2. Dex

Chapter two

Dex

T he sun's first rays break through the cloud cover as I bob in the lineup, watching the horizon for a good set. The wave is even more packed than usual for a dawny, but it's September, which not only means perfect wave conditions at Lower Trestles, but also heaps of Southern California high school surf teams taking advantage. A few surfers recognize me, but most of them are focused on the waves. I'm okay keeping a low profile.

A cleanup set of big waves rolls in, and the less experienced surfers wipeout, making space for me to drop in to a perfect groundswell wave that curves high enough for me to carve its face twice. I build enough speed to launch off the lip into an aerial. It's only a simple one-eighty, but I catch enough air to leave me satisfied that the whole morning wasn't a waste. I land it perfectly, kick out, then dive into the water.

When I surface, I'm keen to paddle back out now that the waves have finally picked up, but Archie motions me in from shore. I pretend I don't see him and take another wave. It's nothing special, but it gets me closer to the beach, so I don't have to paddle the entire way in.

By this time, Archie's waving his arms. I can't hear him, but I can guess what he's shouting. "Time for the shoot, mate!"

"I know, Archie," I grumble to myself. Time to do the part of my job I don't love.

I pause long enough to glance between him and the next set rolling in. The wind has changed, and the wave is good. But over the crashing surf, I hear Archie calling my name again. Against my will, I paddle all the way in.

I'm grateful every day that I get to surf for a living. That doesn't mean I don't miss just being able to surf for the love of it. My passion is my career, and I reckon that's a rare privilege, but I've traded away some of my freedom for it. Days like today are a reminder of that.

I drop my board on the sand next to Archie and look back at the swell. "If sponsors want me to win, they shouldn't schedule publicity nonsense days before the biggest event on the tour."

"It's not picking up. You caught the biggest wave of the day." He's trying to make me feel better, but we both recognize I'll miss some good sets.

"Come on." Archie slaps me on the back. "Let's get you some brekkie before you put that ugly mug in front of a camera."

As much as I hate to walk away from the ocean, I am hungry. And with the World Surf League Championship coming up in a few days, it'll only mess with my head to stay too long on the wave I'll be competing on. I've made the drive south from LA to Lower Trestles every day this week to practice, and I've reached the point where I might be too comfortable. Lower is a consistent, predictable wave, but that doesn't mean it's easy. I can't go into competition thinking I've got it figured out.

With surfing, confidence can be as dangerous as fear because, ultimately, Mother Nature is the one who has all the control. And she can be nasty. Too much confidence can lead to serious injury. The right mindset means respecting who's in charge, and it's never the surfer. The understanding of what I can control and what I can't is just as important as technical skill. I've learned this the hard way. Twice.

Archie picks up his board and we head for the wide dirt trail that leads to the car park. "I got everything on video. We can watch over brek. You looked good, mate."

On our way up the trail, I recognize Griffin Colapinto on his way down and regret even more that I came off the water. He's got the same intense look on his face I'm sure I had on the way down to the beach this morning, gazing straight ahead, seeing nothing but how he's going to surf. It's the same look we'll both have next week when the waves are competition-level and the waiting period is over.

"It's mushy out there today," I say, and my American rival for the world title—who grew up surfing here in San Clemente—looks up to give me a wide smile of recognition.

"This wave knows me. It's just waiting for me to pick up." Colapinto meets my eye with a confidence that's meant to be both friendly and intimidating.

"Nah. I already tamed it for ya, mate." I smile back as we clasp hands and bump shoulders in a side hug. "You should be able to handle it now."

Colapinto laughs, but his home court advantage is no joke. He surfs every day at Lowers, where the world title competition is about to be held. He knows this wave better than anyone else on the Championship Tour, but, as I told myself a few minutes ago, familiarity isn't always the right edge.

We give each other a shaka—the "hang loose" Hawaiian hand signal every surfer is pretty much born knowing. Come competition day, things won't be so cozy between us, but today we can appreciate that we've both fought hard to be on the Championship Tour this year. Difference is, he hasn't fallen off the Tour the way I did when I was his age.

As a rookie, I let the fame and success go to my head, my first time on the Championship Tour, and ended up falling out of the ranks before the championship event. My second time on Tour, I pushed myself too hard and ended up with a serious back injury that took me out halfway through the year.

This time, I'm taking care of myself—physically and mentally—and I'm in it to win it, even though I'm nearer the age most surfers hang up the leash than I am of those who usually win the WSL Championship. With every year that passes and every minor wound that inevitably comes with surfing—and the genuine fear of another serious injury—my chances of taking the title decrease.

"Don't let him get in your head, mate," Archie says once we're out of earshot—and just in the nick of time, as my doubts threaten to set in. "Eye on the prize, and all that."

I nod, pushing away all the other comparisons trying to crowd my brain.

"Got it." Eye on the prize; it's the only thing I've got space for.

Archie leaves it at that. He's not just my best mate. He's the guy who pulled me up from rock bottom, then pushed me harder than anyone ever has to get me where I am now. He gave up his own race for a title to become my coach and it's made all the difference—I wouldn't be here without him, and we both know it.

By the time we get to the Sprinter van, the last of the clouds have disappeared, and the day is poised to be hot and sunny. The wind has shifted from cross-shore to offshore, and Colapinto will probably get the wave he wants. I try not to obsess about that and focus instead on the fact that with a good swell coming in, I'll have my chance soon to beat him, and the three other surfers in the top five with me. This is my year. I can feel it.

I climb into the passenger seat and grab my phone from the glove box. When I pull up my messages, there's one from Georgia Beck that wipes away some of the disappointment of missing the rest of the morning waves.

Britta's coming to take over the last six weeks of my apartment lease while her coffee shop is under construction. Stella's coming for part of it. Keep an eye on them, will you?

Happy to .

I've only met Stella once, but Britta, I haven't stopped thinking about since the day I walked into her coffee shop.

"What's put a smile on your dial?" Archie asks.

"Nothin', mate." I try to pull back my grin, but can't. Not while I'm picturing Britta's full, pouty lips, her blonde hair pulled back with a few locks falling in gentle waves to her jaw, and her eyes the turquoise color of the water around Whitsunday Islands. She's going to be across the hall for the next six weeks. How about that?

It's been three months since I spent a week in Paradise, Idaho, flirting with the local barista. It was fun, and I was careful not to let it get out of hand. Georgia had told me back then that she thought it was a good idea for Britta to take a long vacation here in LA, once the summer season ended in Paradise—if she could talk Britta into it.

I didn't let myself think too much about the possibility because I sort of loved the brief flirtation we'd had being exactly that. I should have remembered that Georgia generally makes happen whatever she wants. As to what "keeping an eye on Britta" will actually look like, I'm going to have to sort that out later.

"Brekkie here?" I ask, waving toward our favorite spot for breakfast that's coming up on the left.

"You'll order the egg whites and veggie option?" Archie's already turning into the car park, though, so he knows the answer. I'm rigid about nutrition during competition season, but he likes to boss me, anyway. "And we have to get it take away or we'll be late."

No sooner do we get in line than someone recognizes me, and Britta is pushed out of my mind completely. People are already arriving in San Clemente for the world title event next week, and I'm asked for more autographs than usual. I'm alright signing them, but Archie knows the attention is a distraction for me. People's expectations get in my head, and I can't afford to let that happen so close to competition.

Plus, I've got the photoshoot to do for a new wetsuit ad—hence why I'm headed back north toward LA to hit a different wave in Huntington Beach. I hate that modeling gear is part of my contract with my sponsor, but at least I'm actually getting paid. That wasn't the case even ten years ago for young surfers coming up, including me. We got cut out of a lot of earnings.

The real money in surfing is in sponsorships. I've been surfing professionally since my teens, and in the early days I couldn't cover entry fees or equipment and travel costs without a sponsor. Now that I get paid for wearing their brands, I can actually make a living, even without the prize money that comes from winning events.

But staying on the Championship Tour is key to keeping the big sponsors. On Tour, there are ten events per year—including the World Title event—but only thirty-six spots for men and eighteen for women. Halfway through the season, that number gets cut to twenty-four men and twelve women, based on the number of points each surfer has earned at the first five events. Doesn't matter if you won the World Title Cup the year before. High points are the only thing that keeps you from being cut. And the five men and five women with the highest points at the end of the season compete in the final event for the World Title.

If you're not winning, you're not earning from events or sponsors. I've learned this from experience. I've made it to, then fallen off, the Championship Tour twice and been dropped by sponsors because of it. That, and my attitude. The only reason I'm on the Tour now is because I earned enough points last year from winning events in the Challenger Series to qualify to get bumped up to the 2024 Championship Tour.

People think surfing is all about being chill and riding waves, but at this level, there's intense pressure to perform. I feel that pressure every day. So even though I'm smiling on the wave during my photoshoot, and even enjoying myself, there's always a voice in my head making an old steam engine sound, chugging keep your focus over and over and over again.

It's close to dinner by the time the photoshoot ends, and Archie and I get back to the van. I'm knackered and hungry, and neither of us is up for preparing a meal at home. We stop long enough to eat high protein salads at Organic Greens.

Between surfing for practice and getting back in the ocean as part of the photoshoot, I've spent most of the day in the water. My lips are chapped, my skin is pickled from the salt water and it's the best feeling in the world. The only thing that could make it better is a stubby, but I've committed to stay away from alcohol before events. And there's always an event in surfing. I'll have a celebratory beer after I win, but that's it.

Archie, though, hasn't given up beer. Since he's had a few to wash down the salad I guilted him into eating, I drive back to our unit. As I pull into my parking spot, I notice a car with Idaho plates parked in Georgia's old spot, and I can't stop the grin that creeps across my face.

Britta's here.

In my town this time. I wonder if she'd like to get a coffee.

"Is Georgia back?" Archie asks as he takes notice of the unfamiliar car in the spot that's been empty for most of the year.

"It's a relly of hers—her sister-in-law, Britta," I say as casually as I can manage. "I met her when I visited Paradise. She's the girl who made the ripper flat white." I leave out the part that I left her with a Hollywood-worthy kiss any director would've been proud of.

"Ah, right. I've heard you mention her. What's she doing here?"

"Finishing out Georgia's lease." Again, I'm super casual about this. But Archie sees right through it.

He peers at me once I'm parked in my spot. "You can't afford to get distracted right now." His voice is stern and paternal, and my glare tells him exactly what I think about his tone. He puts his hands up as though in surrender, but he's not backing down. "Sorry, you're paying me to coach you. I'm just doing my job. No grog. No girls. Those are your rules, mate.

I stare at Britta's car as I consider his advice. "It's not like that," I finally say, because it isn't. "We're not even friends, really, just acquaintances." Although, that doesn't sound quite right. "She's probably as exhausted as I am if she's been driving all day," I add, more for myself than for Archie.

I don't miss Archie's sigh of relief. "Let's get the boards put away and I'll get your yoga video set up. Then meditation and bed. Alone ."

"Got it, boss!" I salute Archie, who salutes me back with his middle finger. "Won't hurt to take her some coffee in the morning, do ya think? Just to be neighborly," I say as he shuts his door. I'm goading him, but also, I did promise I'd keep an eye on her.

Archie shakes his head while walking to our apartment. But he doesn't say no. Wouldn't matter if he did. He knows he can't keep me away from Britta Thomsen if I decide I want to pursue something with her—whatever that might be. He's my mate and my coach, but he's not my keeper.

He also knows I'm not letting anything get in the way of winning the world title in a few days. Not even the woman I haven't stopped thinking about since the day I met her.