Casey, big and strong and eight feet underwater now, pulls himself along the floor of this dark world, squinting for a sign of her. An occasional ray of sun penetrates. He’s looking for the orange of her wetsuit, or a glimmer of her helmet, maybe, or a zipper, or the yellow pull handle on her inflator, or the pale luminosity of her face.
Brock crabs along six feet to Casey’s right, hoping for something soft against his gloves, a flicker of color in the near dark, the bump of her body against his. The smaller rocks click and pop around him. Mahina’s jet ski irritably idles above.
Even this close, they can barely make each other out. Three times they surface together for breath, then submerge again: the Stonebreaker twins, born seconds apart one afternoon, twenty-four years ago, now searching for the woman who gave them life.
Then, there she is, right in front of them.
Suspended in the gloom, arms and legs spread like a skydiver, helmet gone and hair lilting in the current.
She is looking at them very calmly. But does she see?
Casey gets under her left arm, and Brock under her right, and they bear her from the water to the rescue sled.
Eyes closed and not moving or breathing, but a distant pulse.
Casey does chest compressions in the rocking sea, and talks to her.
Brock breathes for her, and gently pats her cold white cheeks.
Mahina chants in her native language, words that sound welcoming and hopeful.
Casey, as he pushes and pauses: “Mom, come back. Like, be here.”
Brock, between breaths: “We gotcha, we gotcha.”
Mahina: “Aia ‘oe ma ‘ane’i. Kakou. Kakou.”
Casey: “Ah come on, Mom! Mom!”
Brock: “Breath of life! Coming in!”
Then a brutal silence as the living assess the dying.
Broken by Jen, who full-body spasms and blows a storm of seawater into the air.
And another.
And again.
She’s still spitting up and moaning as they get her into the helicopter rescue basket, and the deputy latches the gate.
38
The next evening Jen attends the Monsters of Mavericks awards dinner in the Oceano Bar and Grill.
Her bruises and cuts pulse dully, her neck aches, and her wheelchair is cold steel. Can’t quite get warm. Her right eardrum is broken, but no bones. A miracle, they said. Her balance is way off when she’s standing or getting out of the chair. She’s still a bit hazy on what happened, but the doctors in San Francisco say her traumatic, short-term memory loss will probably return. Bed rest. Set your alarm or have someone wake you up once every hour. Oxycodone if you need it. You’re one tough woman, Jen—you’re the Monster of Mavericks.
She picks at the rice and teriyaki chicken, half listens to the MC—actor Robin McKenna from the streaming drama Legends of the Wave. She’s in a short silver dress with a bow across her breasts, looks like a present to be opened. There’s a huge screen behind her, vivid with film and video:
Stupendous waves that look even bigger through telephoto lenses.
Off-the-lips, barrel burials, bottom turns.
Wipeouts.
The old seventies Five Summer Stories music plays beneath the amplified boom of the waves.
“Let’s start off with the awards that hurt!” Robin McKenna announces. “But we have happy endings here! The women’s worst wipeout—no surprise—goes to Jen Stonebreaker!”
Casey, his reef-scraped forehead almost hidden under his thick yellow hair, wheels her to the stage but there’s no ramp so Robin McKenna slinks down the steps and hands Jen an acrylic-and-gold-look trophy shaped like a wave. Her wipeout unfolds in slow motion on the screen. A ripple of cold numbness wobbles through her. She watches it intently, with little recall of the event.
The actor pecks Jen with a brief kiss, plants a longer one on Casey, then offers Jen the microphone and a white envelope with blue foil trim.
Jen waves away the mike and takes the envelope; Casey turns her chair around and Jen smiles to the cheering audience.
“There’s five hundred dollars in that envelope, Jen,” says Robin. “And some fantastic shops right across the alley. And an open bar ’til midnight! Enjoy! Wow, we’re glad you’re still here!”
Back at the table Jen lets her vision drift from Casey and Brock and Mahina, to her mother and father, Pastor Mike and Marilyn, and Bette Wu.
They look different to her. She’s never seen them in this way before, never been stolen from them, then returned. Plucked from their world, then drop-shipped back.
Casey’s to her left; she touches his face. Brock to her right, likewise.
Funny how they’re all looking at me the same way right now, she thinks. Eve Byrne wipes her eyes, and Jen’s tough, good-hearted former police chief dad sets a hand over his wife’s far shoulder and squeezes. Looks at Jen as if he’s the happiest man in the world.
She settles on Bette Wu’s pale face. Gets a small smile, no teeth, just a cupid upturn of her lips. Bette’s wearing the same seafoam-green leather pantsuit that Jen noted the first time she saw her, in the Barrel bar with her pirate crew, trying to get Casey’s attention. Funny, Jen thinks, how easily that moment comes to mind—weeks old—when wiping out on a fifty-foot wave face just yesterday is only a dark, gloomy snippet.
“… the worst men’s wipeout goes to Tom Tyler … we’re all real stoked to have you with us, Tommy!”
