Wave Warrior

Lesley Choyce

orac soundings

Copyright © Lesley Choyce 2007

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Choyce, Lesley, 1951-

Wave warrior / Lesley Choyce.

(Orca soundings)

ISBN 978-1-55143-649-4 (bound)

ISBN 978-1-55143-647-0 (pbk.)

1. Surfing--Juvenile fiction. I. Title. II. Series.    

PS8555.H668W29 2007 jC813'.54 C2006-907055-5

Summary:
Ben wants to learn to surf but he is terrified. When he

meets an aging surfer, Ben learns the way of the wave warrior.

First published in the United States, 2007

Library of Congress Control Number:
2006940638

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover design: Doug McCaffry

Cover photography: Getty Images

Orca Book Publishers        Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 5626, Station B        PO Box 468
Victoria, BC Canada        Custer, WA USA
V8R 6S4                        98240-0468

www.orcabook.com

Printed and bound in Canada

Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.

010  09  08  07  •  5  3  4  2  1

For all my fellow Nova Scotian surfers
.

LC

To live with fear and not be afraid is the
final test of maturity.
—Edward Weeks

All my life, surfers had been coming to my beach—Lawrencetown Beach in Nova Scotia. There were tall surfers, short surfers, skinny surfers and fat surfers. Hairy surfers and shaved-head surfers. Smart surfers and stupid surfers. Surfers with great cars. Surfers who hitchhiked. Surfers who were friendly and surfers who were rude and nasty. There were even girl surfers who sometimes smiled at me.

Even though I lived by the ocean, I had never surfed. I was a lousy swimmer, and I knew the sea could be dangerous. There were rip currents near the headland that pulled swimmers so far out to sea that helicopters had to save them or pick up whatever was left. And sometimes there were huge killer waves.

It was a dangerous world out there once you left dry land. My grandfather—a great old guy—had been a fisherman.

“Ben,” my grandfather told me one day while we were watching some kids from the city surf overhead waves, “you don't play around with the North Atlantic Ocean. I used to risk my life to go out there and catch a couple of darn fish so we didn't starve. But you don't just go out there in that friggin' cold water for the fun of it.” He had died last spring, and I still missed him.

His words stuck with me. He was right. It could be dangerous. People had drowned at Lawrencetown, unaware of how treacherous it could be. And it
was
bloody cold, even in the summer. Surfers had to wear wet suits almost all the time. There were a few warm
days when people came out from Halifax and swam in their bathing suits, but they were rare. Usually the water was so cold it was painful. Maybe I was smart to avoid the ocean.

But it was driving me crazy. Despite everything my grandfather said, despite every reason there was to avoid it, I wanted to surf so bad it was ripping a hole in my head. I had to at least try.

My parents were opposed to it.

“I'm sixteen,” I told them. “I can decide for myself.”

“You remember what your grandfather told you,” my father said. He had not become a fisherman like his father but worked at a place in Burnside that made cardboard boxes.

“You're going to get hurt, I know it,” my mom said. “What if you drown?”

“I'm not going to drown. I'll have a wet suit on. It will keep me afloat.”

“You're going to put your body in one of those rubber things?” my dad asked. “I'd rather eat nails with ketchup.”

“I'm going surfing,” I said. And left, slamming the door.

It was a sunny Saturday in the middle of June. Goofy's surf truck was parked by the rocks that acted as a seawall to keep the ocean from washing out the road. Goofy rented boards and wet suits to anyone silly enough to brave the early summer sea that was just a few degrees above zero. It didn't look cold but it was.

I paid the money and went behind the rocks to put on the wet suit. It felt tight and weird.
Goofy, smiling that idiotic smile that gave him his name, had also rented me a six-foot “fish”—a shortboard with a
V
in the tail and four short fins. It was the board I'd seen the hot surfers use to really rip.

I was gonna be like them—on my first day. If I could only stop my heart from racing so fast and my knees from shaking.

I watched a few experienced surfers paddle out. The waves were shoulder high, not small, but not too big. I wrapped the strap of the leash around my ankle, took a deep breath and waded into the ocean. I had on boots, but without gloves the cold water knifed into my hands. I tried to lie on the board and paddle like I'd seen the others do. In no time I slipped off and went right under. Talk about a wakeup call. A voice screamed inside my head. I surfaced and gasped for air. I knew it was going to be cold, but not that cold.

I was still in the shallows, ready to quit and run home to momma. I faced the shore. Then I heard someone behind me let out a loud whoop. I turned to watch Gorbie Kessler riding a beautiful blue wall of water. He
kicked his board high up into the wave, made a radical turn and fell off face-first into the water. When he came up he was laughing.

I pointed my board away from the beach. I lay on it. I wobbled. I paddled. A wave came at me and I paddled into it, tucked my head down and then I was over it. I kept paddling straight out to sea. I didn't even look up until I was near where the other surfers were sitting close to the takeoff zone. I was breathing hard. Man, was I out of shape.

“Yo, Ben.” It was Weed. You can guess why he was named that. “Thought you didn't surf.”

Still gasping for breath and trying to sit up on my board, I said, “Times change.” Or not.

“Just go for it,” he said, laughing. Nothing bothered Weed. He probably didn't even feel the cold. I watched as he paddled and caught a nice little waist-high wave. It looked like there was nothing to it.

I missed the first seven waves. I flailed and thrashed my arms. I dug deep and
paddled. But I couldn't get it. I'd been in the water about forty-five minutes when I heard someone yell, “Outside!” I'd been around enough to know that this meant there was a wave coming that was bigger than the rest. I turned. Yeah, it looked like a killer to me. I didn't know what to do, but the lunatic who resides in the back of my brain repeated what Weed had said. Just go for it.

So I went for it.

And got eaten for lunch.

It went like this. I paddled toward shore with all my strength. I felt the wave catch up to me and begin to lift me into the sky. I was holding onto the rails of my board for dear life. I was moving faster than I could imagine. But it all happened so quickly. I was dropping down the face of a steep wall of ocean.

My mouth was open. I know that because when I did the face-plant into the bottom of the wave, I was gargling salt water, thinking that maybe I was about to die. The wave drove me deep into the water. I flapped my arms around, thinking that going back up to the surface was a good idea.

But it wasn't. At least not then.

I surfaced just in time to open my eyes and see my airborne surfboard eclipsing the morning sun. And aimed straight for my head. Wham.

The next thing I knew I had this awful pain from where the board had slammed onto the bridge of my nose. The fin had connected just below my eye. And there was blood.

Blood and pain and floundering around in cold water with another wave about to break on you. This is not a great combination.

Weed saw what happened. “Man, you got nailed. Better get to shore.”

I didn't know which way shore was.

“That way, Ben. You okay?”

Okay was not the word I would use. But I was alive. I nodded and tasted blood. At least I hadn't been blinded. I dog-paddled to shore, my board in tow.

I swore I would never, ever, do that again.

My mother wanted to take me to the hospital, but I said no way. She could see how I was feeling and tried to be nice. When my dad came home he slammed into the told-you-so lectures. I loved my father, but he could be a pain in the butt sometimes. I finally told him to go to hell and stormed out of the house.

I biked to the headland and sat high above the sea, facing west. The sun was going down and the sky was beautiful. Below, at the
mouth of the river, some guys were surfing. I knew all about the river current here that could pull swimmers out to sea. But tonight, the tide was high and there was no danger of that. From here it all looked so graceful, so easy. I was jealous of the surfers, and I hated myself for being such a loser. And then Tara appeared, walking up the headland toward me.

I touched my nose and it hurt. I knew Tara surfed. I'd watched her putting on her wet suit in the parking lot. I'd seen her grab her board, run across the sand to the ocean and paddle out. She was new at it but she could ride waves. She was also beautiful with her curly brown hair, freckles and funny T-shirts. It seemed odd that she was always alone when she arrived, and she kept to herself. Not once had I gotten up the nerve to even say hi to her on the beach. I sure as heck didn't want to talk to her now. But I sat there frozen.

I just stared out to sea, hoping she'd walk on by. But it wasn't going to work out that way.

I knew she had stopped but I didn't turn.

“Ouch,” she said. “How'd that happen?”

I took a breath and half turned toward her. “A wipeout. I got nailed by the board.” I didn't tell her it was only my first wave, my first real attempt at surfing.

She knelt down beside me. “It got you on the nose?”

“Yeah.”

“And the black eye?”

I didn't know I had a black eye. I didn't know that was the way it happened. Get socked in the nose hard enough and a while later you have a black eye. “Oh great,” I said.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Waves can be brutal.”

So can life, I wanted to say. “How do they do it?” I asked, pointing to the surfers below.

Tara was now sitting on the grass with me. Our feet were dangling over the edge of the cliff. The sky was on fire as the sun began to set. At least when it was dark no one would notice the black eye.

“No one just gets in the water, catches waves and rides. It takes a lot of practice. A lot of wipeouts.”

“Can you imagine what I would look like by my third day of trying to learn?”

Tara laughed. “When people ask about your eye, don't tell them. Let them make up their own stories. It'll be much more interesting that way. Let me look.” Then she leaned toward me. I could smell the sweetness of her and I felt paralyzed. She was looking right into my eyes. “That's amazing,” she said.

“What is?” I asked.

“By tomorrow morning, you're gonna look like you had a fistfight with a gorilla.”

“And lost.”

“Gonna try it again?”

“No way,” I said.

“I'll teach you.”

I don't know why I did what I did next. I guess it was my pride. And I was sure she was just feeling sorry for me.