
too big.
I try to push it down deep.

Another two guys paddle to the lineup. Jay Delgado and Tyler Ferguson. They are the opposite of old-school; they're pricks. In addition to being a self-loathing misogynist with (I suspect) a small penis, Jay has a special hatred for me on account of the fact that Sheriff busted his alkie old man twice on DUIs. Now, Mr. Delgado has to ride a bicycle around town, even in the winter, one of the many aimless drunks of Ne'Hwas who can't be trusted to drive a car. They should put
that
in the brochures.

Jay's family tried to fight the charges, arguing police discrimination. The DUIs stood.

Jay looks at me, unable to hide the surprise in his eyes that I've made it out here. “Playing with the big boys today.”

I keep my eyes on the horizon. “I'm just here to surf.”

“You don't belong out here. You're out of your league.”

“I made it out, didn't I?” I say. I can't let Jay get in my head. I need to focus on the waves.

“This isn't the kiddie pool, Dreary Creary. Don't expect me to pull you out when you get thrown down by one of these monsters,” Jay says.

“Don't expect me to save your ass, either,” I snap.

Jay laughs. “Right. Like that's ever going to happen.”

I could point out that I'm the only one with a surfing championship under my belt, but I know how hollow that sounds. I was seventeen. My glory days of surfing are far behind me. I straighten up on my board and try to look tough.

“Where'd you pick up that sled—the Salvation Army? 1962?” Jay says.

I steal a glance at Jay's brand-new custom board. It's bright yellow and shaped by some famous surfer in Hawaii, or so I've heard. “That thing come with training wheels?” I say.

Tyler pipes in. “Dude, it's custom. Don't dis the sled.”

“You're not on your period, are you, Jess?” Jay says. “You're not going to attract sharks, are you?”

Tyler howls. Almost falls off his board laughing.

“Screw you,” I say. Back when I started surfing, I thought I was joining a special tribe. A great big, happy cult that shared in their mystical love of the ocean, but without the typical cult drawbacks like drinking acid-laced Kool-Aid or worshipping aliens. I quickly learned that Nipon surfers are more like a pack of wolves. You have to earn respect from the alpha male here, and then maybe, just maybe, you can earn a place in the lineup.

Freddie and Josh aren't part of the pack, but they don't exactly welcome you with open arms, either. Freddie looks our way, hands turned up on his board like a surfing Buddha. He rolls his eyes. Doesn't engage. Here to surf.

“Paddle home, girl,” Jay says.

I ignore him. There's only one way to get him off my back, and that is to catch a wave.

When the next set appears, talking stops. All eyes are on the waves.

No one takes the first wave, or the second. I watch the third. Its crest forms a light pyramid, which means it's peaked, rather than closing out. This is the type of wave you want. I study it for another few seconds and realize I'm too far out. I'll have to paddle in fast to be in position.

I spin my board around so I'm facing shore and look over my shoulder. It's a behemoth. Bigger than any wave I've ever ridden. Double overhead. I start paddling.

After six or seven strokes, I feel myself rising and I put it into full gear, windmilling both arms. Paddle, paddle, paddle. The wave lifts me up, but it doesn't grab hold. It's faster than I am, and it passes below me before I can build enough speed to catch it.

Now I'm on the back side of the wave and my arms are like jelly, and another big wave is coming at me.

I either have to go for it or turn around and paddle to get behind it. In waves like this, you have to be all-in or go home.

All-in.

I paddle slowly at first, so I won't be too far inside when it breaks. I look over my shoulder and see that I'm in pretty good position.
This is it. This is my wave.

Two hard strokes build my speed, and when I turn my head this time, Jay is barreling down the line toward me, his bright yellow board aimed my way. If I don't get off, he's going to hit me, and hit me hard. If I drop in on his wave, I'll be breaking the cardinal rule of surfing and I'll never hear the end of it. In this crowd, drop-ins find their tires slashed when they get back to the parking lot.

I have to put the brakes on. I slide my knees underneath me and pull up on the rails of my board to stop my momentum. The wave passes under me and Jay zips by.

Now I really am too far inside. I spin around on my board just in time to see the next wave head-on. It will break right on top of me. In the entire hundred million square miles of ocean, this is the worst place to be. I gulp some air, push down the nose of my board, and try to duck dive, but I don't have enough speed. The wave catches my board and flips it over. I'm spinning head over heels. I lose all sense of up and down.

I'm in an underwater cyclone. My ears pop.

I need air.

I open my eyes to a whirling mass of white water. The pain in my lungs rises to my head, my throat. I kick hard, but go nowhere. I need air so badly I open my mouth and suck in seawater. This is drowning.

Just when I don't think I'm going to survive another second, my head breaks the surface and I cough out water. I cough so hard my body convulses. But I'm still in danger. Thoughts pass without a beat between them.
Inside crash zone. Get on board. Get out.