Dawn Patrol

113

Sunny goes over to the wall to inspect her quiver of boards.

Her quiver is her toolbox, her fortune, her biggest investment. Every spare dollar left after food and rent has gone into boards-short boards, long ones of different shapes and designs for different kinds of surf. Now she selects her big gun, pulls it off the rack, takes it from its bag, and lays it on the floor.

It's a real rhino chaser-ten feet long, custom-shaped for her, it cost twelve hundred dollars, a lot of tips at The Sundowner. She examines it for nicks or hairline cracks; then, finding none, she checks the fins to make sure they're in solidly. She'll wait until morning to wax it, so she puts it back in its bag and up on the rack. Then she takes down her other big gun, a spare, because waves like this could easily snap a board in half and, if that happens, she wants to have another ready to go so she can get right back out there.

Then she checks her leash, the five-foot cord that attaches at one end to the board, on the other end to a Velcro strap around her ankle. The invention of the leash made it possible to ride big waves, because the surfer could retrieve the board before it crashed into the rocks.

But it's a double-edged sword, the leash. On the one hand, it helps potential rescuers find a surfer trapped underwater in the impact zone, because the board will pop to the surface and “headstone,” and divers can follow the leash down to the surfer. On the other hand, though, the cord can get tangled on rocks or coral reefs and trap the surfer under the water.

Hence the Velcro “easy release” strap, and now Sunny practices her release. She straps the leash to her ankle and lies flat on the floor, then bends all the way forward and rips the Velcro off, removing the leash. She does this ten times from a lying-flat position, then rolls onto her side and does it ten more times each from the right and left side. Then she puts her feet up on the back of her couch, lies on the floor, and pulls herself up to rip the Velcro off. The routine builds the abdominal strength that could one day save her life if she's trapped underwater and has to do one of these “sit-ups” against a strong current of water pushing her back. It's a mental discipline, too, practicing in the calm, dry apartment so that the move will become so automatic that she can do it underwater, with her lungs burning and the ocean exploding over her.

Satisfied with the maneuver, she gets up, goes into the narrow kitchen, and makes herself a cup of green tea. She takes the tea to the table, turns on her laptop computer, and logs on to www.surfshot.com to check the progress of the big swell.

It's a swirling red blotch on the electronic map of the Pacific, building now up around Ventura County. The crews up there will be in the water in the morning, getting their big rides, making the mags.

But the swell is clearly moving south.

She stays on the site and checks buoy reports, water temperatures, weather reports, wind directions. It takes the perfect combination to produce the really big swell. All the kite strings have to come together at the same moment; a failure of any single element could destroy the whole thing. If the water gets too warm, or too cold, if the wind changes from offshore to onshore, if…

She leaves the table and sits in front of the little shrine, made of a pine plank over cinder blocks. The plank supports a statue of Kuan Yin, a small bust of the Buddha, a photo of a smiling Dalai Lama, and a small incense burner. She lights the incense and prays.

Please, Kuan Yin, please, don't let it stall out there, blow itself out in the sweeping curve of the South Bay. Please, compassionate Lord Buddha, let it come rolling to me. Please don't let it lose its anger and its force, its life-changing potential, before it gets to me.

I've been patient, I've been persistent, I've been disciplined.

It's my turn.

Om mani padme hum.

The jewel is in the lotus.

Life is going to change, she thinks, whatever happens tomorrow.

If I get a sponsorship, go out on the pro circuit-no, she corrects herself, not if- whenI get my sponsorship, go out on the pro circuit, I'll be traveling a lot, all over the world. I won't be at The Sundowner, I won't be at The Dawn Patrol.

And Boone?

Boone will never leave Pacific Beach.

He'll say he will, we'll promise that we'll make time for each other, we'll talk about him coming out to where I am, but it won't happen.

We'll drift, literally, apart.

And we both know it.

To be fair to Boone, he's been supportive.

She remembers the conversation they had two years ago, when she was struggling with the decision of where to go with her life. They were in bed together, the sun just creeping through the blinds. He had slept, as always, like a rock; she had tossed and turned.

“Am I good enough?” she asked him out of the blue.

But he knew just what she was talking about. “Totally good enough.”

“I think so, too,” she said. “I've been thinking I need to get serious. Really get ready to take my shot.”

“You should,” he said. “Because you could be great.”

I could, she thinks now.

I can.

I will.

There's a knock on the door.

She opens it and sees Boone standing there.