Ripped - Cassia Leo Page 0,10

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“What was it like out there?” she asks, tucking the phone into her bright coral beach bag.

Lena has a strong preference for the color coral. Maybe it’s because the name hearkens to coral reefs, which are the driving force behind some of the sweetest barreling reef waves in the world, like the ones at Pipeline, better known to most as the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii. Whatever the reason, she’s usually wearing a coral shirt or shoes or swimsuit, which complement her golden tanned skin nicely.

“I tried to land a backside air reverse on my first wave, in the first fucking round, and landed in the flats. Got spit right out the backside. Next ride, I snapped my board on a closeout beach break. But I didn’t let it rattle me. After that, I came out swinging from a really tight tube. I was completely blinded by the spit on that one. Hung in there on the closeout breaks, then I caught a couple of sweet barrels in the third round. Carved the shit out of that baby and ended the quarterfinal with that rodeo flip they replayed a billion times. No one could stop me after that.”

I try not to look too proud of myself, but I can’t help but smile as I talk about that ride. It was only my second time landing a rodeo flip in a competition. The roar from the crowd was righteous. But the adrenaline high that carried me through the rest of the heat, and on to win the final, made it all the more clear that I have to keep kicking ass and holding my ground as top seed. I can’t let anything stand in the way of clinching my first world championship.

“No one’s going to stop you this year,” Lena assures me with a sparkling smile. “I’ll make sure of that.”

I head out into the water to work on paddling for a while. Then I’ll take a break before I start working on the smaller breaks. The big barreling waves are definitely my strength, and the swell is about thirteen to sixteen feet right now at Carolina Beach, so it’s not bad. Early September is hurricane season on the East Coast, so the choppy water is bringing in some smaller waves mixed in with the bigger ones.

I could have cleared even more points on those small breaks in Tahiti if I’d practiced a bit more on the smaller waves, instead of letting those pass by while waiting for the bigger ones. It would shock the hell out of everyone if I landed a 540 on a gnarly beach break, but that’s not going to happen.

Four hours later, I trudge out of the water and head toward Lena. She stands up as I approach and hands me my towel. She holds my Rip Curl T-shirt as she waits for me to dry off.

“You’re not coming up on the lip soon enough when you’re carving that 360. You need to get far down to the base of the wave and come up on that lip just a bit sooner,” she says, exchanging my T-shirt for the towel I just used to dry off.

I pull on the shirt and shake my head. “I felt sluggish out there today. Maybe I need to change my diet.”

“What did you eat today?” she says, reaching for my arm.

I flinch a little and she laughs as she pulls a piece of grass off my arm. “I had cucumber salad and some yogurt with chia, but I think I’ll add a small smoothie with some almond butter or coconut oil next time to get me through. I’m fucking starving.”

She bends over and digs around in her beach bag, coming up with an organic recovery bar loaded with carbs.

I stuff it in my mouth, gobbling it down as if I’m in a race. “Still hungry.”

“Wanna go to Surf House?”

Surf House is by far my favorite restaurant in Carolina Beach. They have a ton of healthy seafood dishes, and they really strive for the farm-to-table approach, which suits my training diet of at least 95% whole foods and at least 60% raw. Plus, it’s nice when the chef loves you. Chef Rainier will make just about anything for me.

I get a pang of guilt as I think of going to Surf House without Lindsay. Lena and I have gone out to eat plenty of times to get a quick bite—some sashimi with brown rice or my favorite paleo tacos at the