Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,1

edges. A couple of patches draw attention, screaming fixed by girl owner. I love it.

“Grace, the waves ain’t gonna wait.”

I flick sand at Ford’s feet. Feeling antsy to catch some, I go tug on my summer wetsuit. It may be June, but the water around here is still in the upper sixties.

I slide my suit over my legs and hop a little as I try to pull it over my shoulders. My boobs jiggle a little in the process. I glance over at Ford and notice how he turns his head quickly. I tug at the sleeves of my wetsuit, slightly amused and slightly embarrassed. I turn around so he can zip me up. It’s not like I can’t; it’s just something nice he does for me.

My leash is all knotted up. Ford untangles it and attaches it to my surfboard. Most boards have a place embedded on the underbelly to attach the leash, but for some reason, mine is special. It attaches to the fin.

“Thanks, Ford.”

“I’ll be an old man by the time you’re finished if I don’t help.”

“Whatev.”

I wax my board while he grabs my mbahe grabankle, attaching my leash. For a split second his hand lingers there. Last night’s dream flickers and I stand up, aware of the inch of skin his hand touched. I grab my board and run toward the water with a long-short, long-short gallop as my leash holds one leg back.

“Last one in loads the boards,” I holler, running at half speed and knowing there’s no chance of Ford catching me when I’m this far ahead.

I reach the waterline, toss my board in victoriously, wade out as far as I can, and then begin the arduous task of getting raked over as I paddle out.

Ford may have reached the water second, but he paddles fast and soon makes it out there to the big dogs waiting for the Wave.

I keep my eye on the locals as I paddle out to the lineup. The water turns rough as a set of waves pass through. I sputter, hang on, and try to paddle past. Two strokes forward, one knocked back. After repeating this scenario several times, I join the rest of the surfers.

“Hey, Parker. Over here,” Ford directs, staking his claim on me. Really, he’s protecting me from a few hormone-raging, I-only-think-below-the-waist potheads. Though not all surf guys are like that. There really are a lot of super-talented, artsy surfers … contrary to some people’s opinions, like my mom’s…

The two other girls out here, Carrie and Talia, usually hang together. They’re stud surfers and sometimes I wish we could be friends. But my mom taught me a long time ago that women aren’t to be trusted. Most girls would think I’m a weirdo or something anyway, because I wouldn’t have a lot to say. The great thing about having guy friends is not having to talk about things you don’t want to.

I paddle to Ford. He’s straddling his longboard, black hair glistening; he greets me with a grin. His left dimple makes me think of the practical jokes he pulled on me after we first met. It also draws my eyes to his full lips.

When I reach his vicinity, I push up off my board and straddle it. Our boards bob up and down, announcing the next set’s arrival.

Damien, a local surfer with gorgeous dreads, says, “Hey babe. Why don’t you come catch some waves over here? They’re a lot bigger.” His insinuation is obvious, but I kind of enjoy being noticed even if he has a reputation for being a horndog. Personally, I think his reputation is more smoke than fire.

Ford steps in. “Prove it.”

The other guys laugh. A few make the ooh whatcha gonna do now sound.

Even though Damien talks big, I think he’s really a good guy. He’s always been nice to me. I don’t understand that instant rivalry Ford feels toward Damien.

The perfect wave comes our way. It’s solid, peeling off the water into a tight curl while the face of it keeps growing. Ford starts paddling to snag it at the crucial moment. I laugh; he’s freaking awesome. He comes down off the face, does a bottom turn, and carves down the line to the right. He turns up and down the face the rest of the ride before he e beforexits the wave and paddles toward me.

“Gnar ride, man,” I say.

Ford basks in the warmth of my praise like a Beach Betty soaking up sun. With a beat that