Pulled Under

“She better not wait too long,” she says. “She’s only got fifteen minutes more.”

Just then Nicole pops up on a beautiful wave. Normally, her height works against her, but she has such a smooth ride it just makes her look that much more elegant. She does a beautiful roundabout cutback, and as she rides it up the face of the wave and attacks the lip, a cheer erupts from our group.

Moments later the judges flash a series of eights and nines, one of the highest scores of the day.

“Okay,” Sophie says, a bit relieved. “That was awesome.”

Unfortunately, when Nic paddles back out there’s a lull, and we start to worry that she’ll run out of time.

“She needs two scores,” Dad says. “She knows that, right?”

“She knows,” I answer, without taking my eyes off her.

Even from this far away I can tell she’s keeping calm. She knows the situation and she’s not going to panic. Another wave comes, and even though it’s not big, she paddles along and catches it. There’s not much to work with, but she gets the most out of it, and we all feel relieved that she’s going to post a second score.

And then the horn sounds, marking the end of the session.

Sophie’s still riding her wave, which means she didn’t complete it in time and that the judges don’t give it a score. Despite the big number on her first wave, she’s disqualified.

She stands up in waist deep water and hangs her head, waiting for a few moments before she slowly begins to wade in. Sophie and I rush down to console her.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, as tears stream down her face. “That’s incredibly stupid. I can’t believe I did that.”

“It’s okay,” says Sophie. “Thirty seconds more and you would have had it.”

“We’re still doing great,” I say, trying to boost her spirits. “We are going to win this thing.”

The good news is that Sophie did qualify for the finals, which means she’s guaranteed to earn some points for the team. As the eight finalists stand side by side to pose for a picture, Sophie’s size and gender are impossible to ignore. Not only is she the only girl, but the guys on both sides of her are nearly a foot taller.

You can tell they think they can intimidate her, which is fu

The Surf Sisters crowd goes wild, and the judges reward her with straight nines. She finishes in third place, a great showing in such a strong division. The team is definitely in the ru

The Menehunes and Teens were both exciting, but I get goose bumps when the horn sounds to start the Legends. Mickey and Mo had both retired from competition before I was even born, so I’ve never gotten a chance to see them in this type of environment. With my dad thrown in, it’s almost more than I can handle.

Right as they’re about to start, I make eye contact with Ben. We’re keeping our distance during the competition. Still, he smiles at me, and I can tell he’s excited for this too.

“What am I looking for?” my mother asks me as we watch Dad paddle out to the lineup. She is the one member of the family who knows nothing about surfing. “How do I know if he’s doing well?”

“It’s all about showmanship,” I say. “If he makes a long ride and manages to show off a little, we should be good.”

Mom smiles. “Showing off is his specialty.”

The girls and I laugh in agreement. “It sure is.”

The first one of our Legends to catch a wave is Mo. She cuts a long, elegant line across the face and looks like she was born to surf. You’d never guess she was in her fifties, especially toward the end of her ride when she does something that no one else has done all day. She gets air.

It’s not particularly high, but she rides up the face of the wave and launches. She doesn’t even reach down and grab the rail. The board stays with her like it’s glued onto her feet, and when she lands it, we are all in stu

“Did that just happen?” Sophie exclaims. “Did that really just happen?”

“Fifty-three years old and she pulls off an aerial,” I say in amazement.

“Your dad’s not going to do that, is he?” Mom asks, with more than a hint of worry in her voice.

“I don’t think so, Mom. But up until a few seconds ago I didn’t think Mo could do it either.”

Mickey comes right behind her and floats along the top of the crest before pulling a fins-free snap, a sharp turn where the fins slide off the top of the wave.

As I watch her, I wonder what’s going through her mind. I imagine she’s cha

“Here he comes,” Mom squeals as Dad catches his first wave. “Don’t fall, honey!”

We all laugh again, but Mom couldn’t care less.

When we went to Sebastian, Dad practiced carving, and now it’s really paying off. He is, to use the eighties lingo he loves so much, totally shredding the wave. Mom’s squeals continue all the way until the judges post their scores of sixes and sevens.

“Is that good?” she asks me, uncertain.

“You bet,” I say. “That’s definitely going to put him in the top eight.”

When the horn sounds ending the round, I’m happy because of how well they did, but a little sad that it’s ending. It was great watching the three of them out there. They wade in together with big smiles on their faces. Mom wraps my dad in a huge hug that leaves her dripping wet. She couldn’t care less.

“Not too shabby for a bunch of senior citizens,” Mickey says as we all greet them. “Not too shabby at all.”

It’s no surprise that Mo and Mickey take first and second, and Dad is more than pleased with his fifth-place finish.

“My first . . . and last . . . surf contest,” he says. “Fifth is more than I could have hoped for.”

With the exception of Nicole’s misstep in the Teens division, our plan has worked perfectly. We’ve picked up points in each division and have a big lead. That’s the good part. The bad part is that Surf City is ready to dominate the Main Event and I’m the only one we’ve got left.

With so many people entered in the Main Event, there will be six different preliminary groups. The top sixteen will make the semifinals, and then the top eight will compete in the finals. I won’t go out until the fourth group, so I try to relax while I wait my turn.

I watch the other competitors to get an idea of what types of moves and tricks they’re doing, but mostly I try to visualize the waves and think about what I’m going to do. In the middle of this, Ben comes out of the scoring tent and walks over to me. Nicole and Sophie come over too, so they can hear what he has to say.

“How does it look?” I ask.

“You’re still in it,” he says. “But just making the final eight isn’t going to do it. You won’t have enough points.”

I see the disappointment on Nicole’s face and love it seconds later when Sophie puts a reassuring arm around her shoulder.

“How high do I have to finish?” I ask.

“It depends on how many from Surf City make the final, but I think you’re going to have to finish in the top five for the team to win.”

Gulp.

When it’s time for my group, I paddle out just like I have every morning for more than a month. The pier feels like my surfing home now, except for the fact that it’s filled with spectators. I try to block them all out and focus on the waves. I wash all doubt out of my mind.

When the first one comes along, I am amped and ready. The strategy is to get a solid score out of the way. I’m not going to do anything showy. I’m just going to surf smart.