Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,40

way only Ford can get away with. But I’m stuck like gum on the sidewalk. Because it’s true. Today, I’m shunning beautiful glass swells to watch from the shoreline. And if I were planning on surfing any part of the Point, I’d probably surf the foamies. Leftovers on the edge of the break are a bit calmer.

His buddy tucks a small bit of wax into the calf of his wetsuit. “Dude. Femmes always surf foamies. Real bros surf the big dogs.”

Then he heads out to the ocean without a backward glance, leaving me steaming on the beach.

Mr. Hangover cackles and says, “Ouch. Later, diva. Spanks for the gum.”

I sit on the beach fuming. There are so many surfer girls that shred as hard or harder than most guys. Those chumps are 1950s in the worst way. Sexist. Some spark of anger inside me fans my competitive side. I’m going to show those tools what’s up. They think I don’t have what it takes? I can hang with them. I’ll prove it.

I wax my board with a vengeance, focusing on building up a thick coat. Then I comb it, attach my leash, and march out to the ocean, my bare feet stomping across the hot sand. It feels like my heart is pumping blood ninety miles an hour. I zone in on the current I’ve seen everyone paddle out on. The lineup is full of surfers dotting the horizon. I guess I’ll find Ford after I paddle out.

I take a deep breath and speed into the water, enjoying the sound of the slap-down when my board hits a wave rolling under it.

Huge waves crash over me and I gasp for breath every chance I get. Maybe this is suicide. I paddle harder than I ever have to stay on the board and keep moving forward.

The next set gains momentum and I paddle as fast as I can until I reach calmer water. My arms may be noodled, but I’m stoked that I made it. I sit tall on my board and flash the Chumps a what the heck do you know look.

It’s a sausage fest. A bunch of guys make catcalls and whistle. Ford swims over. The pride on his face melts me. It makes the accomplishment of getting out to the lineup that much sweeter.

“I knew you’d make it. You just needed a little time to get your edge on.”

“Yeah, something like that.” I bristle when I think of the idiots who implied girls pretty much suck. I’ll show them girls can rip as hardcore as guys.

We straddle our boards and wait. After an eon of watching other surfers rip hard, it’s our turn. My heart cli. M8" alimbs into my throat. I hadn’t really thought this far.

Ford yells, “Go for it! Paddle, paddle, paddle.”

And I do. But not hard enough. Realizing I’m too late, I lean back, grab the board nose up, and cut out so the wave doesn’t take me. I spin around to look at Ford. What am I doing out here? Besides royally screwing up?

Some guy with a buzz cut says, “Hey femme, no time for foreplay. Go to the back of the line.”

If I get called femme one more time today …

Ford gives him the stink-eye. “Ignore the douche. You can have my go. See the second bump of the next set. Your name’s written all over it.”

That gets me—right in the gut. Ford’s giving up his wave for me.

The chach behind Ford says, “Nice for you your boyfriend is giving you his spot. If you chuf this one, you won’t be that lucky with me.”

“Shove it, bro.” Ford flips him the bird. Then he turns and looks me dead in the eye, full of intensity. “It’s all you, Grace.”

I nod and shake out my arms. I can do this. Once I catch the sweet spot, I’ll be golden. My moment comes, Ford gives my board a push, and I go for it. Thanks to pure luck, I catch the wave and feel my board propel forward on a rush of water.

As the wave crests, the momentum freaks me out. I prepare to drop in, and pop up too soon. The powerful suction pulls my board down the face, straight to the bottom. I’m standing, but I gotta ease back fast. The nose of my board points downward. I drop low and grab the edge to force a maneuver hard left. I add weight to my back left foot, crouching low. The board nosedives forward