Riptide - By Lindsey Scheibe Page 0,2

smirk, he looks toward Damien and shoots him the bird using both hands.

Damien happily returns the greeting and I try not to laugh. Damien’s so cute about giving the one-fingered salute.

Ford says, “Hey, this next one’s yours.”

I look over my shoulder to see an epic wave barreling toward us.

“Hello? Look at the size of that monster.”

“Parker. It’s your turn.” Ford always pushes me. “C’mon. Represent the ladies.”

Ford knows what to say to get my dander up. I eye the wave and paddle for dear life. If I don’t catch it, I’ll drown trying. The wave catches up to me, and I start to get sucked up to the top. Falling off your board is one thing, but getting stuck in the wave when it comes crashing down is another. The force of the water pummels you, and rolls you until you don’t know which end is up. Desperate, I try to paddle my way back toward the bottom of the wave. To represent. To show the guys what’s up. More than anything, to prove to myself I’m tough.

I pop up on deck, right foot forward. I barely make the bottom turn, and then I notice the wave curling over my shoulders. For the first time in my life, I’m inside the barrel of a wave. Amped, I let out a tribal yell. The rush is incredible. Zooming through a wall of water, still breathing like normal, I enjoy the magic of feeling free and alone. I would stay in this water wonderland forever if I could. But the ride won’t last; I bear down and transfer my weight to my front foot, accelerating my speed, and throw my left arm out to graze the wall of water as I shoot through it before it crumbles.

Euphoric, I cut back and ride what’s left of the line. Cheers erupt. Whistles and applause. I paddle back toward the group. I swear I’m on top of the freaking world. Ford winks and gives me the sweet move thumbs-up. The two of us might be acting low-key, but the truth is, I’ve trained for this moment. Hard work makes victory that much sweeter. The whooshing sound of being barreled, and the feeling of running my hand through an ocean wall, play on repeat as I make my way toward the crew.

After another hour of surfing—and laughing at the guys jawing back and forth about their boards, their “packages,” and the waves—I paddle in. Actually, I catch a wave and ride it in as long as I can, savoring the floating, lazy sensation of letting the ocean carry me toward shore until I’m in knee-deep water.

Once my feet hit the sand, I walk out of my Pacific haven and disengage my leash. That’s when I feel the reality of life hit me head-on. I dig frantically through my bag and slather on more sunscreen in case the ocean washed off the first application. Then I fish for my visor and sunglasses. If I come home with one more sunburn I’m gonna be grounded for life, or worse—I’ll receive the hour-long lecture about skin cancer, leatheryy">er, lea skin, and rapid aging.

It’s fun watching the breakers roll in and surfers catching rides. There are some girls who are ripping extra hard this morning. It’s hypnotic watching them. Women bring fluidity and grace to the sport that not many men can claim. Watching a woman catch a wave is like watching a dance where the partners take turns leading.

Doubt creeps in like the ocean tide. My getting barreled once, here at Ponto, won’t attract buzz. There are so many more tricks to learn, and I’m not even sure I can repeat today’s victory. How much was luck and how much was preparation? Then I remember a quote Ford once wrote on a notecard for me to carry in my wallet, since he knows what a freak I am about quotes.

Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.—Lucius Annaeus Seneca

I plop down in the sand and frown, wondering how in the world I’m going to convince my mom to let me enter a couple of local comps in the fall, not to mention wanting to go to college in-state. Maybe I can get Dad to help convince her on the competition front, but that will be about as tricky as catching a seven-foot double-up at Big Rock. I grab my surfboard wax and play around with it, molding it with my fingers.

For me, surfing is survival. It transcends everyday life;