Pulled Under

“That means you have to tell us!” Sophie says. “We could stand some mushy.”

I look at them and say, “It’s the color of my eyes.”

I have a love-hate relationship with video chatting. I love, love, love the fact that I can see Ben even though he’s 1,347 miles away. (Yes, I figured out the exact distance between our houses because, well, you know.) But I’m not particularly fond of seeing myself in the lower left corner of my computer screen as I talk to him.

Tonight is the second time we’ve tried it. The first time had mixed results. Halfway through the conversation I noticed that my eyebrows bounce up and down when I get excited and that there’s some strange sniffle flare that happens with my nostrils while I’m in deep listening mode. When I tried to correct these things, I overcompensated, and by the end of the conversation I felt like I was having some sort of bizarre face spasms. It was like the time I tried to examine everything I do when I surf and it made me pearl over the front of my board. I’ve solved the issue by taping a small piece of paper over the image. Now all I see is Ben.

“Hi,” I say. “How ya doing?”

“I’m okay, I guess,” he says. “Better now that I see you.”

Tonight is especially tricky. I’m still walking on air because of the incredibly romantic gesture Ben made with the surfboard design, but he spent half the day in a courtroom talking to a judge about his parents’ divorce. My goal is to keep things positive and be as low maintenance a girlfriend as possible.

“I love my surfboard! The design is . . . perfect.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” he says.

“You don’t have to wait. I brought it for show and tell.”

I pick up the surfboard and try to hold it in front of the computer so he can get a look. The problem is, because I’ve taped over the part that lets me see what he’s seeing, I have trouble telling if it’s in the right spot or not.

“I’m going to try it out first thing in the morning,” I say. “I want to break it in before the King of the Beach.”

“Speaking of which,” he replies, “have you read through the rules like I suggested?”

“Yes,” I answer. “We all have.”

“And?”

“And . . . the truth is . . . none of us can figure out what you’re talking about.”

Ever since the trip to the airport, Sophie, Nicole, and I have read and reread the rules of the King of the Beach. Ben seems to think there’s some great secret hidden in them, but we’ve given up finding it.

“It all seems pretty cut and dry,” I continue. “We enter a team. Every surfer earns points based on how well he or she finishes in the individual competition. The team with the most points wins the title.”

“Yes, but . . .”

There’s a pause on the other side, and I try to read the expression on his face. I can’t tell if he’s angry, frustrated, or something else.

“I’ll just tell you,” he says, with a distant tone to his voice. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned this week, it’s that my ideas of fairness and cheating are outdated.”

The divorce proceedings must be going even worse than I thought. He’s never said it outright, but I’ve gotten a strong indication that his father cheated on his mother. I don’t want to get lumped in with that vibe.

“Stop right there,” I say. “Your ideas of fairness are no different from mine. I don’t want you to help us by cheating. Never in a million years would I ask you to do that.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just been . . . bad up here. It’s kind of shaken my confidence.”

“Well, in two days you’ll be back down here,” I say, trying to boost his spirits. “And we are going to have an amazing time. You can be confident about that.”

There’s a brief pause, and I wonder if he’s about to deliver some bad news. I’ve secretly been worried that because it’s so late in the summer, his parents might just have him stay up there and not come back at all. Instead he says, “I’ve missed you even more than I thought I would. And that’s saying something, because I thought I’d miss you a lot.”

I let this sink in for a moment and smile.

“I miss you . . . so much,” I say. “And, I would never want you to go against your sense of right and wrong. I promise you, if there’s something to be found in the rules, I will find it.”

We talk for a little bit more, but I can tell he’s worn out, so I wish him sweet dreams and blow him about a thousand kisses. When we end the call, there’s a brief moment when the image on the screen freezes and the look on his face kind of breaks my heart. He seems so troubled, and I want to be able to ease that pain but have no idea how. Then it disappears, and I’m left staring at my computer screen.

I begin to obsess over the call the instant it’s over. I’m not sure why, but I feel uneasy about it. Everything he said was positive. Not only does he miss me, but he misses me a lot. And he can’t wait to see me again. Still, there’s a knot of uncertainty in my stomach. I give myself a little mental pep talk and pull up the Parks and Recreation Web site and go to the link for the King of the Beach. It’s just past midnight and I am determined to find whatever he thinks is important in the rules.

There are more rules than you’d expect. The King of the Beach is part of what’s known as the Summer Series. There are contests held all over Florida, and surfers earn points by competing in those contests, which count toward the series championship as well. Because of that, there are twenty-three pages of rules I have to scour through. They address everything from eligibility to how each surfer is judged to guidelines set by the series sponsor and ones specific to the contest in Pearl Beach. I read them as closely and carefully as I can, but nothing strikes me as important.

At 12:45, I decide to print them out, and I then arrange them across the floor of my room. By 1:15, I’m convinced that because Ben doesn’t know much about surfing, he thinks something is more important than it is. I’m going to call it a night and go to bed, but then I see my new surfboard.

The Eye of the Storm. It’s pretty awesome and inspires me to dig some more.

At exactly 1:47 I see three words that catch my attention. I check the page numbers to make sure I have them in the right order. Then I reread the rule a few times. I go back to the Parks and Rec Web site and make sure the rules I printed are the most up to date. By 2:03, I am convinced. Those three words aren’t just significant.

They change everything.

What’s so important that we had to meet before the shop opens?” Sophie asks. “On my day off, I might add.”

“Three words,” I say.

“If those three words are ‘I love you,’ do not expect a hug.”

I have called an emergency team meeting, and despite Sophie’s attitude, I can tell that I have at least caught the attention of the others.

“What three words?” asks Mo.

I hold up a copy of the King of the Beach rules, all twenty-three pages, and wave it in the air for emphasis. “‘From . . . all . . . divisions.’”

“Now you really shouldn’t expect a hug,” says Sophie.

“There are four divisions in the contest,” I continue. “The most important one is the Main Event. Whoever wins the Main Event is named the King of the Beach. But there are three other age group contests: Menehunes for kids twelve and under, Teens for thirteen- to nineteen-year-olds, and Legends for anyone over forty-five.”

“Yeah,” says Nicole. “Why is that important?”

“Because every year the people on the Surf City team, and all the other teams for that matter, only enter the Main Event. They all want to compete for the individual title.”

“I still don’t see your point,” says Sophie.

“Listen to the rules for the team competition.” I read from the rule book. “‘Competitors will be awarded points based on their finish in their individual competitions. The team championship will be awarded to the team whose members accumulate the most total points . . .’ And here’s the tricky part, because the sentence starts on this page but continues on this one,” I say as I flip to the next page. “‘. . . from all divisions.’”