Pulled Under

“Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it.”

He squirms a little more and then finally settles into position. Kind of.

“This is . . . what’s the word you use . . . ‘radical’?”

“I think they stopped using that a couple decades ago,” I say. “But I know the feeling. Now remember, you don’t have to stand up the first couple times. You can catch the wave and ride it lying down. It’s good practice and helps you get the hang of it.”

“Are you kidding me?” he scoffs. “I did not rescue Blue Boy from some old garage just so I could ride him lying on my stomach. We are ready to hang ten.”

“Do you even know what hanging ten means?” I ask with a laugh.

He shakes his head. “Come to think of it, I don’t. But there’s not enough time for you to tell me because I believe this wave is for me.”

It’s a great dramatic moment. Or at least it would be if he successfully turned and caught the wave. Unfortunately, all he does is turn and slide off the board. Six times in a row. Once he finally gets the turn down, he goes through a brutal thirty minutes in which he tries to catch wave after wave only to watch each one pull away and leave him behind.

“What am I doing wrong?” he asks.

“The moment the wave lifts your board, you’re natural instinct is to lean back, but you should actually lean forward.”

He nods. “It’s harder than it looks.”

“Much harder,” I say. “Do you want to take a break? We could paddle in and rest or maybe practice some more in the white water.”

He shakes his head defiantly. “I am not paddling back. I am riding in.”

“Okay . . .”

“I mean it,” he says, trying to psych himself up. “I’m going to ride in . . . standing up.”

Fifteen minutes later he actually catches a wave for about ten seconds. When he loses it, I worry that he’ll be frustrated, but the opposite happens. He’s more jacked than ever.

“That time I really felt it,” he says. “I think I’ve figured it out. I did what you said and it worked. I just have to force myself to commit to it. I have to force myself to continue leaning forward.”

That’s what he does on the next wave and I am beyond thrilled as he catches it and takes off toward the beach. There are a couple times when he almost loses it, but I can see the exact moment when he latches on for good.

It’s a thing of beauty.

And then he tries to stand up. Which is not a thing of beauty.

He actually makes it farther than I would have guessed. He’s wobbly but he manages to find his balance, kind of like a baby when it’s taking its first steps and keeps its butt real low. Then he tries to straighten out his legs and stand all the way up, and when he does, he leans too far forward and pearls. The tip of the board digs into the water and throws him into the air. He slams face first into the ocean and disappears for a moment before standing up in shallow water.

I instantly catch the next wave and ride it right to him.

“Are you okay?” I ask anxiously.

“I’m not okay, I’m great,” he says.

Then he turns and I see his face. There’s a gash under his right eye that’s bleeding and makes me gasp.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Is my nose broken?”

“No. Your nose looks fine,” I say. “But you’ve got a bad cut under your eye.”

“Cool,” he says, oblivious to any pain. “Did you see that ride? It was wicked fun. I totally get why you’re addicted to this. Let’s get back out there.”

“Maybe we should, you know, take care of the cut first.”

“Really? Can’t we stay just a little bit longer?”

“Oh my God,” I exclaim.

“What is it?” he asks.

“You’re already hooked.”

I hear the knock and I bolt into action.

“I’ve got it!”

I hurry down the hall, but before I open the door, I pause, take a breath, and run my fingers through my hair. It’s important not to seem anxious and frantic. Especially at times like this, when you are anxious and frantic.

“Hi,” I say as I crack the door open to reveal a smiling Ben.

“Hey,” he says in his superspecial dreamy way. The swelling in his cheek has gone down, and I no longer worry that I’ve destroyed the masterpiece that is his face.

I lean out and whisper, “You know you don’t have to do this. It’s not too late to run away.”

“I want to,” he says. “Besides, I brought these.”

He holds up a small bouquet of flowers, and I fling the door open.

“You got me flowers?” I’ll admit it. There’s a hint of giddy in my voice.

“Actually,” he responds with a cringe, “they’re for your mother. I wanted to thank her for inviting me to di

“Hmmm,” I say, with raised eyebrows. “So that’s how you’re going to play it. And here I thought you always knew the right thing to say.”

We walk down the hall toward the kitchen.

“Ben’s here!” I a

“For me?” Dad says, looking up from the pot of spaghetti he’s stirring.

“No,” I respond. “They’re for . . . Mom.”

Dad cocks his head to the side and wags a wooden spoon at us, splattering some red sauce across the stove. “You better watch it, son. That woman’s married and she’ll break your heart.”

My mother comes in from the dining room shaking her head. “Would you two give the boy a break? Sometimes I feel like I live with wild animals.”

Without missing a beat, Dad and I both do jungle animal noises, which only makes her shake her head that much more. She ignores us and takes the flowers from Ben.

“Thank you, Ben. They’re lovely.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” Ben says.

She motions to Dad and me. “It certainly would have been understandable if you had declined. How’s that cut?”

“Better,” he says. “Thanks for that, too.”

Mom was the one who treated the cut when we got back to the house. She checks to make sure it’s healing okay.

“Needless to say, living with these two has made it necessary for me to develop basic first aid skills.”

Dad and I do the jungle noises again, and Mom just shakes her head.

Even though Ben’s been hanging out at the house on a regular basis and has eaten with us on multiple occasions, this is the first time he’s “officially” been invited for di

At first I didn’t get it, but judging by the flowers and the fact that Ben wore nice khakis and a button-down shirt, I think that she may have been onto something I missed. Once we put the flowers in the vase and finish setting the table, I have to admit that it does feel special.

Ever the English teacher, Mom asks him, “Have you had to do any summer reading for school?”

I start to answer no for him because I haven’t seen him near a book, but he surprises me.

“I just finished The Grapes of Wrath a few nights ago. It was great. Steinbeck’s my favorite author.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say.

“Which part? That I just finished The Grapes of Wrath? Or that Steinbeck is my favorite author?”

“Either.”

He shrugs. “You never asked.”

“I love Steinbeck too,” says my mother. “Although I prefer Of Mice and Men.”

“That book’s too sad for me,” he says.

“You don’t think The Grapes of Wrath is sad?” she asks.

“Incredibly sad,” he says. “But somehow it has a sense of hopefulness about it.”

I look across the table at my mother, and the only way to accurately describe her reaction is to say that she is actually swooning.

“Why, yes it does,” she says, with a glow to her cheeks. “There certainly is a lucky English teacher up in Madison, Wisconsin.”

“Did I miss the memo about book club?” I ask.

“No,” says Dad. “It’s not really book club. He’s just kissing up to your mother.”