Chapter 27 Summer
Lose.
I figure out I’m losing this event about halfway through the day, when the tide turns, waves swell bigger, and the barrels that’ve eluded us all morning start properly forming.
They’re small at first, the kind you’d really have to sit nearly all the way down to fit into.
And then they grow to the kind you could ride in a comfortable squat—assuming I could ride them at all.
Three-person heats turned to one-on-ones the deeper I got into the event. During the breaks in between, I gulped down water and stretched, trying to stay loose for the next round. And the one after that.
My arms are sore from paddling, fingertips permanently wrinkled, braids weighed down with salt water. I’ve had near-misses and the kind of tumbles I’d never have had back when I was consistently competing. But I managed to pull through every round to the quarter finals.
And then the barrels came.
My first wipeout? Acceptable—I was just getting a feel for it.
My second? A little embarrassing but nothing I couldn’t recover from.
My third? Indicative of a problem I won’t be shaking off today.
The giant scoreboard on land lays it out for me: There are six minutes left in this heat. And I’m five and a half points behind Katy Nichols’s total score.
After wipeout number three, I’ve been relying on the smaller performance waves, hoping that showing off my skill set might be enough to tempt the judges into a decent score. The message they’ve been sending back? Ride the damn barrels, Prescott.
To anyone watching me, it’s clear that I can’t.
To me, it’s clear that I won’t. I just can’t make myself do it.
So I’ve been giving up the waves to Katy, leaving points on the table that she’s been effortlessly picking up. The beach is just as busy as it was this morning, the crowd’s sounds still just as loud whenever Katy pulls off a good wave.
I rise and fall with the water now, focusing on the stretch of ocean behind me.
The incoming ripples, deep blue turning to white as water breaks without fully forming.
Katy paddles back toward me after completing her last wave.
I’ve got priority on the next set, and with so little time left in the heat, mine is likely the final wave of the round.
And it needs to be a good one. My best one.
Finally, I spot a decent set coming with only minutes left to go. A fast-forming wall of blue, stormy as Parker’s eyes, rising higher as it approaches. If I want to make it through to the next round, this has to be the one.
Paddling hard, I imagine the sour look on Denny’s face when I take the top score from him at the end of the series. Picture a delighted Harriet awarding me an oversized check with my winnings.
You’re surrounded by love, Sum. Don’t let a few bad eggs take that away from you. I let Parker’s words wash over me, take hold of me. Let myself believe them and use them to fuel me as I pop up on my board and carve down the face of the wave.
My braids whip behind me as water propels me forward at the kind of pace that requires every single muscle to fire just to keep me upright.
I owe Parker an endless supply of Mountain Dew for his training program.
Spray slaps me in the face as I slice through the first section of the wave, and I smile to myself when I’m able to get a tiny bit of air off the lip.
This.
This is the feeling that gets me out of bed every morning, has me hauling ass to Crystal Cove despite the hurt of spending hours at the spot where Dad and I shared so many happy memories before our life together blew up.
The people on shore, those in the water—none of them exist anymore.
Yesterday’s shitty day at work? Never happened.
I am fearless, untethered. Euphoric. My body working exactly the way it should without my giving it a thought.
The forces of nature aligning to offer me, Summer Freya Prescott, the unrivaled pleasure of surfing a perfect wave.
That feeling lasts about a split second.
That damn barrel starts to form, water curling, falling onto itself.
And I have every intention of disappearing inside it—I really do.
A barrel like this one would get me through to the next round, easy.
I lift up at the bottom of the wave, align with its opening.
Scramble to hold on to that blissed-out feeling.
I imagine packing my bags and bidding a not-so-sad farewell to my silent apartment and everyone in town.
Landing in Portugal and surfing the wave I’ve dreamed about since I was a kid.
Tasting the salt water just to know whether it’s different from back home.
Meeting new people, making new friends, exploring a different world than the only one I’ve ever known.
You’re surrounded by love, Sum—
I picture my friends at a table at Oakley’s on a busy Friday evening while I’m away.
Laughing together as they plan a group trip to watch Brooks’s first game of the season.
One of them—Parker maybe—suggests they dial me in on a video call.
But then they’re interrupted by Wynn, who’s eagerly come to share the latest town gossip, and they forget all about me.
The sound of water thunders in my eardrums. Thick and dangerous panic builds in my throat, threatening to cut off my air supply.
I kick my board out from under me, bailing on the wave before I can’t breathe anymore.
Regret hits the second I plunge into the water.