I dig my arms into the water—one,two,three,four—gritting my teeth, determined to nail it on the first try. But the wave rushes past me, pushing me forward before I’ve had a chance to even lift my chest, while George sails, leaps into a crouch, and stands for a second before falling off his board, his arms covering his head.
Liz is yelping with delight, while my mouth hangs open. He’s back on his feet in seconds, walking out toward us with a shit-eating grin on his face.
“That doesn’t usually happen so quickly,” Liz says.
“Did you see that?” George yells when he’s within earshot. “First try!”
“Amazing,” Liz tells him.
“Beginner’s luck,” I shout.
“You’re going to be intolerable later, aren’t you?” I ask when he’s closer.
He shakes his head, tossing his wet hair off his face. “Oh yeah. I’ll be intolerable until the end of time. You’ll be hearing about this when we’re in our eighties.”
Something in my heart twists.
Until the end of time. In our eighties.
“You may have gotten up first, but I’m going to stay up.” I narrow my eyes on the horizon, focusing on what really matters. Beating George.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, Gardiner.”
I tune him out. I tune everything out, except for the inhalations and exhalations of the ocean, my own breath, and the sound of Liz’s voice.
“See that one? It’s yours.”
“On your board.”
“Now.”
I try, and I try, and I try. I paddle too soon, then too late, then not powerfully enough. Liz holds the end of my board, pushing me into the wave, giving me enough velocity to ride on my tummy toward the beach. Liz said to choose a spot on the shore to aim for, and I set my eyes on a woman sitting alone on a log, watching us.
I paddle harder. I dig my arms deep into the water.One, two, three, four.I manage to shift into a half-lunge position before falling. Salt water bursts through my sinuses. It’s not so bad.
I miss wave after wave. I watch the horizon, breathing with the ocean. I get to my knees and sail to the shore without attempting a pop-up. My ass hits the bottom. I straddle my board, waiting. My brows are lowered; my eyes are slitted against the glare. The way the water billows reminds me of bedsheets hanging on a clothesline.
I keep trying. I’m going to do this, and I’m going to do this better than George.
“That’s yours, Frankie,” Liz calls.
Toes on the board. Torso centered. A push of the wave. Paddle as hard as I can. Hands planted. Back arched. Slide one foot forward. Smile. Fall.
Try again.
“Get this one.”
A push of the wave. Paddle harder than before. Hands down. Chest proud. Eyes on the woman on the shore. One foot. Then a knee. Rise to a lunge. Then crouch. Smile. Fall. Arms over head. Face under the water. Lurch to my feet. Spit out the sea. Grab the tether. Pull the board to my side.
Back out to try again.
I feel as if I’m twelve years old, at the starting line on Track and Field Day. George is beside me, and I am determined to win. A lifetime of competing with him plays in the back of my mind while I wait for the waves. Who can run to the creek first. Who can make the biggest splash in the pool. Comparing marks on essays and exams.
And then suddenly, I’m not twelve anymore. I’m a thirty-year-old woman, lying on a surfboard in the Pacific Ocean with her lifelong best friend at her side. I ache with the joy of it.
There’s a group of novices nearby, and most of them have already gotten to their feet. Some of them several times. I grin when I spot one of them zipping across the surface, feeling her triumph as if it’s my own. I clap and cheer along with the other students.
I’m not a natural surfer. So what? Would I take pleasure in rubbing it in George’s face if I had risen to my feet on my first try? Definitely. But I’ll enjoy his bragging later, too. What matters is being here. Trying. Falling. Waiting for the right moment to try again.
