Page 57 of Unfinished Summer

“Yep. But hell, this is going to be epic. Look who’s here. Every guy who’s ever wanted to catch big surf is here.”

“Are we good for this?” My nerves get the better of me.

“For sure. We’ve trained. We’ve surfed, and you are not the baby surfer I first met. We’re good.” He slaps my shoulders, and we grab our gear.

Towing was the best way to hit at Jaws, and we’re rusty, so get some practice in as things build. But the sea is filled with others, all thinking the same. And, of course, we’re not at the top of the pecking order. It was the worst aspect of this sport.

We get the timing ironed out with being towed into the wave, each of us taking our turn on some of the smaller waves coming in, and it feels good. Real good. Like this was where we were meant to be.

The waves we do catch are monsters in their own right, but we both come out unscathed, which is more than some can say.

The wipeouts are harsh, but you can’t dwell on that. All I picture in my mind is how the wave will curl over, encompass me, and spit me back out, riding free and hard.

We bide our time and wait for the full break to emerge, and we’re rewarded.

Two days after arriving, Jaws shows up.

Finnan, Archie, Bear, and I take a trip up to the cliffs to look over the impending show.

“We’re going to do this?” Finnan asks.

“Heck yeah. Look at that.” I point out to the bay. “It’s the perfect conditions. The swell is epic, and those waves look amazing. The perfect barrel if we can get the timing right. Left and right, we can do this. Don’t get cold feet now, Finnan.”

“There are a lot of people here. A lot of cameras, too.”

“So, this could be it, Finnan. You’ve had this plan all worked out, and you’ve been right every step of the journey. The right wave here …” I let my voice trail off. If we catch the wrong wave, we could be drinking beer through a straw for the rest of our lives.

“Okay, Baby Surfer. Let’s do this!”

We gear up, psych up, and head out. According to a few locals we’ve seen on tour, this is one of the biggest breaks at Jaws for a few years, which explains the popularity—the perfect conditions to test the mettle of everyone here.

I can’t think about all that now. I need the focus to surf and stay alive.

As we’re bobbing about and waiting on the jet ski for the right moment, I think back to Mavericks, my first big wave, and all the ways my life has changed. The nerves mixing in my stomach relax a little, and I take a few deep breaths. The salt in my mouth from the sea and spray is familiar and comforting in such hostile waters, but underneath everything, I know I can do this.

Finnan reads the bank of waves and gets us in position. The speed of the waves means that paddling isn’t ideal, and with towing, we’re already up to the speed of the wave.

Calm.

Breathe.

The board is glued to my feet like an extension of my body, and confidence simmers as the rush kicks in. I tip over the edge and plummet down the face, controlling the angle as best as possible before I level out and ride along the curve.

The noise is deafening, blocking out anything else in the world, and for a split moment, nothing else exists—just me and the water around me. The water threatens as if fighting off every intruder who dares take a ride.

But I stick and hold my nerve.

The wave crests around me—swallowed whole—but I’m in the barrel, safe and free to keep going.

Keep going.

Keep going.

That wave changed everything.

Turns out, it was one of the biggest of the set, and I ended up on the cover of every surfing magazine for the next few months. Hell, it catapulted us into surfing royalty, which was saying something. And it meant that we could finally compete and focus on what we wanted to surf: big waves.

After the season finished, I suggested we head home. It had been years since I’d been back for more than a few days at a time before racing off again with Finnan.

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