Chapter Twenty-Five
Two bubblegum-pink vans with surfing logos on their sides pull into the parking lot, and we wander over to where they’re parked. The rear doors on one are open to reveal a dozen turquoise surfboards stacked, fin side up. Four women are hauling large plastic containers of gear from the other.
Soon there’s a group of us assembled, and we’re given wet suits, booties, and pink Billabong shirts and instructed to change.
“How do you have that on already?” I ask George as I struggle to tug the wet suit up over my hips.
“How did you do up the zipper?” We’ve gone back to the car so we can leave our clothes and shoes inside.
George looks like he’s been surfing all his life, whereas I look like a sausage half crammed into its casing.
He peers down at himself, and his hair flops forward. Even his curls seem beachy. “It wasn’t complicated.”
I begin hopping up and down, yanking at the neoprene until finally, finally, I hike the thing to my waist. I let out a whoop and look at George, holding up my palm for a high five, but he’s glaring at my chest. I’m wearing the most practical bikini I own.
It’s black, one-shouldered, and it stays in place when I move.
But I have been jumping about like a trampolinist, and it’s not exactly supportive.
I pull up the top of the wet suit and jam my arms in the sleeves, then reach for the zipper.
I manage to get it to my waist, but then it snags. I curse. I’m already sweating.
Meanwhile, George has effortlessly slid on his booties. He’s all ready to go, and he’s watching me contort and twist to get some leverage on the zipper.
“Shut up,” I say when I catch the expression on his face.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“You should be offering your assistance,” I say. “Like a gentleman.”
He responds with a sly grin. “Last I heard, I was a rake.”
“Right now, you’re more like a scoundrel.”
He laughs, takes a step closer, and bows at the waist. “May I offer you some assistance, Ms. Gardiner?”
“Ha.”
He makes a spinning motion with his index finger, and I turn away from him.
I feel the heat of his body just before he sweeps my hair over my shoulder.
And then he sets one hand on my hip and tugs the zipper with the other.
As he pulls, his knuckles graze my spine.
I shut my eyes as his touch travels from the small of my back to up between my shoulder blades.
I think of him behind me this morning and imagine leaning into him now.
An almost feline mewl leaves my lips—a sound I’ve never made before.
I freeze, and George’s hand pauses at the nape of my neck. I feel him lean close.
“You good?”
No. “Yep.”
He closes the last inch of the zipper, and I mumble a thanks, wondering what is going on with me.
· · ·
George has booked us a private lesson, so once we’re given our surfboards and taught how to carry both between the two of us, we peel off from the rest of the group and follow our instructor down a trail toward the beach, making small talk.
Liz is from Tofino, has been surfing since she was three, and carries her longboard above her head like it’s not even there.
The trail opens onto a large crescent of pale sand. The beach is relatively quiet. There are a few dog walkers and a couple of people sitting on the pale gray driftwood logs that have been tossed up on shore. The ocean is where the main action is happening—the water is speckled with surfers.
Liz begins our lesson by drawing the outline of a board in the sand with her finger to show us how we’ll be positioned on it when we’re in the water.
We’re given pointers on swimming out of riptides and how to fall safely.
We’re shown where to lie on the board, how to center ourselves, and a beginner technique for popping up onto our feet.
George and I use our index fingers to draw the shape of our own imaginary boards.
We lie down on our tummies and practice paddling to catch a wave.
One, two, three, four strong strokes; push your hands down next to your chest on the deck of the board; arch your back, head up, chest proud; one knee forward, then the other into a sort of lunge, rising with most of your weight on your back foot.
It’s kind of like a series of yoga poses.
Then Liz shows us a more advanced pop-up, which involves springing from a plank position into a crouch and then rising. Even in the sand it’s exhausting.
“Looks like you’ve got the hang of it,” Liz says to George as he jumps to his feet with ease.
“Show-off,” I say.
Like me, every inch of him, from his nose to his booties, is covered in sand. Unlike me, he looks sporting and athletic. With his wind-tossed curls and ass-hugging neoprene, he’s a model of rugged West Coast vitality.
“It’s all the protein I ate at breakfast,” he says with a wink.
“Just wait till you see what I can do on a stack of pancakes.”
Liz laughs. “You two are cute. Okay, Frankie. Show us what you’ve got.”
She watches me pretend to paddle. One, two, three, four; plant my palms in the sand and come into a plank; then drag my legs forward like concrete blocks into a low crouch.
I wobble before I get to my feet. It takes me double the time it took George, and there’s no popping or springing involved.
I cast a look George’s way, to get his gloating over with, but he’s staring intently at the ocean. Good man.
“You might want to stick to the first technique,” Liz says.
“But once we’re out there, you can see what feels right.
Today is about becoming comfortable on the board and learning to read a wave.
I want you to get a feel for that moment when it pushes you forward and you paddle into it.
If you ride a wave on your knees, that’s a successful day one, and then we’ll see about day two. ”
“Day two?” I glance at George.
“I booked two sessions. Surprise,” he says with a smirk.
“Ready to get out there?” Liz asks.
I nod, staring out at the surf. “Prepare to eat my surf, Saint James.”
Picking up my board and carrying it into the water makes me feel like the coolest person in the universe.
At my ankles, the ocean’s icy teeth pierce the wet suit, a sharp bite against my skin.
But I walk deeper, savoring the chill. I set my board on the surface, guiding it out.
Liz is to my left; George to my right. We wade through the surf to where the water is just below my shoulders, and when Liz climbs onto her board, straddling it, I do the same.
George and I watch as Liz paddles to greet a wave, rising to her feet before it breaks, and soars across the water.
With its sandy surf breaks, Tofino is an ideal place for newbies. No coral reefs or rocky shores to tear open your skin. Liz makes it look so easy that I wonder if it’s a little boring for her. She’s like a BMX racer riding a tricycle.
“Want to give it a try?” she asks when she makes her way back to us.
“Just pick a wave and go for it?” I say.
“And don’t forget to paddle hard.”
We stay a few meters apart, the three of us sitting on our boards, facing the horizon, watching the water’s undulations. The sun’s reflection shimmers this way and that atop the surface, dancing with the swells. The ocean looks like it’s breathing, swallowing, and releasing energy—a living thing.
“There’s one,” Liz says. “Get on your boards, quick, and I’ll tell you when to start paddling. Remember to look where you want to go.”
I lie on my belly, my adrenaline already surging as I try to remember how to align my body, when Liz yells, “Now! Paddle.”
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.
The waves die down for a while. George and Liz are making small talk atop their boards.
I hear them only vaguely. I’m focused on the line, the edge of water and sky, the beginning and the end.
I wait so long, it feels like a meditation.
I have the sense of everything expanding.
Spirit and soul and body. The space between my ribs.
The room in my heart. My mind empties of everything but the ocean’s rolling breath.
I feel like a creature of the sea. Salt on my lips, and salt on my tongue.
My hair setting into wet ropes down my back, my scalp gritty with sand.
My shoulders are sore, my neck strained.
But here, sitting on a board in the Pacific, I feel steady.
I’m floating in the ocean, literally adrift, but I feel like I’m home.
I feel like my mother’s daughter. For the first time since I can remember, I miss her so sharply that tears spring to my eyes.
And then I see one. A ripple that grows into a glimmering surge. It’s mine.
“This is it, Frankie,” Liz says.
I’ve already turned my board.
I get my body into position by feel rather than by checking my alignment. The wave shoves me, and I grit my teeth, paddling with every ounce of strength I have. I move quickly. One foot, the other, crouch. And then I’m up. On two feet. Flying!
It lasts for one glorious slice of a second before I windmill off the board. My butt hits the sand, but I barely feel it. I’m shaking with laughter. I can hear George and Liz whooping in the distance.
George is already looking for another wave by the time I make it back out. He and Liz are sitting on their boards. His eyes catch on one, and he’s on his stomach, turning his board toward the shore. He looks over his shoulder, then sets his eyes on the beach.
“This one’s for you, Frankie,” he says, and then he paddles, hard, into the wave. Liz and I watch as he leaps into a crouch and then goes shooting off his board.
George gets to his feet, spitting water from his mouth like a fountain.
I think of what he said earlier: No one is going to give me a trophy for how I live my life. There’s no winning—there’s only life.
Liz takes a wave all the way to the beach with a dancer’s grace. But even she has to get off her board. There’s no staying up forever.
When I finally make it to my feet again, it’s on the same wave as George.
He falls first. I ride the board to the shore, my eyes on the woman who still sits alone.
As I jump from the board and land on my feet, I see her clapping.
I smile at her and then I hear George calling for me. Splashing through the water to find me.
“You did it!” he says. “That was amazing. You were up the whole time.”
His arms come around me. My cheek is pressed against his chest. This is what matters. Trying. Being here.
“I did it,” I say, laughing.
Hot tears fall onto my cool cheeks. More salt into the ocean.