“Okay. You love him. Say you’re capable of that. There’s a lot to love in that young man. But you’re also a smuggler, an attempted extortionist, and, I believe—an arsonist. The LA and Laguna investigations are ongoing. Monterey 9 will walk. Just a matter of time. And they’ll have Jimmy dead to rights.”
“Don’t confuse me with my father.”
“How can’t I? You’re a criminal, just like him.”
“Not like him. Yes, I over-limit while fishing sometimes. No finning. And as far as the humans we traffic, well, we move a lot of them from hell into better lives. We do no business in the sex trade. I feel strongly about that. We know our end users—hospitality, big ag, restaurants like yours. Domingo in the Barrel kitchen was one of ours. The burly little guy with the silver tooth, upper right? MS-13 hacked his brother to death in San Salvador for not paying their street taxes. Guess who was next? We got him into Laguna on a panga in the middle of the night. Ten others, too. I told them about the Barrel because I liked the place. See, we are two sides of this, together, Jen Stonebreaker.”
“You, cashing in again.”
“I made an honest deal with Domingo and his sisters, and delivered what I promised. You hired an illegal immigrant, and what you pay him is on you, not me.”
“You’re still a criminal and I don’t want my son involved with you.”
“Understood, and Casey will decide. That said, shall I get you another check to rebuild the Barrel? You understand it is a gift? No conditions except the plaque in the new Barrel?”
“Get out of my room.”
Jen feels Bette prying into her with those dark, difficult-to-read eyes.
“I am planning to leave my family’s business,” she says. Her voice quavers very slightly and her perfect black brows furrow.
“To be a full-time parasite on my son? Stay away from him.”
“I won’t stay away for you. Only if he wants me away.”
“Fifteen percent?”
“No. We talked about that once. I was overreaching and we agreed it was a bad idea.”
“And you say you love him, big money or not?”
Bette gets her purse and heads for the door. Jen follows. Facing each other, Jen looks up into the taller woman’s dark brown eyes. Tries to read them for truthfulness, evasion, duplicity. Hope and doubt. A pinch of pride. Sees all of this and more.
“Jen, I want to marry him and have his children. They will be beautiful and will love you if you let them. Wus have strong passions. I’ll invite you to the wedding.”
“You’ve told him this?”
“Not with words. Not directly.”
“You might be taking your vows in a prison chapel.”
Two hours later Jen imagines that she’s floating on her back near the roaring Mavericks waves, looking up at tiny stars in a black sky.
In fact she’s in her bed, but miles from sleep, her mind about to tick off for the third time, what she will need just a few hours from now when she crosses the harbor to the sea. She’s packed two bags of gear in Laguna, and now they’re in Brock’s Go Dogs Econoline, parked down in the guarded Oceano parking basement, ready for Pillar Point Harbor.
This third mental check is vital in Jen’s mind because she can’t forget anything, can’t overlook even one of all the detailed things she’ll need to survive Mavericks.
Things in addition to fitness and skill, experience and luck.
Eyes closed but mind working, she’s in full contest mode now:
She’s got Reno and his workhorse boat, Amiga, set to meet her at the launch. A twenty-six-foot fiberglass cruiser is no match for a fifty-foot wave, but Reno’s terrific under pressure; Amiga’s twin outboards have torque galore, and Reno goes in fast and gets out even faster.
Jen has serviced and trailered her jet ski, doing the work herself, deliberately and slowly, like John taught her, making sure the fuel-oil mix is right, and the filter is clean to prevent stalling, and the gaskets and seals are good, the fuel lines fresh, the screws tight. Her ski is a three-hundred-horsepower Kawasaki two-stroke, fast as a banshee and weighing in at eight hundred pounds. It answers to the name of Thunder—Jen’s first dog. Of course, she’s got it custom painted orange and black in honor of you know who, and she’s made sure it’s as bright and polished as a dragster. Took her a while to get the gas off her skin and the grease from under her nails.
Four surfboards for unpredictable conditions: two thruster guns—an eight-two and an eight-eight—and two pintail single fins at seven-six and eight even.
Plus four leashes and a spare. Of course, fins and keys to get the fins on and off—she forgot her fin keys once but luckily John had his. Got quite a look from him for that.
Her five-millimeter wetsuit, so thick it’s hard to move in, rash guard, inflation vest, boots, hood and gloves, impact suit for under the wetsuit in case she gets mashed into the rocks, inflation vest CO2 cartridges, helmet, and wax.
Important details include human fuel: protein bars and boxed energy shakes, sports drinks for salt and sugar and carbs, canned caffeine and more sugar courtesy of Casey’s sponsors, bananas, nut clusters, and a handful of Abba-Zabas that, when she chews them after a long session, helps the cold, dense seawater drain from her ears. Sliced roast beef and string cheese wrapped in flour tortillas for lunch—cold but filling.
Next, things you don’t want but shouldn’t be caught without: first aid kit with plenty of waterproof tape, tourniquets and packing gauze for rock and board gashes, a plastic bottle of isopropyl alcohol, scissors, and a freshly sharpened pocket knife.
Finally, she’s packed the sea-glass earrings John gave her for her eighteenth birthday, the day he asked her to go to Cortes Bank with him, where he asked her to surf the world and ride big waves together. And more, a lot more. She still wears them, but they’re not made to be worn under a neoprene hood. For trips like this she uses the wooden box they came in, with the same funny-page paper, now softened and faded with age.
All that packed into padded board bags so heavy she’ll appreciate Reno’s help loading in.
She lays there in the dark, facing the ceiling, feeling the ocean beneath her, trying to shut down her mind.
Impossible.
Towing Casey.
Brock and Mahina.
Her own chances riding Mavericks for the first time in twenty-five years. At fifty feet, or bigger.
