Too horizontal and she’ll get pitched.
Two one-way tickets into the impact zone. To the Cauldron, the Pit, or the Boneyard.
She’s all in because there is no choice.
Rarely on a drop, the nose of a surfer’s gun pops off the surface for a split second—a small rise or a hidden dip—and the speeding board takes a gulp of air. At forty miles an hour, the nose rides up, and the body of the board follows, lifting off and away from the wave until the board is vertical. Physics and velocity push the tail out and away, and the surfer comes off the wave and descends—head down, feet above, and arms out—her board behind her like a cross on which she is crucified upside down.
Which is Jen Stonebreaker, an orange-and-black figure falling headfirst into the violent whiteout of the impact zone.
The county helicopter lowers for her, Holly Blair safely aboard and the life buoy still dangling. The rescue skis all go banshee toward Jen, with Casey, Brock, and Mahina out ahead of them already.
The wave drives Jen to the bottom, mashing her against the reef, the tonnage of water holding her down. She clamps her hands over the rocks to keep from being dragged, feels the pull of the leash on her ankle as the wave takes her board toward the surface.
Lifting Jen off the rocks, and into the fury of whitewater.
Rag-dolled and tumbling, eyes closed, she pulls three of her inflation-vest pull tags. Nothing happens. Yanks the fourth, and feels the loop come off in her hand.
Is this my sentence for John?
Her terror peaks and tries to flood out of her, but it can’t get out. She’s got it trapped in there and she feels the nerve-curdling fingers of panic up high in her throat.
She’s got breath left, but can’t believe so much of it is gone after only a few seconds. The cold weight of the water, and ten feet of pressure here near the bottom, are wringing the air right out of her.
And the wave won’t let her go. Like it knows there’s no backup wave behind it. Like it’s going to eat her here and now. Like Jen belongs to it and it alone.
She thinks she’s facing shore. Pulls herself along by the rocks, but the wave lifts her feet and flips her over, then presses down hard again. She’s pinned on her back, eyes open now to the dim underwater twilight of Mavericks, while sharp white flashes shoot through her vision. Her leash goes slack.
She rights herself, the wave shoving her head against a boulder. The rocks around her creak and scrape. She feels the spined urchins and limpets slicing through her hood. Clamps the rocks again, draws her knees to her chest, and pushes off with all her might.
Then the whitewater claims her again, rushing fast.
Toward land, one quarter mile away.
She’s dizzy now from lack of oxygen and near panic. Not sure what’s up or down, really, just clawing her way toward her next breath.
Breaks the surface and swills the miracle of air—which turns out not to be air at all, but a mouthful of brine that scalds her throat and sinuses and lungs.
And turns her world white, as the ocean folds her under, splayed across the reef, faceup again.
God help …
Breath of …
She struggles over and gets her feet under her again.
Takes hours, while the rocks creak and scrape.
Jen takes a breath—it’s reflex and she can’t fight it—and shoves off for the surface. Reaches up and pulls her outstretched arms down as hard as she can. Then again. She has to make that bright white light. Has to get the air that’s in it.
But she’s not going up; she’s tumbling again, pounded by the rocks. Hears them laughing.
Thinks:
John, Casey, Brock …
Mom, Dad …
Brightwhitelight
Kickagain
Breatheagain
Kick!
Then sudden black, and only black.
Casey and Brock are already there, searching the surface, then diving to work the rocks, like crabs, pulling themselves along the bottom, through the half-light, waiting to see their mother somewhere in this hard, dim place.
The wave has passed and the sea heaves around them, smooth and powerful.
The rescue and ESPN choppers clap overhead, and the jet skis rooster-tail through the sea, and the boats pitch awkwardly on the outskirts of the impact zone.
Casey and Brock forage halfway between the Pit and the Cauldron with the help of an eastward, post-set current where she went in, buried by the breaking wave.
They search through a sheltered grotto, bits of seaweed and broken kelp swirling, a finning rockfish backing deeper into its cave. Gravel rises from the bottom in a small tornado.
Eyes alert, Mahina waits on her jet ski, Thunder tethered to her rescue sled.
