She hasn’t ridden a big wave since that day, but that’s about to change.
During her waking hours, she can imagine those monsters, can see herself making that drop, carving that turn, riding the thing with her own particular strength and grace. Yeah, babe, she thinks: you can still do that.
But in her dreams, she feels the enormous mountains, lifting her higher and higher, carrying her toward land faster and faster, then heaving her toward the world of rocks and whitewater so far below. From up there, she sees the pale sharks gliding over the reef. Sees John’s body, leashed to the rocks, surging peacefully back and forth like kelp.
The wave takes her down and down and down.
She wakes up, gasping, heart pounding, sweating out the vodka and Xanax that bear her off to sleep every night.
And she thinks about the Monsters of Mavericks coming soon, regretting that she agreed to compete in a big-wave contest for the first time in twenty-five years.
In spite of the terrible fear.
Because of her terrible fear.
Fear of the waves, fear of failing John on her jet ski, fear of the casual, supernatural power of Mavericks.
She’s going to beat that fear.
She has to beat it.
The Monsters of Mavericks is not a dream.
Next, Jen rides a few more of these little Brooks Street waves, then heads out to sea, paddling fast, reaching with her arms but pulling with her core, legs tense for balance.
She paddles a tiring half mile through the now choppy Pacific, building strength and endurance, then heads back and rides a few more waves before most of the local surfers have even waxed their boards.
Which is when she sees a shiny red Cigarette boat slashing toward her in the distance. She can see it coming a long way off, perched up on her paddleboard as she is.
It closes fast on Jen, circling her. The wake is fast and high but she knows her SUP like she knows her own body, and she uses her legs and the big curved head of the paddle to stay on the bucking board. She knows that boaters don’t always realize how strong the wakes of their vessels can be, how easily they will knock around a lone individual astride a buoyant SUP. But these guys know exactly how disabling their wake is—that’s pretty much the whole point.
The two men stand in their rocking race boat, watching Jen from above their low, built-for-speed windshield. The sleek vessel is called Dragon. Her engine cuts out with a hoarse cough.
“Jen Stonebreaker!” the captain shouts.
He’s Chinese by the look of him, big and wide-shouldered in a black-and-white Kings hockey warm-up jacket. He shifts his Kings hockey team cap bill forward.
“Your son Casey is spreading lies about King Jim Seafood. On TikTok and Facebook. He has contacted law enforcement. I am King Jim and we are strictly legit!”
“Take it up with him.”
“He’s stubborn. He lied about posting the video of the sharks. Said he would not, then he did. Last night. Everyone is talking now, asking questions. My daughter Bette is being hated and harassed. She is very smart girl and innocent of all crimes. King Jim Seafood is not criminals.”
Bette, Jen thinks—Casey’s shark-finning butcher on the high seas. She easily traces the events leading to this surprise confrontation: Bette’s recognition of surf celebrity Casey yesterday; Bette’s and her father’s Internet search of the Laguna Stonebreakers and the Barrel, through which they would learn of Jen Stonebreaker’s entry into the Monsters of Mavericks, her impressive training, which includes this early morning surf-paddling at Brooks, followed by her half-mile out-and-backs in the Pacific. Hell, the Laguna Beach Independent and Los Angeles Times have run pictures of her doing that!
Alone here at sea with nothing but a board to cling to, a ripple of worry goes through her.
The copilot is thin, and half a head shorter than King Jim. Black hair to his shoulders. A white Polo windbreaker over a navy sweater and white pants. Their clothes look new, or at least clean. In their sleek red Cigarette boat, they look like an advertisement, though Jen is not sure for what.
“You tell Casey Stonebreaker he should take down the video and give apology,” the captain calls out. His voice is strong and clear. “You tell Casey to say the video was taken in international waters. You tell Casey to say the shark-fin video was taken two years ago. You tell Casey leave Bette alone!”
“A little late for that, don’t you think?”
“Better late.”
“We like your restaurant!” Polo yells. Voice sharp, a smile. “Like very much!”
Jen hasn’t seen these guys in the Barrel that she can remember. Not that she necessarily would. Her restaurant has a big Chinese clientele, fish and seafood lovers, big parties from Taiwan, mostly, recommended by friends and relatives, big on the half-price happy hour cocktails and the Barrel catch of the day.
“What do you pay for rent at the Barrel?” asks Polo.
“It’s mine.”
“In her family a long time!” calls out the captain. “Your website is very good with the history. And the photographs. Are you going to surf the Monsters of Mavericks?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Oh, that’s a scary place to surf. How much money if you win?”
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
“To risk your life?” asks King Jim.
To beat your fear, Jen thinks, but says nothing.
“You could get more than that as a magazine model,” says Polo with a knowing smile. “Like your son.”
“I did that for a while. It got old. So did I.”
