ONE
STERLING
She’s a damn beauty.
I stare at the surfboard I just finished making with bated breath. The lighting in the shaping room is crap—one flickering overhead bulb and a shop window half-frosted from the cold—but she still shines. Pale teal resin over a soft swallowtail shape, triple stringer for stiffness, and just the right curve in the rocker.
I run a hand along the rail, relishing in the smoothness. She’s sleek, and fast. I know she’ll be a beast in the water, cutting through current like butter.
She deserves better than this room, I think to myself. Too bad the ocean’s closed for business.
It’s dead quiet, except for the faint tick of the heater and the occasional groan of the storm that’s hammering Saltwater Springs. I glance out the little window and frown. Snow blows in sheets across the gravel lot, and the gray sky looks ready to stage the apocalypse.
There’s no breeze off the ocean today, which means there’s no swell and no surf. Just cold, wet silence.
That’s the part that gets me. This board is ready, and there’s no one even left to ride her. The Saltwater Shredders, the town'slocal surf team, packed up and flew to Hawaii two days ago to chase clean waves and sunshine, and I can’t blame them. The storm hit hard and fast. Dumping two feet of snow in less than twenty-four hours and scaring off the last of the tourists. Now it’s just me, the storm, and a dozen riderless boards stacked in the corner.
I head to the front of the shop where the cold half-drank coffee that I’ve already microwaved twice sits. I microwave it for a third time and lean against the counter, staring at the “CLOSED FOR STORM” sign I taped to the door.
The power flickers and the heater coughs.
I should be in Hawaii with the team, or anywhere warm for that matter, but I’ve never been one to follow the crowd. The moment something feels too easy or too settled, I pull the chute.
But this feels settled. And I hate it.
I pull out my phone and shoot off a text to my best friend.
Sterling:
Are you still alive over in Bluewater Bluffs, or did that ski hill of yours get swallowed by snow?
Levi replies almost instantly.
Levi:
Alive and thriving. Powder’s insane. You stuck in Saltwater Springs?
Sterling:
Buried. Everyone bailed and the surf’s dead. It’s a ghost town.
Levi:
Why don’t you come work at my mountain resort for the rest of the season? You’d love it. My main instructor bailed for Banff.
Sterling:
Teaching snowboard lessons to bratty tourists?
Levi:
Yeah, but hot tourists. In ski suits. With trust funds. Just saying.
I stare at the message, then look around the shop. At the stacked boards collecting dust, the snow hammering the windows, and the version of me I’m slowly becoming—settled.
Yeah. I need a reset.
Sterling:
