“Then put both hands under you and push up so you’re kind of like … I don’t know … like a cobra.”
“Cobras don’t have arms,” I remind him.
“Fine—like a mermaid perched on a rock. Is that better?”
Having always been partial toThe Little Mermaid(even though Ariel really could have done better), I nod.
“Then you’re going to bend one knee and get your first foot down—your dominant foot, whichever feels most natural—in a half-crouch,” Riff explains. “Or … have you ever seen track and field runners with the starting blocks? You’ll be in that position when you plant the second foot. And from there you push up to standing, with one leg in front, one behind, arms out like what I showed you before. You’re going to do it a lot faster once you get the motion down. You’ll paddle, paddle, paddle, then pop up quick.” He demonstrates, springing into place like a cat. “Then you can ride the wave.”
We practice this over and over until I am catlike as well, and then it’s time try it in the water. Riff has me sit upright and float for a few minutes to acclimate myself to the temperature and my own buoyancy on the board. I straddle it and swish my legs, and try not to stare at the way the sun glints off of Riff’s golden hair, bringing out hints of red.
He tells me what to look for in the waves, how to glance over my shoulder and gauge them. We do some paddle practice in the calmer waters. Then we paddle further out.
Riff looks at home on his board. He paddles with ease and confidence beside me and guides us to a wave that is almost ready to break.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No,” I admit with a nervous laugh.
“We’re gonna do it anyway. Okay?”
We go to the wave, then turn so we’re moving in its same direction, and keep just ahead of the crest. As it catches up, Riff shouts, “Now!”
He pops up.
I pop up. I wobble as I try to keep my balance.
“Excellent!” he tells me.
Still unsteady, I manage to hold my position for a full four seconds before the water’s motion throws me off balance and I plunge into the icy depths.
Thankfully I’m tethered to my board so I only have to panic for a moment before I surface and get my hands on it to stay afloat.
Riff comes to my side, panting. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I wipe water from my eyes and cough a couple of times as I climb back on.
“That was a really good first try. Seriously. I think you’ll be riding waves in no time.”
And he’s right. I’m not perfect, but I catch on quickly. That doesn’t mean I don’t crash and burn multiple times, but each round I stay up a little longer than the one before, until I’m surfing side by side with Riff (albeit less gracefully than him) for a few stretches.
Once again, plenty of material for the tabloids, complete with scenes of Riff helping me back onto my board (hands on my waist or lower back and all that good stuff, which I was too focused on recovering to worry about) to be taken out of context for the label’s benefit.
As we return to the shallows, I remember what’s next on the list. I kick at the small waves, splashing Riff.
“Hey!”
“Item number five.”
“Oh right.” He drops his board.
Saltwater spews at my face. I gasp, blinking through the watery blur, and drop my own board before I return the favor.
We splash back and forth, dodging and ducking. I slosh away from him, dragging my tethered board with me.
We’re both laughing now—full, unguarded, practically involuntary laughs that make it hard to breathe—and he catches up before I can splash him again, grabbing my wrists so I can’t slap at the water. So I use my feet instead. I’m relentless and I drench him (I mean, hewouldbe drenched if he wasn’t already) but then he maneuvers me into a straightjacket hold, flipping me around and forcing me to wrap my arms around myself so I can’t move.
“What now?” he teases.
