Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,39
northwest swell today,” I tell him. “Watch out for rip currents. It’s high tide, so you’ve got a limited window before the rocks become a problem.”
He nods and grabs his board, leaving me behind with a slight nod of the head. He marches out to the five-foot swells like they’re nothing. I swallow and watch, wishing I had the guts to follow him. Sometimes I feel like I’m living life on the sidelines, and sometimes I get this totally ballsy mentality and go for it. I wish this was one of those times. What will happen if there are epic waves on comp day? I’ll turn paddlepuss and back out?
It’s times like this I’m not so sure I’m a winner. Not so sure I deserve anything. Lately, I’m feeling even more like I’m walking through a minefield—at home, everywhere—waiting for the eventual step when everything blows up in my face.
Ford’s confidence makes me nervous, but I guess when you’re surfing a more advanced spot, you have to own it. When he hits the shoreline, he turns around and gives me a surfs-up hand gesture, his middle fingers curled in with his thumb and pinky pointing out. I sign it back with a half smile.
He paddles out on a current, duck dives some big curls, and joins the crowd. The wind blows my hair around. I take a rubber band off my wrist and capture wild strands flying about getting knotted, and turn it into a high ponytail. Then I rest my chin on my knees and watch everyone else. Normally being at the beach is what makes me feel like I’m floating untethered by anything. Right now, I feel weighted down like rocks are tied to my ankles, like I’m at home. I’d been psyched to surf the Pumphouse, but the Point? You mess up, you get messed up—most likely by Grimace rock.
Today is turning out to be an ugly reality check. I’m not so sure I’m ready for the competition. Not so sure I will be ready. How am I ever going to pull this off if I’m too chicken to surf the Point?
A huge wave swells and three guys are lined up to fight it out. I’m sure they all think it’s their time, their turn. Things will get territorial fast. Some guys will duke it out. Most don’t. But even pacifists are likely to call the bro who bunked their wave an assmunch, or give him a dirty look.
The three dudes paddle hard to catch the wave at the sweet spot. It’s all about timing. One of them gets sucked up to the top, which means he’s going to get dropped hard and caught inside the wash. The other two bros catch it. They could stay out of each other’s way, but then they wouldn’t be able to pull the moves they want. Their boards come dangerously near each other, and after a brief shove they carve in different directions. Of course, one of them has the better side and totally dominates before he cuts out. The second guy flips the bird as his ride fizzles.
Other surfers show up, drifting on the beach, wandering toward the water, looking like they’re still recovering from Friday-night parties. A blond guy blows chunks about fifteen feet behind me, near a trash can. Nasty. The retching sound is followed by, “Dude, can a bro get some water?”
I turn around, watching in grotesque fascination. His friend keeps waxing the board. “Chuuuuf. Sorry, dude. You backwash.”
Hangover Guy asks, “Got any gum?”
“What do I look like, a freakin’ gas station?”
I chuckle silently to myself and dig into my bag to find some gum. I turn back around and lob a few pieces of Bubble Yum in their direction. “Hey, catch.”
Hangover Guy misses by a few feet and trudges over to sweep the gum out of the sand. “Thanks.”
I laugh. “Wouldn’t want your breath to attract sharks.”
Gas Station Guy cackles. “Dude, the femme totally saved your butt and ripped you a new one.”
the"Adobe Garamond Regular">I grin. This kind of back-and-forth is part of what makes the surfer crowd fun. This is the world where I belong. Not with my mom and her stupid tailored shorts. Not with my dad and his need for a spotless house and total control. These people get me.
Hangover Guy pops the gum into his mouth. “Yeah, but can the femme jazz the glass or does she only play in the foamies?”
Now he’s ticking me off, pushing my buttons in a