Pulled Under

Secondly, I’ve started to surf the pier. Every break, which is what surfers call a specific location, is unique. The more you surf it the better you know its secrets. The King of the Beach is held at the pier, and by the time the contest begins, I want to know each and every inch of it. The problem with surfing there, however, is that it’s the most popular break on Pearl Beach. This means there are always other surfers there, even in the early morning hours, and I have to work on my “surfs well with others” skills.

The other girls from the shop are coming down to the pier too, but we are keeping our plans on the down low. One thing—the only thing?—working in our favor is the element of surprise. Surf City has walked away with the team championship every year for more than a decade. On the morning of the competition, their only concern will be figuring out which one of their guys is going to win the individual crown. We don’t want them to be just overconfident about the team title. We want them to think it’s automatic.

That means we don’t arrive together. We don’t wear any Surf Sisters gear. And we never talk about the contest. In fact, we don’t really talk much at all. Well, except for one of us.

“So,” Sophie says as we sit side by side straddling our boards and waiting for the next set. “Have you told Ben that you love him yet?”

I don’t even dignify this with so much as a glance in her direction.

“It’s obvious that you feel that way,” she continues. “You love, love, love him.”

“Stop it,” I say, still trying to ignore her.

“Have you said that you can’t imagine being without him and that you’re going to follow him back to Wisconsin so you can live on a big dairy farm together?”

“Do you mind?” I say, finally turning to her. “I’m trying to surf here.”

She nods. “And I’m trying to make you better at it.”

I flash her my skeptical eyes. “How does a

“I’m not only a

“What are you talking about?”

Before I even finish my question, she has turned and is paddling. By the time I figure out what’s happening, it’s already too late. There’s a beautiful wave coming, and she has completely shut me out and stolen my position. Normally I surf by myself or with my dad, and there are no distractions. That won’t be the case during the King of the Beach, as Sophie reminds me fifteen minutes later when we’re back in the lineup.

“There’s no margin for error,” she says. “Wave selection plays a big part in who wins and who doesn’t. You can’t afford to miss any good ones because you’re distracted.”

I nod my agreement and remind her that we need to keep the talking to a minimum.

After my morning session I go home and crash in my bed for a power nap. Of course, before I do that I check to see if I have any texts from Ben. Even when he’s working with the campers, he usually manages to send off a steady stream during the day.

After my nap I head in to Surf Sisters and work my shift. Mickey and Mo have put me on the same shift almost every day. They said it was to help me establish my workout routine, but I think secretly they’re trying to have my hours line up with Ben’s as much as possible. (See what I mean? They totally rock.)

The vibe at the shop is completely different from the way it was a week ago. Everyone is excited about Surf Sisters competing in the King of the Beach. I think the important part is that it gives us something positive to think about and takes our minds off the fact that the store is closing. Even the fact that we’re keeping it a secret gives the whole thing a spy vs. spy feel.

There is one massive problem, however, that nobody’s talking about. I know I’m certainly not going to bring it up. But . . . even though I’m the one who came up with the idea and I enjoy our secret sisterhood and backroom plotting, I don’t see how we can possibly win the contest.

The Surf City team isn’t just good. It’s amazing.

Consider this little nugget. Surf City sponsors ten of the twenty highest rated surfers in the state. A team can submit up to eight surfers in the competition. That means two of the best surfers in all of Florida won’t even make it on their team. Meanwhile, Mickey and Mo are the only people on our team who have even been in a tournament before. And, while I don’t doubt their greatness, the two of them are over fifty and haven’t competed in decades.

It is this sobering thought that’s going through my mind as I pull down the folding stairs and climb up onto the roof of the store. Every two hours I’m responsible for updating the surf report we put up on our Web site and on the sign that hangs outside our door. That means I get to go up on the roof with my binoculars, check the waves, and read the thermometer and wind gauge. It’s like I’m a TV weather girl, except without the hair spray and a perky nickname.

I’m looking through the binoculars when I hear a voice.

“How’s it looking?”

I turn around and see that Mo has followed me up.

“Not great. The waves are one to two feet, ankle to knee high. Small, clean lines crumbling through. The wind is five to ten knots north-northeast.”

“Oh, to live in Hawaii,” she says, bringing a smile to both of us. “But I guess the struggle makes us appreciate it that much more.”

She’s talking about the fact that Florida waves are nothing compared to their relatives in California and Hawaii. I love it here, but if you want to surf in the Sunshine State you have to work at it and learn how to make a lot out of a little.

“My dad and I have talked about going out there as a graduation present,” I say. “The plan is basically to live in a tent on the North Shore of Oahu and surf until we drop.”

“You gotta love dads who teach their girls to surf,” she says with an appreciative nod. “But don’t forget that these waves gave the world Kelly Slater.” Born and raised in Florida, Kelly Slater is considered by many to be the greatest surfer of all time. I’ve got his poster on my wall.

“What brings you roof-side?” I ask.

“The view,” she replies, “and you.”

“Why me?”

It dawns on me that we’re in virtually the exact same spot that we were standing on the night of the Fourth, when she had tears in her eyes and I got the ball rolling on this whole competition thing.

“The last few days I’ve been out on the pier watching you girls practice,” she says.

“Really? I haven’t seen you there.”

“We’re supposed to be keeping it on the down low, so I’ve been hiding out,” she says with a shrug. “But there’s one thing that can’t be hidden—your talent. I don’t think you have any idea how good you are.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she says.

“How good do you think I am?”

“Beyond slamming. Way better than I was at your age.”

I give her a skeptical smile. “Nice try.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re trying to build me up for the contest,” I say.

She shakes her head. “No, I’m trying to make sure you appreciate your talent. That you understand that it exists.”

Praise like this coming from Mo means a lot. Other than my father, she’s taught me more about surfing than anyone.

“That’s hard to believe, but thanks,” I tell her. “You don’t know how much that means to me coming from you.”

“That’s the part I thought you’d like hearing,” she says, changing the tone of the conversation. “Now I’m going to tell you something that you won’t.”

I brace myself.

“In a few months Surf Sisters will no longer be here. But you will still only be sixteen years old. You have a future in this sport.”

“What’s the part that I don’t want to hear?”

She pauses for a moment before saying it. “Surf City doesn’t have a single ranked girl on their team. Once they see what you’ve got, they’d be fools not to jump at the chance to sponsor you . . . and you’d be a fool not to take it.”