Page 18 of Britta & the Beach Boy
We climb the stairs to the changing room where I’ve stored my boards, giving a nod to Jack “Robbo” Robinson. He’s another Aussie who’s in the first heat against me. He’s a good fella, a little younger than me, but he came up the ranks around the same time I did. He’s got focus, determination, and a fresh silver medal from his Olympic surf. A medal I might have had if I’d not been such a screw-up when I was younger.
We’ll talk after the heat, no matter who wins. He’s got his AirPods in, doing the same thing as me—focusing on nothing but the wave, even though we’re only seeing it in our heads right now. He’s already pulled his green jersey on over his wetsuit that signals to everyone that he’s number four in the World Surf League rankings. I’ve got orange for number five.
There are nine pre-World Title events on the Championship Tour, each comprised of rounds and those rounds are made up of heats. Two-to-four surfers can be in a heat, and the two whoearn the most points move on to the next round. The others are eliminated, but compete in an elimination round to earn more points and a higher ranking.
The events can take days, and at the end, the surfer with the highest points and rank wins the whole thing. But every surfer leaves with points based on where they ranked. Those points add up, and the ten surfers—five men and five women—with the highest point totals at the end of the season move to the finals for the World Title.
In the World Title event, only two surfers compete at a time, and if you lose a heat, you’re out. If you win, you move to the next heat. The heat you start in is determined by the number of points you’ve earned in the nine previous events of the season.
Because my overall points for the entire tour are lower than everyone else here today, I start in the first heat. I’ll have to win three heats to stay in competition for the title, then two out of three more heats to actually win the title. That means a lot of surfing for one day, and I’ll be up against guys who are fresh and rested. Very few surfers have ever surfed all five heats and won the Title.
I plan to take my place among those few today.
After stretching for a few minutes, I turn off my music so Archie can give me some final pointers and encouragement. I listen carefully to all the words I’ve heard before. I’ll put them on repeat when I’m paddling out, along with the order of maneuvers I’m planning to do. If the waves cooperate, that is.
When the first horn blows, signaling I have two minutes until I have to be in the water, Archie and I head toward the beach, scanning the crowd on my way down the stairs. I’ve resisted the urge to look for Britta since I got here. The sand was already full then, but now it’s packed shoulder to shoulder, standing room only.
We stop at the bottom of the stairs, and I peer down the roped off path from the WSL building to the entry point, hoping to see her among the fans cheering on both sides of the sandy path.
“Forget about her, mate. Focus,” Archie says, sterner than usual.
He’s right. He kneads my shoulders and points me to the water where the wave is coming in as reliable as ever. A perfect A-frame, high in the shoulder, spilling on the outside, and plunging on the inside. A wave that can be ridden right or left, which makes it perfect for a goofy-footer like me who prefers a left break.
“Youknowhow to surf this wave.” Archie’s tone is still stern but also confident. “Youknowhow to win this wave.”
He knows what I need to hear, and my confidence surges. I’ve fought hard to get where I am, and I will not lose now. Not to this wave and not to my competition.
Regardless whether Britta’s here to see it.
I leave Archie and walk the path to the end of the sand, then hop gingerly across the smooth, wet rocks the tide has carried in. The last thing I need is to hurt myself before I even get into the water, especially in front of a wall of spectators. My head is high, and I’m feeling good. I’ve still got around thirty seconds to make it to the water when I hear a familiar voice call, “You’re up against Robbo, Dex. Good luck.”
I know exactly who it is, and I stop in my tracks. Without thinking, I turn away from the water to get in the face of Brandon McVey, the surf journalist who’s followed my career since I was in the juniors and who’s been a ratbag from the get-go.
Brandon puts up his hands, feigning innocence. “I mean it.”
He’s trying to rattle me. I’ve never won against Jack, but after a deep breath, I pivot back to the water. I’m not letting Brandon get to me.
But then he asks, “How’s Frankie?”
Thatdoes the trick he was aiming for.
People can say what they want about me, but they cross the line when they bring up my friends. McVey isn’t asking about Frankie’s health. He’s goading me for information, and he knows he’s got under my skin the second I trip. I catch myself, but I don’t have to see him or hear him laugh to recognize that he’s loving it.
When I made the finals my first year out of the juniors, I thought I was invincible. All the attention I got from the media and sponsors played that up and I spent way too much time giving interviews and flirting with girls and generally acting like an idiot, up to the point of punching McVey when he called me out for my behavior.
He ended up with a busted lip, but also the last laugh. I went into the Championship event sure I’d take the World Title. I ended up losing in the first heat with an embarrassing score.
The next year, I fell off the Championship Tour all together. Didn’t even make it through the first cut because I couldn’t place higher than fifteenth in any heat in the first five events of the season. Part of the problem wasSurf City Hightaking too much time away from surfing, but Dad thought I could do both. It cost us a pretty penny to get out of that contract when we figured out I couldn’t, but I was able to get back on the waves.
The following three years, I fought hard, determined to beat the most powerful waves in the world.
I should have been respecting them instead.
Off the waves, I was worse. I partied too much and trained too little.
A serious wipeout at Pipe two years ago—the second time I’d made it to the Championship Tour—and the six months it took to recover, finally knocked some sense into me. Now, I’m all about focus. I’ve shifted my mindset a hundred-eighty degrees.No more fighting the waves. No more distractions or glamming for the media. I work with the wave, not against it. We’re partners. An old married couple who can finish each other’s sentences.
I’m in a better place.
