Page 3 of Britta & the Beach Boy
Chapter two
Dex
The sun’s first rays break through the cloud cover as I bob in the lineup, watching the horizon for a good set. The wave is even more packed than usual for a dawny, but it’s September, which not only means perfect wave conditions at Lower Trestles, but also heaps of Southern California high school surf teams taking advantage. A few surfers recognize me, but most of them are focused on the waves. I’m okay keeping a low profile.
A cleanup set of big waves rolls in, and the less experienced surfers wipeout, making space for me to drop in to a perfect groundswell wave that curves high enough for me to carve its face twice. I build enough speed to launch off the lip into an aerial. It’s only a simple one-eighty, but I catch enough air toleave me satisfied that the whole morning wasn’t a waste. I land it perfectly, kick out, then dive into the water.
When I surface, I’m keen to paddle back out now that the waves have finally picked up, but Archie motions me in from shore. I pretend I don’t see him and take another wave. It’s nothing special, but it gets me closer to the beach, so I don’t have to paddle the entire way in.
By this time, Archie’s waving his arms. I can’t hear him, but I can guess what he’s shouting. “Time for the shoot, mate!”
“I know, Archie,” I grumble to myself. Time to do the part of my job I don’t love.
I pause long enough to glance between him and the next set rolling in. The wind has changed, and the wave is good. But over the crashing surf, I hear Archie calling my name again. Against my will, I paddle all the way in.
I’m grateful every day that I get to surf for a living. That doesn’t mean I don’t miss just being able to surf for the love of it. My passion is my career, and I reckon that’s a rare privilege, but I’ve traded away some of my freedom for it. Days like today are a reminder of that.
I drop my board on the sand next to Archie and look back at the swell. “If sponsors want me to win, they shouldn’t schedule publicity nonsense days before the biggest event on the tour.”
“It’s not picking up. You caught the biggest wave of the day.” He’s trying to make me feel better, but we both recognize I’ll miss some good sets.
“Come on.” Archie slaps me on the back. “Let’s get you some brekkie before you put that ugly mug in front of a camera.”
As much as I hate to walk away from the ocean, Iamhungry. And with the World Surf League Championship coming up in a few days, it’ll only mess with my head to stay too long on the wave I’ll be competing on. I’ve made the drive south from LA to Lower Trestles every day this week to practice, and I’vereached the point where I might be too comfortable. Lower is a consistent, predictable wave, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. I can’t go into competition thinking I’ve got it figured out.
With surfing, confidence can be as dangerous as fear because, ultimately, Mother Nature is the one who has all the control. And she can be nasty. Too much confidence can lead to serious injury. The right mindset means respecting who’s in charge, and it’s never the surfer. The understanding of what I can control and what I can’t is just as important as technical skill. I’ve learned this the hard way. Twice.
Archie picks up his board and we head for the wide dirt trail that leads to the car park. “I got everything on video. We can watch over brek. You looked good, mate.”
On our way up the trail, I recognize Griffin Colapinto on his way down and regret even more that I came off the water. He’s got the same intense look on his face I’m sure I had on the way down to the beach this morning, gazing straight ahead, seeing nothing but how he’s going to surf. It’s the same look we’ll both have next week when the waves are competition-level and the waiting period is over.
“It’s mushy out there today,” I say, and my American rival for the world title—who grew up surfing here in San Clemente—looks up to give me a wide smile of recognition.
“This wave knows me. It’s just waiting for me to pick up.” Colapinto meets my eye with a confidence that’s meant to be both friendly and intimidating.
“Nah. I already tamed it for ya, mate.” I smile back as we clasp hands and bump shoulders in a side hug. “You should be able to handle it now.”
Colapinto laughs, but his home court advantage is no joke. He surfs every day at Lowers, where the world title competition is about to be held. He knows this wave better than anyone else onthe Championship Tour, but, as I told myself a few minutes ago, familiarity isn’t always the right edge.
We give each other a shaka—the “hang loose” Hawaiian hand signal every surfer is pretty much born knowing. Come competition day, things won’t be so cozy between us, but today we can appreciate that we’ve both fought hard to be on the Championship Tour this year. Difference is, he hasn’t fallen off the Tour the way I did when I was his age.
As a rookie, I let the fame and success go to my head, my first time on the Championship Tour, and ended up falling out of the ranks before the championship event. My second time on Tour, I pushed myself too hard and ended up with a serious back injury that took me out halfway through the year.
This time, I’m taking care of myself—physically and mentally—and I’m in it to win it, even though I’m nearer the age most surfers hang up the leash than I am of those who usually win the WSL Championship. With every year that passes and every minor wound that inevitably comes with surfing—and the genuine fear of another serious injury—my chances of taking the title decrease.
“Don’t let him get in your head, mate,” Archie says once we’re out of earshot—and just in the nick of time, as my doubts threaten to set in. “Eye on the prize, and all that.”
I nod, pushing away all the other comparisons trying to crowd my brain.
“Got it.” Eye on the prize; it’s the only thing I’ve got space for.
Archie leaves it at that. He’s not just my best mate. He’s the guy who pulled me up from rock bottom, then pushed me harder than anyone ever has to get me where I am now. He gave up his own race for a title to become my coach and it’s made all the difference—I wouldn’t be here without him, and we both know it.
By the time we get to the Sprinter van, the last of the clouds have disappeared, and the day is poised to be hot and sunny. The wind has shifted from cross-shore to offshore, and Colapinto will probably get the wave he wants. I try not to obsess about that and focus instead on the fact that with a good swell coming in, I’ll have my chance soon to beat him,andthe three other surfers in the top five with me. This is my year. I can feel it.
I climb into the passenger seat and grab my phone from the glove box. When I pull up my messages, there’s one from Georgia Beck that wipes away some of the disappointment of missing the rest of the morning waves.
Britta’s coming to take over the last six weeks of my apartment lease while her coffee shop is under construction. Stella’s coming for part of it. Keep an eye on them, will you?
