“You know the water,” he says. “You always have. You just forgot for a while. You gotta trust her again.”
He releases me and picks up his laptop. “Your board is downstairs. Have fun.”
I put my coffee in the sink—pouring out Dad’s sludgy remains and remaking the pot with the appropriate measurements. I flick the machine on, so it’ll be done when we’re ready for refills—and when Mom emerges a few hours from now. Then I go and change.
Pulling on my summer suit—basically just a bathing suit with long sleeves—feels like trying to wear a shower cap as a dress. It’s been so long since I’ve tried to pour myself into this piece of latex. I’m sweating by the time it’s on, beads running down my back and forehead. I give the zipper a final tug and head downstairs.
Below the kitchen is a room that essentially functions as a storage unit. All the furniture, art, appliances, and hobbies that we’ve discarded over the years line the walls. I spot my board, stacked behind some paintings of Sylvia’s. It looks cleaner than it should, considering it’s been more than a decade since I’ve taken it out.
I grab some wax off the table, hook the board under my arm, and walk down the steps. It’s chilly outside, and the board is heavy—I don’t lift much these days, and whatever exercise I do is brief and light. I feel its weight underneath me, the weight of this adventure, and I almost bail, put it back, pour myself another cup, and grab my phone—but instead I push on.
When I get to the sand I set the long board down, put on some fresh wax. As I draw crisscrosses on the board I start to feel my arms relax. I know how to do this. I rub rail to rail two times over, careful not to apply too much pressure, and then I toss what’s left of the wax down and strap on my leash.
Dad was right—there are perfect offshore winds and head-high waves. Ideal conditions. In the winter, Broad Beach can bring in some killer waves—but they’re big. The summer is a great time to get back out there with some nice two-to-three-foot waves.
I try to think about the last time I was on my board, but the memory is hazy—I had no idea the last time I went out would be the last time, so it was unremarkable.
Come on, Lauren. In.
I push the board into the water and hop on. And as soon as I’m belly down, I start to paddle.
I can feel the ocean around me—icy and yet inviting. This is not a foreign place; this ismyplace. For the first twenty-five years of my life my home was in this water.
My body starts to remember. My breath syncs up with my arms, and before long I’m in that mediative trance. I remember the early years, the “paddle, don’t scream” years, when an oncoming wave would send a little thrill of terror down my middle, and I find myself repeating the mantra again and again as I move through the water.Paddle, don’t scream; paddle, don’t scream; paddle, don’t scream. One two push, one two push, one two push.
It takes about three minutes to get to the lineup. The lineup is where the main break and takeoff spot is, and it’s called that because it’s where the surfers literally line up. We hang on our boards, waiting for the next set. Sometimes you hang back, behind the peak, if the lineup is deep. Or on the ends, and ride the scraps.
I’m winded by the time I get out there, practically panting. I sit up and straddle my board, letting my feet dangle into the water.
There are five other surfers out today—not a lot, considering the conditions. But Broad Beach—while not secret—is a lesser populated surf spot. Other beaches in Malibu can be crowded. At Zuma during a swell the lineup will be twenty deep. And then you’re fighting for waves. That’s why I’ve always loved it here. Not the best waves, no. But hidden enough.
There’s a local hierarchy to the lineup in Malibu—like in most places. If you’re a newbie, you gotta wait your turn. The regulars get the first waves even if they’ve been chilling the shortest amount of time. Dad’s a regular. No one would dare drop in onone of Dave’s waves. But right now, I’m a tourist here. There was a time I knew every single person with a board on the whole coast of Malibu. Not anymore. I move to the left of the peak, more toward the tail, giving the other surfers space, expressing my respect.
I bob up and down, stretch my arms a little.
“Oy!”
Something instinctive hits my sternum and then—there Stone is, paddling out to me. He waves to two kids who I’ve never seen before, guys who can’t be a day older than eighteen.
“Laur!” he says. “No shit. You’re here.”
I haven’t heard him call me a nickname in so long. The familiarity is foreign.
Stone gestures for me to come in a little closer. I glance at the guys but they just nod. I swivel my board around and paddle to them.
“Hi, yeah.”
Stone nods with approval. “How long’s it been?”
“A while.” I give the boys a small wave. “I’m Lauren.”
“Right on,” one of them says. “Bert. This is Kai.”
Neither of them are wearing any kind of rash guard—just board shorts. A lot of the younger surfers refuse the coverage—they think they’re superhuman.
“You guys probably know her pops,” Stone says. “Dave Novak?”
One of them reaches over and pushes the other one in the side. “We love Dave! Dude can rip.”
