“Way more fun,” she says. “Although we’re taking it kind of slow. We only go out once, maybe twice a week.”
“Are you okay with that?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “The slow helps because it’s all so new to me. I feel like I need relationship training wheels.”
“That makes two of us. I don’t think I can count on that turtle rescuing me every time I start to spiral out of control.”
“Yeah, not so much.”
We step back out and now she is wearing a graphic tank top and a high-low skirt that looked like nothing special on the rack but incredible on her.
“I should never shop for clothes with you,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because of the whole six-foot-supermodel thing. I feel like Stumpy McGee.”
“Who’s Stumpy McGee?” she says with a laugh.
“I don’t know. I just made her up. But he cannot pull off any of the looks that you’ve been rocking.”
“Well, you’re not Stumpy McGee because everything you’ve tried on looks adorable. Besides, I could never get away with wearing those,” she says, pointing at the pair of boyfriend jeans I’m trying on.
“Sure you could,” I say. “Except on you’d they’d be capris.”
We both laugh and I realize that this is the beauty of having a lifelong best friend. You can give each other garbage, boost each other’s confidence, and look out for each other all in consecutive sentences.
I remember learning how to ride a bike, and I’m still learning how to drive. (I’ve got my permit, but I do not feel a rush to get my license.) But I don’t remember learning how to surf. It was too long ago, and that’s a shame because if I did remember, it might help me teach Ben. Today is his first lesson on his new board, and he wants to make it memorable.
“It’s time we go out where the grown-ups surf,” he says.
Up until now, he’s been using my dad’s board and I’ve done the same lessons with him that I do with the summer campers. We’ve stayed in shallow water, and he’s only caught waves after they’ve broken. It’s a great way to learn, but now he’s ready to go out beyond the white water. At least, he thinks he’s ready. Just in case he’s not, I’m right alongside him reminding him of each step along the way.
First we wade out into the water until it’s waist deep, and then we lie out on our boards and start paddling. The part that surprises people the most is how hard it is to paddle. It looks like it should be easy, but it’s not. You have to get used to balancing, and you have to work hard to go against the tide.
“Don’t forget to duck dive,” I tell him.
Duck diving is what you do when you paddle into a wave that’s coming right at you. The way you’re supposed to do it is to speed up right until you’re about two feet away and then push the board down under the water and let the wave pass over you. If you forget, the wave slams your board into you.
Apparently he didn’t hear me, because he forgets.
“My bad,” he says. “I was supposed to do something there, wasn’t I?”
“Duck dive!” I say, louder this time as another wave approaches. Now he picks up speed, and although it’s not particularly graceful, he manages to get under the wave and pop out on the other side.
“Like that?” he asks.
I ignore the lack of grace and focus on the positive. “Yes. But next time try holding the rails tighter and push down with your whole body.”
“Got it,” he says.
We dive under a couple more waves before we get out beyond the break to where the water is calm. The look on his face is priceless. He is loving it.
“Now you need to straddle your board like this,” I say, demonstrating.
“Do I look at the ocean or at the beach?” he asks.
“Did you not listen to any of the lessons I gave you?”
“I tried,” he says. “But it’s hard to pay attention because you’re so pretty.”
This makes me laugh. “You look out at the ocean until you see the wave you want. Then you turn and start paddling.”
“Got it,” he says.
I look over at him and see that he’s struggling to find the right balance. His butt keeps sliding from one side of the board to the other and he overcorrects to keep from falling off.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it.”
He squirms a little more and then finally settles into position. Kind of.
“This is . . . what’s the word you use . . . ‘radical’?”
“I think they stopped using that a couple decades ago,” I say. “But I know the feeling. Now remember, you don’t have to stand up the first couple times. You can catch the wave and ride it lying down. It’s good practice and helps you get the hang of it.”
“Are you kidding me?” he scoffs. “I did not rescue Blue Boy from some old garage just so I could ride him lying on my stomach. We are ready to hang ten.”
“Do you even know what hanging ten means?” I ask with a laugh.
He shakes his head. “Come to think of it, I don’t. But there’s not enough time for you to tell me because I believe this wave is for me.”
It’s a great dramatic moment. Or at least it would be if he successfully turned and caught the wave. Unfortunately, all he does is turn and slide off the board. Six times in a row. Once he finally gets the turn down, he goes through a brutal thirty minutes in which he tries to catch wave after wave only to watch each one pull away and leave him behind.
“What am I doing wrong?” he asks.
“The moment the wave lifts your board, you’re natural instinct is to lean back, but you should actually lean forward.”
He nods. “It’s harder than it looks.”
“Much harder,” I say. “Do you want to take a break? We could paddle in and rest or maybe practice some more in the white water.”
He shakes his head defiantly. “I am not paddling back. I am riding in.”
“Okay . . .”
“I mean it,” he says, trying to psych himself up. “I’m going to ride in . . . standing up.”
Fifteen minutes later he actually catches a wave for about ten seconds. When he loses it, I worry that he’ll be frustrated, but the opposite happens. He’s more jacked than ever.
“That time I really felt it,” he says. “I think I’ve figured it out. I did what you said and it worked. I just have to force myself to commit to it. I have to force myself to continue leaning forward.”
That’s what he does on the next wave and I am beyond thrilled as he catches it and takes off toward the beach. There are a couple times when he almost loses it, but I can see the exact moment when he latches on for good.
It’s a thing of beauty.
And then he tries to stand up. Which is not a thing of beauty.
He actually makes it farther than I would have guessed. He’s wobbly but he manages to find his balance, kind of like a baby when it’s taking its first steps and keeps its butt real low. Then he tries to straighten out his legs and stand all the way up, and when he does, he leans too far forward and pearls. The tip of the board digs into the water and throws him into the air. He slams face first into the ocean and disappears for a moment before standing up in shallow water.
I instantly catch the next wave and ride it right to him.
“Are you okay?” I ask anxiously.
“I’m not okay, I’m great,” he says.
Then he turns and I see his face. There’s a gash under his right eye that’s bleeding and makes me gasp.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Is my nose broken?”
“No. Your nose looks fine,” I say. “But you’ve got a bad cut under your eye.”
“Cool,” he says, oblivious to any pain. “Did you see that ride? It was wicked fun. I totally get why you’re addicted to this. Let’s get back out there.”
“Maybe we should, you know, take care of the cut first.”
“Really? Can’t we stay just a little bit longer?”
“Oh my God,” I exclaim.
“What is it?” he asks.
“You’re already hooked.”