Page 37 of Malibu Rising

“You’ve got it!” he would say, as the kite teetered in her hands. “You’ve saved the day!” He would scoop her up in his arms and Nina knew, knew in her bones, that her father would never ever leave her again.

• • •

A year later, Mick Riva was performing in Atlantic City when in walked a backup singer named Cherry.

He never flew home.

2:00 P.M.

The four Rivas were straddling their boards in the ocean, floating at the peak, all in a row like birds on a wire. And then, as the waves curled in, they took off, one by one.

Jay, Hud, Kit, Nina. A revolving team, with Jay the self-appointed leader of the pack. They soared past one another and paddled back out together, and when a wave took one of them too far down the shore, they worked their way back to their four-man lineup.

The first wave in a gorgeous set came in and Jay was primed for it. He got himself into position and popped up on his board, and then out of nowhere, Kit dropped in, cut him off, and stole his wave.

She smiled and held out a sisterly middle finger as she did it. Hud watched, mouth agape.

Kit knew that you can only bogart a wave from someone you are confident will not beat the ever-living shit out of you. Because waves that beautiful are rare. That is the thing about the water, it is not yours to control. You are at the mercy of nature. That’s what makes surfing feel like more than sport: It requires destiny to be on your side, the ocean must favor you.

So when you are granted a sick wave like the one Jay thought washis—chest high, with a hollow face, peeling quick and clean—it is not only a bull’s-eye but a jackpot.

“What the fuck!” Jay said, after cutting back quickly to avoid colliding. He grabbed the rails of his board to slow down. He hung there in the water, watching his little sister take off down the face of the wave until it slowly let her go, like her spot on the Ferris wheel was touching down.

She laid her chest down on the board and started toward Jay.

“You really can’t pull that shit anymore,” he called to her as Kit paddled out, duck-diving under the swells.

“Oops,” she said, smiling.

“Seriously. Cut it out. Somebody’s gonna get hurt,” Jay followed up. “I can’t always tell if you’re about to drop in on me.”

“I’m in full control,” Kit said. “I don’t need you to make room. I’ve got it.” He really didn’t understand, did he? Howgoodshe was.

But Hud saw it. Her confidence, her control, the chip on her shoulder.

“Kit, I’m seriously pissed at you,” Jay said. “Like, apologize at least.”

Hud took a wave out and then bailed once it all started to crumble. When he popped back out of the water, he saw Jay and Kit both floating on their boards, bickering. He spotted Nina walking out of the ocean. He watched her walk her board back over to her shed. She made her way up the steep stairs that led to her home.

Hud knew she was heading in to welcome the cleaning staff. She was going to offer them all a glass of water or iced tea. If one of them broke a plate or a vase, if they forgot a room, if they didn’t make the beds the way Nina liked, she would still thank them profusely. She would overtip them. And then she would fix it herself.

It made Hud sad. The way Nina lost herself in always putting others first. Sure, Hud tried to put other people first. But sometimes he was selfish. Clearly.

But Nina never said no, never stood in anyone’s way, never took anything. If you offered her five bucks, she’d give you ten. He knewhe was supposed to like that about her but he didn’t. He didn’t like it about her at all.

Hud lifted himself over a soft wave, letting it buoy both him and his board, and paddled out to where Jay was. “Nina went in,” Hud said. “For the cleaners.”

Jay rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake. Would it kill her to live a little?”

1969

In the late sixties, the counterculture had discovered the beauty of rustic Malibu and settled in along the mountains. The beaches were overrun with surfers on their brand-new shortboards—cooler and more aerodynamic than their older brothers’ longboards. Teams of young dudes and the honorary dudette took over the water, running in packs, claiming coves for themselves, rushing poseurs out of town.

The air smelled like Mary Jane and suntan oil. And yet, still, you could smell the sea breeze if you took a moment.

Mick Riva’s career—rocky tabloid headlines, a new hit album, a sold-out world tour—had taken off like a rocket, leaving hordes of young women screaming his name, millions of car radios playing his music as they sped down the freeway.

And so, to his children, he was both inescapable and never there.

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