Page 30 of Britta & the Beach Boy
In the locker room, I stretch. I’ll be in the first heat with Jack again, so now it’s my job to prepare myself. Archie will do everything else—checking me in, double checking the conditions, getting a schedule for the day’s heats and taking the girls somewhere to watch. Maybe the beach, maybe the stands, maybe the box that team and family members watch from. None of it is my concern.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see Britta. Archie is behind her scowling, which means she’s probably disobeyed orders. I feel a little irritated at the interruption, even if it is her.
She taps her ear, and I pull off my headphones. “Remember, it’s a dance, and you know all the steps.”
With a soft smile, she turns and follows Archie. My irritation disappears.
Even though I shouldn’t, I watch her go, smiling to myself. My pulse slows to a more normal rate as I return to my music and focus on my breathing while allowing Britta’s words to mix in with my routine. With every breath, my chest fills with confidence.
For whatever reason, Britta’s encouragement is as motivating as all the pointers Archie has given me. She’s reminded me I can enjoy myself while I compete. I can win because Ilovesurfing.
I know this wave, and I know how to ride it.
I know how to anticipate its direction and move with it.
I know how to win.
My pulse does the thing it always does when I want something, slowing to a hard, steady beat. Everything around me goes fuzzy except the one singular goal. I dial into that beat, focusing on its rhythm until I hear a low hum ofwin the title.
And that’s what I go out to do when the two-minute horn blows. Because Jack has priority, I don’t get a wave until he takes the first one. And he’s known for waiting until he gets just the right wave, letting the clock tick down so his opponents get nervous and take any wave they can to beat him.
I’m already at a disadvantage with the high score he gets to keep from yesterday. But I’m not going down without a fight.
I scope the horizon for a good set. Jack sees it and surprises me by taking the first wave. I don’t watch him drop. I’m already setting up to take my wave. I’ve got a lot of points to make up.
Before he finishes his last maneuver, I’ve caught my wave. But the second I pop up, I realize I’ve miscalculated. The wave isn’t powerful enough to score anything higher than a five. I need sevens and eights or higher if I’m going to beat Jack. I do what I can with the wave—a few carves, a basic one-eighty—but nothing that’s going to wow the judges.
When the scores are announced, Jack’s is a seven-five. Mine is a five. That puts him far enough ahead of me that he can sit out as many waves as he wants. He can let me work to catch up while he saves his energy for the perfect wave.
My breath is short and choppy as I recover. Every wave I see, I’m tempted to take. The more I try to score, the more chances I’ll have to get a high one.
But taking as many waves as possible is risky too. Surfing takes a lot of energy. If I waste mine going after a crap wave, I might not have enough power left for a good one.
I close my eyes and take deep breaths, repeating all my mantras and Archie’s encouragement. When I open them again, a dolphin jumps out of the water, followed by another, thenanother. Dozens more are beneath the surface, all moving together in a coordinated dance.
Then I smile, remembering Britta telling me to enjoy the dance.
That’s exactly what I need to do.
This is what I love about surfing—not just being one with the wave, but one with everything around me. Rocking up and down, waiting for the right moment, the right energy. No cell phones, no media, no pressing in from anything that runs our lives. Even with the pressure of competing, I’m free. There’s no place I’d rather be.
And once I let go of the scoring and fear, I spot it: a perfect wave. I feel it even before I pop up and drop in.
The maneuvers I’ve been mapping in my mind for weeks come to me a half-second before I do them—like I’m being coached right there on the wave. I find the pocket, carve the face, then launch off the lip into an aerial, land it, and end with a bottom turn.
I’m able to ride the wave all the way in, giving a double thumbs up to the wave as a thank you. I get close enough to the shore that I can hear the crowd cheering, and I know I’ve rocked it.
But I still have at least one more wave to catch so that my first score will drop off, so I don’t wait to hear my points before I paddle back out. Jack’s already there, waiting patiently, cool as he always is, knowing he has priority. It’s intimidating, which is exactly why he does it, but I don’t let it get to me.
We sit and wait, bobbing up and down, our thirty-five minutes ticking slowly away. My score is announced. A solid eight point five. I pump my fist and don’t miss when Jack sets his jaw.
With the score I just got, he’ll wait as long as possible before taking a wave, to lessen my chances of getting another one, so I’ll have to keep my low score. It’s a smart move, but my last round was exactly the confidence boost I needed.
If only the ocean would cooperate. Time slips away, and the water stays glassy.
Just as I’m sure I’m done, and with under a minute left on the clock, Jack and I spot a wave coming in that looks good and both paddle for it. Once Jack takes off, I can too. The A-framer breaks perfectly right and left, and Jack takes right. I’m about to drop in left, but at the last second, something tells me to wait. I back out of the wave while he finishes.
I paddle for the next wave, hoping I’ve made the right call. Only seconds remain before my heat is over. I get in position. At the exact right second, at the same time the horn blows, I pop up.
