11. Dex

Chapter eleven

Dex

T he Rip Tide house is in San Clemente, near Lower Trestles, and right on the sand. It's not as big as the mansion Archie grew up in, but it's still a mansion. Stella and Britta both gasp when we walk in. From the street, it doesn't look big, but once inside, the whole place opens up with a view of the ocean that stretches north to Dana Point.

We eat in for dinner, watching the sunset from the back deck. Britta and Stella live next to a giant, cobalt blue lake surrounded by mountains which provides an impressive setting for sunsets that took my breath away when I was in Paradise.

Britta seems to have a similar experience as we watch the sky go through an entire spectrum of oranges, reds, and pinks. Her face glows in the fading light, and I hope she's experiencing the same contentment I did in Paradise, watching the sun go down.

I get the sense life's knocked Britta down harder than she lets on. I know the feeling. It's no different from being held under water by a wave, running out of air, fighting to resurface. But the beauty of a sunset can make you forget all of that, even if it's only for twenty minutes. And I'm keen for Britta to leave her troubles behind.

I go to bed satisfied that she enjoyed herself today and felt some peace—even if it's short-lived. But I hope it will be something that stays with her. That hope lulls me to sleep and I rest better than I can ever remember the night before a competition.

The next morning, I insist Britta and Stella ride down to the beach with us. Archie doesn't love it, but we have VIP parking, and I don't want them parking a mile away again. Surfing and beer go hand in hand, and the fans will have eskies full of grog. I don't want any drunks hassling the girls— women.

"Once we're down there, you've got to give Dex space. He needs to focus," Archie lectures them as we climb into the sprinter.

"Yes, sir," Britta says, and I pull in a smile when she salutes.

She's wearing shorts I picked out for her that show off her very long legs, but also the Rip Tide jumper I loaned her. And while I stay focused—taking the front seat today instead of the one next to her—I am picturing her in that green dress.

I'm keen to see her in it.

That's as far as I'll let my mind wander away from the wave. I've got to surf both fearless and smart.

Before we park, I turn to Britta and Stella in the backseat. "Once we're parked, I've got a routine to stick to, so Archie will help you get settled. When I stop talking, it's not meant to be rude. It's what I do to get focused and then stay focused."

Archie gives me an approving nod, and once we park, true to my word, I pop on my headphones and turn on the music that helps me tune out everything but the wave and how I'm going to surf it. I don't see where the girls and Archie go, but he'll take care of them while I head to the locker room. I barely acknowledge the other surfers. The smallest of nods is all we offer each other.

In the locker room, I stretch. I'll be in the first heat with Jack again, so now it's my job to prepare myself. Archie will do everything else—checking me in, double checking the conditions, getting a schedule for the day's heats and taking the girls somewhere to watch. Maybe the beach, maybe the stands, maybe the box that team and family members watch from. None of it is my concern.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see Britta. Archie is behind her scowling, which means she's probably disobeyed orders. I feel a little irritated at the interruption, even if it is her.

She taps her ear, and I pull off my headphones. "Remember, it's a dance, and you know all the steps."

With a soft smile, she turns and follows Archie. My irritation disappears.

Even though I shouldn't, I watch her go, smiling to myself. My pulse slows to a more normal rate as I return to my music and focus on my breathing while allowing Britta's words to mix in with my routine. With every breath, my chest fills with confidence.

For whatever reason, Britta's encouragement is as motivating as all the pointers Archie has given me. She's reminded me I can enjoy myself while I compete. I can win because I love surfing.

I know this wave, and I know how to ride it.

I know how to anticipate its direction and move with it.

I know how to win.

My pulse does the thing it always does when I want something, slowing to a hard, steady beat. Everything around me goes fuzzy except the one singular goal. I dial into that beat, focusing on its rhythm until I hear a low hum of win the title.

And that's what I go out to do when the two-minute horn blows. Because Jack has priority, I don't get a wave until he takes the first one. And he's known for waiting until he gets just the right wave, letting the clock tick down so his opponents get nervous and take any wave they can to beat him.

I'm already at a disadvantage with the high score he gets to keep from yesterday. But I'm not going down without a fight.

I scope the horizon for a good set. Jack sees it and surprises me by taking the first wave. I don't watch him drop. I'm already setting up to take my wave. I've got a lot of points to make up.

Before he finishes his last maneuver, I've caught my wave. But the second I pop up, I realize I've miscalculated. The wave isn't powerful enough to score anything higher than a five. I need sevens and eights or higher if I'm going to beat Jack. I do what I can with the wave—a few carves, a basic one-eighty—but nothing that's going to wow the judges.

When the scores are announced, Jack's is a seven-five. Mine is a five. That puts him far enough ahead of me that he can sit out as many waves as he wants. He can let me work to catch up while he saves his energy for the perfect wave.

My breath is short and choppy as I recover. Every wave I see, I'm tempted to take. The more I try to score, the more chances I'll have to get a high one.

But taking as many waves as possible is risky too. Surfing takes a lot of energy. If I waste mine going after a crap wave, I might not have enough power left for a good one.

I close my eyes and take deep breaths, repeating all my mantras and Archie's encouragement. When I open them again, a dolphin jumps out of the water, followed by another, then another. Dozens more are beneath the surface, all moving together in a coordinated dance.

Then I smile, remembering Britta telling me to enjoy the dance.

That's exactly what I need to do.

This is what I love about surfing—not just being one with the wave, but one with everything around me. Rocking up and down, waiting for the right moment, the right energy. No cell phones, no media, no pressing in from anything that runs our lives. Even with the pressure of competing, I'm free. There's no place I'd rather be.

And once I let go of the scoring and fear, I spot it: a perfect wave. I feel it even before I pop up and drop in.

The maneuvers I've been mapping in my mind for weeks come to me a half-second before I do them—like I'm being coached right there on the wave. I find the pocket, carve the face, then launch off the lip into an aerial, land it, and end with a bottom turn.

I'm able to ride the wave all the way in, giving a double thumbs up to the wave as a thank you. I get close enough to the shore that I can hear the crowd cheering, and I know I've rocked it.

But I still have at least one more wave to catch so that my first score will drop off, so I don't wait to hear my points before I paddle back out. Jack's already there, waiting patiently, cool as he always is, knowing he has priority. It's intimidating, which is exactly why he does it, but I don't let it get to me.

We sit and wait, bobbing up and down, our thirty-five minutes ticking slowly away. My score is announced. A solid eight point five. I pump my fist and don't miss when Jack sets his jaw.

With the score I just got, he'll wait as long as possible before taking a wave, to lessen my chances of getting another one, so I'll have to keep my low score. It's a smart move, but my last round was exactly the confidence boost I needed.

If only the ocean would cooperate. Time slips away, and the water stays glassy.

Just as I'm sure I'm done, and with under a minute left on the clock, Jack and I spot a wave coming in that looks good and both paddle for it. Once Jack takes off, I can too. The A-framer breaks perfectly right and left, and Jack takes right. I'm about to drop in left, but at the last second, something tells me to wait. I back out of the wave while he finishes.

I paddle for the next wave, hoping I've made the right call. Only seconds remain before my heat is over. I get in position. At the exact right second, at the same time the horn blows, I pop up.

The wave is a perfect-peeling left-hander, the highest one of the day, with an endless face. As soon as I drop in, I know this is my chance for a perfect ten. Adrenaline surges, and I pump my board to pick up speed. I carve and turn, then launch into an aerial, land it even better than the last one, and still have time to do some more maneuvers before the wave washes out.

I let the whitewash carry me in, diving into the water just before shore. I've done my best. I may have scored my highest ever, and I tremble with excitement.

After I pop out of the water, self-doubt creeps in. Even though I did a ripper job on that wave, I worry my score still won't be high enough to beat Jack. The crowd is already cheering, and I can't tell if it's for me or for Robbo.

I carry my board out of the water, running my free hand over my face, wiping away salty water that's come from more than the ocean. There's nothing I would have done differently on that last wave. If I lose to Jack, I'll have done my best, but I don't have any idea how I could have done better.

My feet hit the sand, and I hear my name, then my score. A ten.

I just pulled off the impossible and scored a perfect ten in the WSL finals.

The crowd roars again, and I wipe my hand over my face to hide my tears. But they can tell I'm crying. Before I know it, Archie has his arms wrapped around me and lifts me off the ground.

"You did it, mate! You did it!"

When he lets go, I make my way to the locker room, high-fiving fans standing on each side of the path to the surfers' area. I still have four heats left, but Britta and Stella are waiting at the bottom of the stairs when I get there.

"That was quite a dance, Liam," Britta says.

I pause long enough to return her grin before I drop my board and close the space between us. She doesn't have an apron on, so no strings to hook my fingers around. Instead, I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her close enough there's no way she can't feel how hard my heart is pounding under my orange jersey and wetsuit.

Her mouth curves into a smile, giving me the permission I've been waiting for.

I slide my other hand across her jaw, into her hair, but Britta is the one who rises to her tiptoes in the sand to press her lips to mine. She has on lip stuff that tastes sweet and fruity, and I feel bad for the salty, chapped lips she's getting in return.

Britta doesn't seem to mind. With her arms slung around my neck, she deepens our kiss, pulling a moan from my throat when she tugs at my bottom lip while lowering her heels back to the sand.

"If that's what I get for winning the first heat, what's in store if I win the title?" I tighten my grip around her waist, wanting to keep her close.

"I guess you'll have to win it to find out." She looks up at me through feathery lashes, and her tongue darts between her lips before they pull into a smile.

I've wiped out heaps of times, tossed so hard by waves, I've had a dozen concussions, at least. It's a crazy experience being washed around like that. Under churning water, it's impossible to tell what's up or down.

With the taste of Britta's lips still on mine, I feel the same disconcerting sensation of being pummeled by a wave. There's no up or down. Nothing else exists outside the pounding in my chest and my lungs grasping for air.

But wiping out has never felt this good.