Chapter 31
Thirty-One
“Mick.” My mom shakes me awake early on Saturday morning. “C’mon, honey,” she coaxes. “The car’s already packed.”
My eyelids crack open as a grunt leaves my lips, but my body rises on autopilot. The promise of surfing awaits and that’s well worth less sleep.
Mom taught my brothers and me to surf a few summers ago when we visited her parents in Dana Point.
She grew up surfing at Doheny State Beach, and when I saw her surf for the first time, my mind boggled.
She held her own out there, so strong and confident, despite her small stature on that longboard.
It was hard to rectify that with the woman who shrinks and cowers around my father.
Visiting my grandparents is one of the highlights of my year.
Usually, the old man stays home to work while we vacation for a week.
Dana Point is a sleepy little town with a low population, and my grandparents live in a comfortable, unfancy house close to the beach.
My grandfather’s a large man of few words but friendly; when he laughs, his whole body shakes.
He tinkers in his garage on woodworking projects and always lets me help.
My grandmother’s short, like my mom, boisterous, and full of funny, old-fashioned exclamations.
She loves to play cards, and she’s so good—and ruthless—beating her is hella satisfying.
We always leave tanned, surfed out, and relaxed. I hope we’re going again this summer.
I haven’t logged enough wave time to make me a total shredder yet. Blame my father, who thwarts fun every chance he gets and likes to keep my mother on a short leash he can yank whenever he wants. He’s still out of town on a business trip, so we’ve had an easy two days already.
Swiping the gritty sleep granules from my eyes, I pull on shorts and a shirt and shove my feet into flip-flops.
After quickly brushing my teeth, I jog downstairs and out the front door, settling into the back seat of the station wagon next to Graham.
A box of chocolate donuts and a half-gallon of orange juice sits between us.
The donuts are a surprise—unheard of in our household ever since Mom turned into a health nut.
I curl my lip in disgust. This is totally a guilt offering, and it doesn’t even come close to making up for the crap we put up with.
My mom has earned her share of the blame.
She’s never protected us. Hell, she can’t even protect herself.
Not that she should even be in this position…
but she’s the one who married our jerk father.
It only pisses me off more that she hasn’t left him and taken us all with her.
Right or wrong, at this point, I fault her too.
I scarf down three of the waxy coated donuts just the same, needing every ounce of OJ to swallow them down.
The sun lifts over the horizon as we make the ninety-minute drive to Santa Cruz. No one’s talking but tunes on KOME play low from the radio.
You can bet if any song comes on corresponding with our names, my mom’s going to crank the volume and sing along.
She’s a loyal rock fan and named us all after her favorite musicians.
Me, after Rolling Stones singer Mick Jagger, Graham for Graham Nash of CSN, and my older brother after The Who’s Pete Townshend.
It’s cool, I guess. I asked my mom once how she talked my dad into it.
All she said is he used to be different.
I hope that’s true. I’d hate to think she married a guy that beat her up when they dated and then decided to bring three kids into the world.
Closing my eyes, I sink into the steady rhythm of riding in the backseat.
I’m yanked from sleep by a blaring “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” which my mother’s belting out at an annoying decibel. A disparaging remark lies poised on the tip of my tongue, but she seems so happy, I can’t take that from her.
The ocean soon comes into view, and my cells awaken, anticipation coursing through my veins.
When I’m out in the Pacific, my body hums with the rush, even despite the cold.
Waiting for the perfect swell, sliding into it, the tandem force of my board on the wave, carving it out, milking it as far as possible, making a cutback instead of wiping out.
Clowning around with my brothers. Attempting to hang ten.
The sun’s comforting rays on my face when it finally warms up.
The freedom of being a tiny speck on this vast ocean, working in concert with Mother Nature to just exist.
Townshend is a graceful surfer, his long and lithe body bending with the motion.
Graham’s the opposite but strong, his stocky frame keeping him grounded on the board.
I surf most like our mom, who seems to intuit how to synchronize and synergize with the ocean, be one with it.
I can’t explain it because I’m not trying to make it happen—it just is.
It’s an ideal day with low winds, decent sets, and cleaner waves. And it’s sure nice to see my family happy and unfettered. Same for me, and my mind blanks out the usual chatter, leaving me blissfully present in every moment.
We surf for hours, then break for lunch when the waves peter out. Mom unpacks turkey sandwiches with avocado and sprouts on whole wheat, cut-up vegetables, and grapes. Surfing stokes the appetite, and we plow through it voraciously.
When my mother walks down the beach searching for shells, my brothers and I toss the frisbee.
They aren’t even total jerks for once, but I don’t let down my guard.
I don’t put it past Graham to shove my face in the sand.
In secret, I’m working on building my muscles—and one day, I’ll be stronger and bigger than them (I hope), and no one, not them, not my father, not anyone, will push me around.
After we’ve had our fill, we load up and head home, stopping for pizza at our favorite spot. Bella Napoli makes gigantic pizzas with super thin crusts and slices so huge you need two hands to eat them.
And it’s there, at the end of our meal and an already perfect day, that my mother drops the bomb. She’s finally leaving our father.