So Casey masks up against the secondhand smoke, like during Covid. Brock just shakes his head.
They talk about the Monsters and check the online BetUS Sportsbook World Surfing League contest odds. The surfers’ names come up on the big screen, with soft-focus, slow-motion waves breaking in the background. They’re handicapped like thoroughbreds, which we kind of are, thinks Casey, especially us big-wave dudes. We’re like specialized muscle masses trained to do just one thing. We work hard and sleep a lot. He wonders if, like a horse, he’ll be put out to pasture someday, hopefully at Main Beach in Laguna where he can loll around in the sand like a sea lion, catching rays and croaking for handouts. He wonders if the potent herb is getting through his KN95.
Casey is among the favorites, paying even to win at 2–2.
Brock the same.
Jack Briggs from Hawaii is favored to win.
Mike Schwaner from Australia right behind him, favored to place.
Astonishingly — though not surprisingly, after the way he handled Mavericks and Jaws and Nazaré last year — nineteen-year-old Thomas Tyler from Santa Cruz is picked to show, and he’ll pay out 2–5 if he wins.
Casey thinks it’s weird to bet on surfers but some people will bet on anything. If he had money, he’d bet on Brock. But he’d still surf like heck because God will be with him on every ride.
Brock and Lance get into a rambling discussion about the way time changes when you’re in the barrel of a wave. The bigger the wave, the slower time gets.
“And you know,” Brock says, “when you’re locked in way deep, and you’re going real fast, and you look out to that big lip closing down, but opening up ahead of you all at once, and you feel like you’re going backwards? Well, you are going backwards in time because the future and the past have collided, and time has stopped.”
“So true, man,” says Lance.
“Which is why every time I come out of a wave I feel younger,” says Brock. “I am younger. I’ve stood still with time.”
“I know exactly how that feels,” says Teresa. “Like if you catch enough barrels you could live a long time. Maybe forever.”
Casey says good night early, just past midnight, his muscles heavy from four hours of surfing in cold water.
Posts a quick report on the Hollister Ranch surf today, and wishes for a good night to all. And a selfie in which he looks tired but happy.
He’s only been sleeping an hour when he dreams that the bedroom door is opening and someone is coming in. Then he hears the voice and sees the faint light outlining the guest room door.
“Hi, Casey, it’s me, Alyssa.”
“Oh wow, hi.”
“I’m the older girl.”
“Sure, yeah.”
“Sorry to wake you up but I wanted to talk to you.”
Casey sits up in the bed, leans his back against the headboard, pulls the bedspread close. Funny, he was dreaming of a girl, well, a woman — Tessie from the Barrel, actually. Now this.
“Talk about what?”
Silence, then the door closing quietly on the light.
“I watch your videos and listen to your Surf Nation podcasts. I follow and like you all over the place, get your blogs and those extra cool CaseyGrams you do. Mom and Dad know.”
“I’m stoked, Alyssa.”
“But I have these dreams about you all the time. Mom and Dad don’t know that.”
She sits on the foot of the bed. Casey tries to draw the cover tighter.
“So, I was wondering if you’d like me to get into bed with you.”
Surprised as he is by this, Casey doesn’t hesitate.
“No, Alyssa — I don’t think so. You’re too young.”
“I’m seventeen and it’s not illegal if I consent. Which I do.”
“I mean, you know, that’s still awful young.”
“You’re only twenty-four. It’s up to me and you. Consensual.”
“I don’t think it’s right.”
“I’d like a second opinion on that.”
“From who?”
She laughs softly. “No, silly. Is me being too young some weird sexual deal you have?”
“It doesn’t feel weird.”
“Is something else about me not right?”
“No, but you don’t know me. What if I was like, fully aggro, or a chick hater?”
“Casey — it’s obvious that you’re not. So far as age — women are just more mature than men. Every guy I know at school thinks I’m hot. You wouldn’t believe the expressions they get, the things they say. Such goofy boys. Maybe you think I’d turn out to be a rotten tomato.”
“No, really, no. You’ve always been real sweet.”
“You’ve hardly looked at me. Over a lot of years!”
Casey feels cornered. Like he’s being checked by a better chess player.
“I’m looking at you now,” he says. “And I can see you’re a high-quality girl.”
Which of course doesn’t come out like he wanted; makes things worse. What if Lance or Teresa had heard that from the hallway? Fudge, they could call the police, couldn’t they?
Casey’s afraid he’s about to do something stupid, then realizes he already has by letting her close the door and get onto his bed.
The next few seconds of silence seem like an hour.
“So,” she says, standing.
Casey feels relief as her weight lifts, then quick fear that she’ll come over and kiss him or something.
“I’m really sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” she says. “You’re a dream I always wanted to have.”
“I’m sorry if I let you down.”
“Night then, Casey Stonebreaker.”
“Good night, Alyssa.”
“You’re the most beautiful man and surfer I know.”
Casey’s trying to form a polite and humble reply when the weak hall light sections into the room, then is gone.
At sunrise, Casey and Brock are back in the lineup at Cojo Point at Hollister Ranch.
The silver-gray waves are head-high and smooth as glass.
The locals aren’t as welcoming as they were the day before. No nods or words, no problem dropping in late on the brothers, forcing them off the waves.
Casey is sitting outside between sets, chewing on an errant fingernail, when Brock paddles over and climbs astride his board.
“I had a dream last night,” he says. “It was weird and when I woke up I’d learned something from it.”
“Maybe it was all that good weed.”
“It was me as a lion in a big room. Like a banquet room in a hotel. And there were people there, too, wearing animal skins. Giraffes and buffalo and zebras. But mostly it was other lions, like me. They all had black tails but mine was red. I knew it was up to me to get justice for my pride. Some of these other lions had set a fire in our cave. Burned everything we had. They were watching me at the big table, loading up a plate of meat.
“Then you walked in. A white tiger. Bigger and stronger than any of us lions. They started circling you and we started circling them and they fully outnumbered us. One of them snapped at you but I saw he was afraid to touch you. He backed away, then slunk to an exit door. Bumped into a tray of empty plates and glasses on a stand, knocked it over and dodged out. The other lions snarled at you but backed away, too. Headed for the exits. End of dream. I woke up in a sweat. Realized you were right about the pirates who burned out the Barrel. I’m not going after them, Casey. I’m not going proactive, which is my nature. I’m going reactive, which is yours. I’m going to turn this stubbly cheek of mine the other way. Wait to see what they do next. If anything. I think they’ll be like the lions in the dream. I’ll let vengeance be the Lord’s. As you suggest.”