7. Dex

Chapter seven

Dex

I 'm in a quiet spot overlooking Lowers sitting cross-legged on a towel when Archie taps my shoulder and holds up both hands while he mouths ten minutes . I give him a shaka then close my eyes again to focus on the meditation music flowing through my headphones and the breath flowing in and out of my lungs.

When I first made not only the Championship Tour but also the final five, I was a nineteen-year-old rookie. That was nearly ten years ago. Back then, my music of choice before my heats was rap. Kendrick Lamar, Eminem, Kanye. They all got me amped up before hitting my wave. I'd go out fast, angry, and aggressive.

Too aggro.

That was my downfall. Over the following four years, I sank in the rankings, losing more and more sponsors every year.

I replaced my dad with Archie as my manager in 2021, the same year I moved full time from Queensland to California. Things have been better since then, even with my back injury in 2022. I worried I wouldn't surf again, but Archie stuck by me, making sure I got all the medical care I needed through six months of recovery. It's because of him I'm at the World Championships today.

Once I finish the meditation practice I go through before every competition, Archie and I navigate around arriving spectators to walk from a corded off spot on the beach to a cluster of temporary and permanent structures set up for this event. A few of the other surfers in the finals linger outside them, and I nod to Caitlin Simmers and fellow Aussie, Molly Picklum. They're not my competition, and I'll be cheering for Molly in her heats.

We climb the stairs to the changing room where I've stored my boards, giving a nod to Jack "Robbo" Robinson. He's another Aussie who's in the first heat against me. He's a good fella, a little younger than me, but he came up the ranks around the same time I did. He's got focus, determination, and a fresh silver medal from his Olympic surf. A medal I might have had if I'd not been such a screw-up when I was younger.

We'll talk after the heat, no matter who wins. He's got his AirPods in, doing the same thing as me—focusing on nothing but the wave, even though we're only seeing it in our heads right now. He's already pulled his green jersey on over his wetsuit that signals to everyone that he's number four in the World Surf League rankings. I've got orange for number five.

There are nine pre-World Title events on the Championship Tour, each comprised of rounds and those rounds are made up of heats. Two-to-four surfers can be in a heat, and the two who earn the most points move on to the next round. The others are eliminated, but compete in an elimination round to earn more points and a higher ranking.

The events can take days, and at the end, the surfer with the highest points and rank wins the whole thing. But every surfer leaves with points based on where they ranked. Those points add up, and the ten surfers—five men and five women—with the highest point totals at the end of the season move to the finals for the World Title.

In the World Title event, only two surfers compete at a time, and if you lose a heat, you're out. If you win, you move to the next heat. The heat you start in is determined by the number of points you've earned in the nine previous events of the season.

Because my overall points for the entire tour are lower than everyone else here today, I start in the first heat. I'll have to win three heats to stay in competition for the title, then two out of three more heats to actually win the title. That means a lot of surfing for one day, and I'll be up against guys who are fresh and rested. Very few surfers have ever surfed all five heats and won the Title.

I plan to take my place among those few today.

After stretching for a few minutes, I turn off my music so Archie can give me some final pointers and encouragement. I listen carefully to all the words I've heard before. I'll put them on repeat when I'm paddling out, along with the order of maneuvers I'm planning to do. If the waves cooperate, that is.

When the first horn blows, signaling I have two minutes until I have to be in the water, Archie and I head toward the beach, scanning the crowd on my way down the stairs. I've resisted the urge to look for Britta since I got here. The sand was already full then, but now it's packed shoulder to shoulder, standing room only.

We stop at the bottom of the stairs, and I peer down the roped off path from the WSL building to the entry point, hoping to see her among the fans cheering on both sides of the sandy path.

"Forget about her, mate. Focus," Archie says, sterner than usual.

He's right. He kneads my shoulders and points me to the water where the wave is coming in as reliable as ever. A perfect A-frame, high in the shoulder, spilling on the outside, and plunging on the inside. A wave that can be ridden right or left, which makes it perfect for a goofy-footer like me who prefers a left break.

"You know how to surf this wave." Archie's tone is still stern but also confident. "You know how to win this wave."

He knows what I need to hear, and my confidence surges. I've fought hard to get where I am, and I will not lose now. Not to this wave and not to my competition.

Regardless whether Britta's here to see it.

I leave Archie and walk the path to the end of the sand, then hop gingerly across the smooth, wet rocks the tide has carried in. The last thing I need is to hurt myself before I even get into the water, especially in front of a wall of spectators. My head is high, and I'm feeling good. I've still got around thirty seconds to make it to the water when I hear a familiar voice call, "You're up against Robbo, Dex. Good luck."

I know exactly who it is, and I stop in my tracks. Without thinking, I turn away from the water to get in the face of Brandon McVey, the surf journalist who's followed my career since I was in the juniors and who's been a ratbag from the get-go.

Brandon puts up his hands, feigning innocence. "I mean it."

He's trying to rattle me. I've never won against Jack, but after a deep breath, I pivot back to the water. I'm not letting Brandon get to me.

But then he asks, "How's Frankie?"

That does the trick he was aiming for.

People can say what they want about me, but they cross the line when they bring up my friends. McVey isn't asking about Frankie's health. He's goading me for information, and he knows he's got under my skin the second I trip. I catch myself, but I don't have to see him or hear him laugh to recognize that he's loving it.

When I made the finals my first year out of the juniors, I thought I was invincible. All the attention I got from the media and sponsors played that up and I spent way too much time giving interviews and flirting with girls and generally acting like an idiot, up to the point of punching McVey when he called me out for my behavior.

He ended up with a busted lip, but also the last laugh. I went into the Championship event sure I'd take the World Title. I ended up losing in the first heat with an embarrassing score.

The next year, I fell off the Championship Tour all together. Didn't even make it through the first cut because I couldn't place higher than fifteenth in any heat in the first five events of the season. Part of the problem was Surf City High taking too much time away from surfing, but Dad thought I could do both. It cost us a pretty penny to get out of that contract when we figured out I couldn't, but I was able to get back on the waves.

The following three years, I fought hard, determined to beat the most powerful waves in the world.

I should have been respecting them instead.

Off the waves, I was worse. I partied too much and trained too little.

A serious wipeout at Pipe two years ago—the second time I'd made it to the Championship Tour—and the six months it took to recover, finally knocked some sense into me. Now, I'm all about focus. I've shifted my mindset a hundred-eighty degrees. No more fighting the waves. No more distractions or glamming for the media. I work with the wave, not against it. We're partners. An old married couple who can finish each other's sentences.

I'm in a better place.

But Frankie's not, and that's McVey's fault.

I try to put McVey's taunt out of my head as I jump on my board and try to catch up to Jack, who's already paddling out. A good set is coming in, and I know he's seen it. That's one of his talents—reading the ocean and picking the best waves. I need to get to it before he does.

But I lose the paddle battle to him, and he gets that first wave. Usually, I'd be on the other side of it and not able to watch him, but he was so far ahead of me I have a front-row seat to his carves and the aerial that follows. I'll have to score a seven or higher, which is not the pressure I want to feel dropping into my first wave.

Every heat is the same in that we get thirty-five minutes to surf as many waves as we can. Five judges score each ride, with ten points being the highest. The highest and lowest scores are dropped and the other three are averaged for total points for that ride. At the end of the heat, the best two scores are added together for a final score out of twenty points.

A perfect ten for a single wave has never happened in the finals. And a perfect twenty rarely happens in any event, let alone in the Worlds.

Scoring a seven or above on a first wave, like Jack just did, is an excellent position to be in. Being the guy following the one who scored that high— me —is not.

That's what's in my head when I drop too early into my first wave. I do exactly what Brandon dared me with his taunting to do and lose my focus. The wave collapses under me before I can do anything more than carve the face once.

That'll be a zero score.

As soon as I'm out of the wave, I see Jack patiently studying another set of waves coming in, but he doesn't go for any. He'll wait for just the right wave, possibly only taking two waves total, maybe three. That's the other thing he's known for—patience.

That's something I'm still working on, and I'm already under the pump because he won the first wave, so I focus on settling my nerves. I wait until I spot a good set coming in. Jack starts to go for the first wave, then turns back. He'll wait for something better. I don't have that luxury, so I paddle.

I'm ready to pop up on the second wave of the set when I spot something ahead of me.

A fin.

I change direction, paddle out of the wave, and sit up. I can't put my legs on my board, but if the fin belongs to a shark—not a dolphin—I don't want him mistaking my dangling legs for seal fins, so I hold as still as possible. I glance over my shoulder and catch Jack getting ready to paddle toward another wave. At the same time, the sound of a jet ski in the distance confirms the Safety Crew is on their way.

I wave my arms over my head to get Jack's attention. When he sees me, I shake my head and point to the jet ski. Jack sits up quickly. If Safety is coming for us, they've spotted at least one shark from the shore or from the copter above us.

Jack cups his hands around his mouth and yells, "You see it?"

"Yeah!" I yell back and point to the spot where I saw the fin.

Both it and the wave are gone now, but no one takes risks when it comes to the "men in grey suits." Tamayo Perry's death from a shark attack in Hawaii earlier this year is still fresh in everyone's minds. The professional surfing community is still small enough that when we lose someone, we all feel it.

Jack swears loud enough I hear it and shakes his head, visibly annoyed but fighting to stay calm. He's no more worried about the shark than I am. Every surfer deals with them, and the chance of attack is slim. We worry more about a serious injury taking us out than we do being eaten by sharks, but the World Surf League guys won't take any chances.

Jack had a good chance of winning this heat, but it's over now. We'll have to wait for the all clear to get back in the water. We're not going back out until Safety is certain the shark, or any others with it, is gone. That may mean calling off the comp for a day or two.

The interruption could be devastating for him, but could be good for me. I've got time to clear my head and get back in the mindset I need to win the title.

The jet ski pulls up next to me, and I scramble with my surfboard up the rescue sled to sit behind the driver. I hold the strap and scan the water for more fins while a second jet ski picks up Jack.

Water sprays my legs and face as my driver speeds back to shore. When we get close to the beach, I jump off and carry my board through the shallows to the shore. Archie is there to meet me. I sense more than see Jack behind me. I wait to talk until we get past the disappointed fans.

"Sorry, mate," I say to Jack once we're in the locker room and our boards are put up.

Jack drops his chin to me but stays silent.

We've already been on standby for four days, waiting for good waves. Now we may lose them. Staying in the mental zone it takes to win, while twiddling your thumbs on the sidelines, is excruciating.

I'm too nervous to stay put, so I peel down the top half of my wetsuit and head toward the outdoor shower. Archie follows me there, staying silent while we wait for the judges to make their official announcement about when we'll get back in the water. I wouldn't be getting in the shower if I thought it was going to be soon.

What I'm most nervous about, though, is whether I'll get a second shot or if Jack will get to take his score and advance to the next heat.

"You may have caught a lucky break," Archie says after I turn off the shower. "I didn't see you coming back from that first round. Your head wasn't in it."

I nod and tell him about McVey. Archie's face goes dark as soon as I mention the journalist's name and what he said about Frankie. Archie doesn't like him anymore than I do, and for better reasons than mine. He opens his mouth, but then holds back the million insulting names probably running through his head. Instead, his eyes go to a spot over my shoulder.

"We've got some company." Archie lifts his chin, and I turn to see what he's scowling about.

I smile, though, when I see who it is.

"You should have told her to bring something warm to wear. Bit chilly out here this morning," I say in a low voice before waving back to my "company."

Without being asked, Archie makes his way to the security guard, who's blocking Stella and Britta from approaching. At the same moment, I'm hit with a sense of relief. This is the first thing that's gone right for me today.

Britta is here.