The stats:
Five to seven feet.
Slight offshores.
Top-to-bottom barrels, over fast.
Short shoulders and hard crashes.
By the time we got out of the water at nine o’clock, I was so cold and weak I could barely get my wetsuit off. I stood there for a while with the neoprene pulled down to my waist and a black sweatshirt on, letting the sun thaw my skin and muscles.
I looked beyond the metal border fence to Tijuana, its shanties climbing the steep hills, smoke rising, the smell of burning trash, just a half-mile distant across the river.
I crashed butt first onto a towel in the slightly warm sand, still half-clad in my wetsuit, a hoodie zipped tight, hugging my knees, my hands brine-soaked and wrinkled, eyes closed and heart slowing. The sun warmed my eyelids and I saw the ornery, orange-burnished waves I’d just tried to surf in all their speed and sudden caprice. I missed at least a dozen, just couldn’t paddle fast enough. Quickly fell off a dozen more—they were much steeper and faster than I’d been riding up in Orange County. Crashed another ten or twelve times on the bottom turns—my legs weren’t strong enough. I caught four short, fast waves that I couldn’t outrace, and ended in nasty wipeouts. But what I saw most clearly on the orange-tinted big screen in my head were the three barrels I got into, and belched out of, with what seemed like the velocity of a motorcycle. These beautiful, ribbed, roaring cylinders held me close, then set me free.
And those moments you know why you do this and you believe that there is no other thing on Earth so personal and so good.
It was my introduction to big surf—yes, sir, yes, ma’am—please accept my wipeouts as bows and curtsies.
“You did good out there,” said John.
I stayed in my burnished orange world, eyes closed. Saw a five-foot section opening up for me like a gift, looked down to see my feet on the board and the leg-throbbing bottom snap to beat that crashing lip. Saw from the corner of my vision the collapsing wall of whitewater that took me out by surprise.
“Thanks, John.”
“You took a beating, too.”
“Nothing broken or cut.”
“Imperial’s a devil and you handled it.”
“I got to get stronger.”
“All your swim and polo training is great. You just need more waves. And bigger ones. You feel it, don’t you?”
“What.”
Some time went by as John thought. I felt the sun easing into my muscles and bones. Sleep knocked.
“How important this is. How it doesn’t matter but it means everything.”
“What exact everything does it mean, John?”
“Freedom. That if you go fast enough, time stops. The barrel is the moment but the moment is eternal. And you are free. Dad says that surfing can lead to God. I say, surfing is God.”
I opened my eyes and looked up at him. Saw that same older-than-his-years expression he had in the tiki light the night before. Saw the same boy’s glitter in his eyes. The child in his man’s body.
“That’s a bit much for me to believe, preacher son. But we never went to church, so what do I know?”
“I want someone to do this with, Jen. Don’t say anything. Just think about it. It would be our world. Our strength.”
“To ride waves?”
“Big waves. The biggest you can. There are these computerized programs that forecast waves all over the Earth. They crunch the wind and storm power and direction, the swell size and frequency, factor in bottoms and tides. They’re discovering big waves—enormous waves—that nobody knew about. The old Hawaiians say you can’t catch a wave over thirty feet by paddling into it. There’s talk about jet skis and fast boats and helicopters. That’s where I want to be. That’s what I want to ride. Dad’s got his church, and huge waves are going to be mine. I want a partner. Don’t say anything, Jen. I’m asking you not to say anything.”
“Are you asking me to be that partner?”
“Damn, I told you not to say anything.”
“It’s a pretty important question, John. I just turned eighteen. I’m kicking butt in all my sports and hauling down a four-point-two GPA. I’m looking good for the Creative Journalism Department at UC Irvine. I have a little tiny bit of talent. A life and a future. The world’s going on out there, John. They caught the Unabomber. That spooky bin Laden has declared war on America! I’m not so sure that surfing gigantic waves is the way I want to spend my time. Medium waves, maybe. Part of life, you know, but not a religion.”
“You wouldn’t lose anything. You’d get a bigger life. Think about it, Jen.”
“Why me?”
“You’re the best chick I know.”
“What about all your twenty-and-more-year-olds? They’ve got more to offer than I do.”
“You surf better than any of them. I see you at twenty-two, and thirty-two and forty-two and, based on today, you’ll still have them all beat. You’ve got something rare, Jen Byrne. You got all your mom’s fight and win, win, win. And your dad’s big heart. He really cares about the people needing protection. You’re a tough package to beat.”
I was still sitting upright, feet on the blanket and arms resting on my knees.
“Well, John, I thought I was going surfing today. Not getting buried in a life plan.”
“I know what I want. For now, we’ll surf together every chance we get. There’s this place called Cortes Bank a hundred miles off San Diego. It breaks on an undersea mountain range just below the surface! They say they’re the biggest rideable waves discovered so far. Only a few people even know about it. I’ve seen the secret pictures.”
“Secret pictures of waves? That’s funny.”
“It’s not funny at all. They’re obviously huge. We just can’t tell how huge because there’s only a distant buoy to compare them to. Could be fifty feet. Could be eighty. As partners, we’ll be there. Our life will be the biggest waves on Earth. The biggest we can handle. See the whole world! I’ve got decent pay and flex hours with UPS, and free rent at home when I’m not on the road surfing. I know you, Jen Byrne. And you know me. I can tell by the way you look at me that you know exactly who I am.”
“You’re blowing my mind, John.”
“We can do it.”
“I can think about it.”
“If you’re in for Cortes Bank, we’re headed out Friday evening. I’m fixing some straps to my gun to hold me on. Gonna be rough and cold. But you won’t miss a day of school. You can stay on that honor roll. Pick you up at six.”
That smile of his. That face. The boy in the man, the man in the boy.
I was roiling with an eighteen-year-old’s emotions, suddenly too dense to untangle and name. I knew that life, in the form of John Stonebreaker, had offered me a path. But it felt like looking down into the Grand Canyon when I was ten, and getting that queasy clench in my gut as my breath caught and my head went light.
I wanted no part of that canyon.
And wasn’t sure I wanted John’s path. But I didn’t want him on it without me.
13
