Page 36 of Britta & the Beach Boy
But Archie’s words have already convinced me. Aside from the fact that if he’s trying to talk me into surfing for America, he must really think I have no chance of making the Australian team, we’ve spent a lot of time assessing the rookies and youngerguys on the tour who are making their marks. They’re younger than me, they haven’t had the injuries I have, and even though they come from all over the world, the best ones are all from Aus.
“The American bench is a lot shallower, and as the host nation, they’ll likely have a bigger team.” Marta shifts on the couch to drill me with her determined gaze. “That’s another reason USA Surfing has you in their sites. With the games in Los Angeles, they want to make sure the gold goes to an American, even one who’s technically Australian.”
When she goes quiet, Archie jumps in. “If you made the team, you’d be surfing Malibu, Huntington, or Lowers—all waves you know well.”
“So do the other Americans. They’re even more familiar with those waves,” I say.
“And you just beat them, yeah?” Archie sends me a smug smile and holds out his fist.
“Can’t argue that.” I bump my fist to his, feeling my resolve to only surf for Aus crumble faster than I did as a rookie on the Tour. “How long would the process—what’s it called?”
“Naturalization,” Marta answers.
“Yeah. That. How long would it take if I decide to do it?” Still a bigif,but I’m not counting it out. “And would I have to give up Aussie citizenship?”
“Five years, and you’d have dual citizenship.” Marta tries to smooth a wrinkle from her trousers as she talks. “You’ve had a visa for the last three. If you’ve spent enough time in the States, and paid taxes here during those years, you could get citizenship as soon as two years from now.”
I turn to Archie, who says, “I’ll look back at our travel schedule once we hear from the immigration lawyer about residency requirements to see if you’ve met them. Taxes is a question I’ll pass along to your accountant.”
Worry sits at the slightly turned-down corners of his mouth. It’s barely noticeable, but enough for me to tamp down my rising hopes.
“And if I’m not considered a permanent resident? Then what? There’s only four years to the next Olympics.”
This situation feels a lot like the Marta trying to smooth that wrinkle out of her trousers with only her hands—impossible. I don’t remember if I’ve paid taxes in the US or Aus, but I do know I spend most of the year chasing waves. Some of those are in the US. Most aren’t.
Odds are, I’m not becoming an American in time for the 2028 games. Even if, by some miracle—or, more likely, bribery—I meet the citizenship requirements, there’s still the intense training and basic luck I’d need to stay on the Championship Tour for the next three years. The US coaches won’t look at me if I don’t keep winning.
The whole thing sounds impossible.
But just as I’m about to give up hope, I remember that at the beginning of this season, winning the world title seemed impossible too. But intense training and a bit of luck earned me the Duke Kahanamoku trophy. And I’d love to see an Olympic medal next to it.
An Olympic medal, more than any other trophy, legitimizes the sacrifices an athlete makes to be the best in the world. Not finishing secondary school or skipping university doesn’t matter with an Olympic medal hanging around your neck. A fella doesn’t have to be book smart to get one. He only has to know his sport and his competition.
The Olympics are the ultimate for any athlete, and I want to be that athlete.
I can handle the training it will take to get on the team; it’s the legal stuff that’s the biggestif.
“Is there any way to speed up the immigration process if my years here don’t already count?” I ask Archie, even though Marta is more likely to have an answer. I have a sliver of hope left that I’m not prepared to lose to a bluntnofrom her.
Archie lifts his palms in a shrug. “I reckon marrying an American would speed things up.”
He’s joking, but Marta sits taller, her interest piqued. I stand and slap Archie’s shoulder with a laugh, then bolt for the door. “If that’s my only option, let’s pray my days here count, then.”
I’ve got a party to get back to, and an actual win to celebrate. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing, not entertaining impossible dreams.
I’m almost to the door when Marta says, “Is that girl you kissed today American?”
With my hand on the knob, I turn around. Marta’s foot tick tocks side to side, a sure sign she’s cooking up some plan. But it’s the way Archie slowly sits up that has me more worried.
“Yeah, she is,” he says with a hint of excitement.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” My eyes dart between the two of them.
“How serious are you two?” Marta asks.
“We barely know each other.”
Music and laughing come from the other side of the door, but I can’t open it. My head buzzes, trying to put the puzzle pieces together that Archie and Marta are laying in front of me.
