Wave Warrior Page 2

  “Ben Currie, from Lawrencetown Beach.”

  We shook hands, and I thought he was going to rip my arm off.

  “Freaking Nova Scotia,” Ray said, staring up toward the sun. “I’ve been wanting to get here for years. Always wimped out at the drive. It’s a long way from the Pacific. But I’m here now. Figured it was now or never.”

  “How long are you here for?”

  “As long as it takes,” he said mysteriously. “They said it would be like going back in time. Like California in the early sixties. Before the Beach Boys. Before all that.”

  I was trying to calculate how old he must be but couldn’t do the math. “You’ve been surfing a long time?”

  “Sixty years. Maybe more.”

  “Holy mackerel. How old are you?”

  “Seventy-five and thanks for asking, kid. It makes me feel right young to have to say it out loud. Look at Mickey D there. In dog years, he’s a hundred.”

  Mickey D had curled up and lay by the tire. His eyes were closed. He looked content.

  “What brought you here?”

  “Where I live, you can’t get a wave on your own. Everywhere is crowded now. Not like the old days. Surfing is all hyped up and commercialized. You can’t get away from it. But here, you still have elbow room. A guy could have a clean wave all to himself. Have some fun. Like the old days. You know any good breaks? Secret spots, that sort of thing.”

  “Yeah, I do,” I said slowly.

  Ray thought my pause meant something else. “But you’re keeping them to yourself, right? I can dig it.”

  “No, it wasn’t that. I could take you there. Down past Three Fathom Harbor. Near where my grandfather had his fish shack.”

  “Like the old man and the sea. Bet your granddad has some stories.”

  “Had stories. He died not long ago.”

  “Sorry. It hurts, doesn’t it, when someone close to you dies?”

  “Yeah, it hurts.” And I suddenly realized that thinking about my grandfather made me feel like I was about to cry. Ray could tell.

  “Sorry. I blurt things out. I’ll try not to do it again. Got a board and wet suit? Wanna share some of that shore break on the other side of the dune with all those hotshots and an old kahuna?”

  I shook my head no. “No board. No wet suit. And I’m still recovering from my first surf lesson.”

  Ray smiled broadly. “I got extra boards and wet suits. What do you say?”

  I looked at the other cars in the parking lot. There would be a dozen or more kids in the shore break. I couldn’t handle them laughing at me as I struggled to learn.

  “I can’t,” I said. “Not here. Not now. I’ll watch you from the beach.”

  Ray smiled again. “Okay,” he said with a mock-threatening look on his face. “But it’s not over. Your time will come. Mickey D will track you down and drag you back here, Ben. And I’m going to get you to show me that secret break, even if I have to bribe you.”

  I walked off down the beach. I thought I was headed home, but I came back twenty minutes later and saw Mickey D sitting by the edge of the water. Ray was out there on his longboard—one old guy of seventy-five and a bunch of young surfers on tiny boards. He was catching more waves than any of them, and he was cruising across those long blue walls of water like some kind of Hawaiian surf god.

  And part of me was thinking, I’m never going to be able to do that. Not in a million years.

  Chapter Five

  It rained for almost a week after that. If it wasn’t raining, the fog was so thick you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. There was nothing for me to do but hang around the house, watch bad tv reruns and get bored.

  By Thursday, my mom was siding with my father. “Ben, maybe you’d be better off working with your father than just moping around the house.”

  “I’m not moping,” I lied. I was hiding out from the world until I looked half normal. The black had turned to blue and I hoped it was fading. I kept thinking about Tara. And about surfing. And about the fact that my life was over before I even got my ass out of high school. I ate a lot. Pretty soon I’d be fat as well.

  While flipping through the satellite channels, I discovered the sports network had a documentary about old guys who surfed. It was way cool. These were the legendary surfers, now all over sixty, who had surfed the big North Shore waves of Hawaii back in the early 1960s. They showed them at Waimea and Sunset and then shifted to years later when they were surfing in the crowds in California. Some were bald, some had big guts, some were skinny and had a crazed look in their eyes.

  And then there was Ray. I didn’t believe it at first. I watched him being interviewed. “Guess we can rightfully call you a kahuna now,” the young interviewer said.

  “Guess you can,” Ray said and laughed. It was unmistakably him. They ran some old black-and-white footage of him in 1962 at Malibu. He was smooth as ice. Next it was back to the older Ray surfing a big wave in Northern California. He was on that board I’d seen him ride. He was amazing.

  “Any advice to young surfers?” the interviewer asked over the video clip.

  “Fight your inner demons,” Ray said. “Be a warrior. Don’t ever let the suckers get to you.”

  And then they cut to a commercial for SUVS.

  The rain was still pelting down, but I put on my father’s serious rain gear and headed out. I walked to the beach and heard the roar of the storm waves. The beach parking lot was empty—all except for the van with California plates. I banged on the side door and the dog barked.

  When the door opened, Ray saw me standing there. “What’s a kahuna?” I blurted out.

  Ray laughed. “You’ve been watching too much tv. It rots your mind. Wanna come in out of the rain or do you prefer to drown in it?” He coughed long and hard as I stepped up and inside. I found myself settling into a swivel captain’s chair on the front driver’s side.

  “A kahuna is what they call you when you’re old. When you’re young and stupid, you’re a gremmie or a grem or a grommet. When you’re old, you’re a kahuna, or if they don’t like you, you’re a kook. As long as you’re not a poser you’re okay.”

  “Poser?”

  “Someone who hangs around surf, talks the talk, walks the walk, but doesn’t surf.”

  “Oh.”

  “What? You, a poser? No way. You got the beauty mark to prove it.”

  “But I can’t surf.” I leaned over and petted Mickey D, who was already asleep and snoring on the floor.

  Ray coughed again. He closed the door as the rain began to blow in.

  “I want you to teach me to surf,” I said quickly.

  Ray said nothing. He reached above his head and pulled down an old Surfer magazine. He flipped it to a two-page spread of a surfer, somewhat out of focus, surfing one of the biggest waves I’d ever seen. I read the caption and got the picture.

  “I’m not only gonna teach you to surf, kid. I’m gonna teach you to be a wave warrior.”

  “Sounds violent.”

  “Not violent, dude. It’s a whole different kind of battle.”

  I stared at the huge wave again—triple overhead with a threatening lip. “You made it, right?”

  Ray shook his head. “Nope. Two seconds after a buddy of mine took that picture I was pearling up to my waist. I got sucked down, chewed up, pulled up to the top and thrown back down under. I got the air knocked out of me, had my arms and legs nearly pulled from their sockets and thought I saw angels in bikinis.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “No, Ben,” he said sarcastically, “I was feeling just fine. Hell, yes, I was scared. I figured I was about to die.”

  “What saved you?”

  He closed the magazine and put it back on the shelf. He grinned crazily. “I had this vision, see. It was my grandmother. Yep, right there beneath three thousand million gallons of Pacific Ocean. She spoke to me just as I was about to struggle to get to the surface. ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘If you want to live, you can’t s
truggle. Let yourself sink.’ Well, that seemed like the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted air and I wanted it badly.”

  “But you listened?”

  “Son, when your dead grandmother appears to you after the worst wipeout of your life and tells you what to do, you better take the advice.”

  “I would have quit after that.”

  “I did. For two weeks. But it didn’t take. I just decided to ride ten-foot waves instead of forty-foot waves. My close encounter with the hereafter gave me a new appreciation of life.”

  “So now you’re a kahuna?”

  “No, man. Now I’m an old kook with an old dog and a bunch of old boards. And I came here to Nova Scotia to...” He stopped himself and looked away.

  “To what?”

  Ray coughed. “To teach a chubby kid with a black eye how to catch a wave and stand up.”

  “When?”

  “Whenever the rain stops.”

  Chapter Six

  The rain stopped on Saturday night. Sunday was golden. I was up early and rode my bike to the beach without eating anything. It was only eight o’clock but there were already dozens of cars in the parking lot, mostly surfers. This was not good. I wasn’t going to attempt surfing in front of city surfers who already knew what they were doing. I didn’t see Ray’s van anywhere. And there was Tara, taking her board down from the top of her friend’s car. She already had her wet suit on and she looked stunning. I guess I was staring at her when she turned around. She said nothing.

  “Hi,” I said nervously. “Good waves?”

  “Awesome,” she said. “Shoulder high. Glassy. You gonna surf?”

  “Dunno,” I answered. “Have a good one.”

  I turned around and decided that, for sure, I should go home. I was ready to handle the pain of whatever wipeout was coming my way, but not the humiliation of Tara and the others watching me.

  I was pedaling slowly out of the parking lot, thinking, no Ray, no way. So I was off the hook.

  But just then Ray’s van swung into the beach lot and drove straight at me. It stopped inches from my front wheel. Ray leaned out. “Ben, I’m stoked. What a swell. Get in. You’re gonna show me that secret spot you were talking about.”

  “I don’t think...” I began. “

  That’s right, gremlin, don’t think. There’s no time for thinking. This is what I came to Nova Scotia for. I’ve been down the coast a few miles. I can see the possibilities, but I bet you can steer me to the right spot. The beach here is gonna be too crowded for me. Put your damn bike on my rack on the back of the van.”

  So I strapped my bike on the back and got in.

  “You’re riding shotgun now, partner. Just point me to surfing paradise.”

  “East,” I said.

  “East it is.”

  Not far past Three Fathom Harbor is the roadway to an old broken-down farmhouse and barn. You could drive down there and park, and if you walked a ways up onto the eroded headland, you could see the waves. But unless you were right there, you wouldn’t think it was a good surf spot. No one surfed there and you couldn’t see it from the road. I took Ray there. My grandfather had first brought me here when I was a kid to watch for whales on a warm summer day. Now it was my turn to share this place with Ray.

  He stood speechless.

  “It’s a point break,” I said. “A left.”

  “It’s flawless,” Ray said. “What do you call this place?”

  “I just call it the Farm.”

  “A bit dull for a name, don’t you think?” he said. “It needs something better than that.”

  “Right.”

  “Now we surf. Lesson number one.”

  Mickey D sat down on his haunches at the top of the headland and looked out to sea as Ray and I ran back to his van. Yeah, I had to run to keep up with a seventy-five-year-old dude from California.

  Ray tossed me a wet suit and some boots. “It’ll be a little tight. You tuck that baby fat in there and it’ll work. And remember, you can’t sink with it on. Neoprene will float you. Trust it.”

  I was both excited and nervous. The suit felt really weird. “Ray, I don’t know the first thing about surfing. I only tried that once.”

  “You only need to know one thing. You can do this. It may not be pretty, but you can do this.”

  We were walking across the old pasture, full wet suits on, longboards under our arms. The sun beating down and no wind at all. Mickey D watched from above as we scrambled over the big rocks by the shoreline and began to paddle out.

  “This is perfect,” Ray told me. “We follow this deep channel out to the point. Won’t even get our hair wet.”

  I was lying down, paddling hard and slipping sideways, not able to stay centered or balanced. When I slipped off, Ray would stop paddling and wait.

  “Good plan, Ben. Get a little water in the suit. Get the juices of the old Atlantic swirling around. How’s it feel?”

  “Like ice.”

  “Cold, huh? Who’d think the sea would be so cold here the first weekend of July?”

  I climbed back onto my board.

  “Wave warriors never mind the cold,” he said.

  What was with this wave warrior thing? All I wanted was to get through the day without dying.

  When we reached the takeoff zone directly in front of the point, Ray said nothing. He faced the shoreline, paddled deep, caught a smooth five-foot wall of water and dropped down the face of it like it was the easiest thing in the world. And he was gone. I tried sitting up on my board but fell off again into the icy water. Four waves passed under me as I got back on my board. The leash kept it from floating away. God bless the man who invented surf leashes.

  When Ray returned, he looked ten years younger. “The Farm, eh? I rename this Nirvana Farm.”

  “Like the band?”

  “Nah. Like where the Buddhists go when they die for good. Now it’s your turn. Get your board headed straight for shore.”

  Easier said than done, but after falling off two more times I had the headland staring straight at me.

  “Lie down with the nose of the board just slightly out of the water.”

  I was breathing hard. And I was shaking.

  “Good. Now here comes a set. Let the first three pass under you.”

  I felt the swells move under me, but I stayed put.

  “Now for this next one, paddle like your life depends on it.”

  So I paddled as hard as I could and I was shocked. The wave suddenly grew steep, real steep. I had actually caught the wave, but my board was rocketing straight for the bottom. I realized that I’d been here before. Then wham.

  I did a full frontal face-plant in the trough of the wave and lost the board. Water was forced up my nostrils, and in a split second I was under water, getting pummeled like a mouse in a washing machine.

  Then it was over. I’d swallowed some water, but I popped up. The wave had passed and my board floated nearby. Another wave was coming at me. “Get away from your board,” Ray yelled. “Dive.”

  So I dove and I felt the last wave of the set rumble over top of me. When I surfaced, the board was still nearby. And I was still alive.

  Chapter Seven

  Ray kept an eye on me as I struggled to paddle back to the lineup after each attempt to catch a wave. I racked up ten wipeouts.

  “You’re doing just fine. You can catch the waves. All you have to do is keep the nose from pearling.”

  “Pearling?”

  “Digging in. Lean back once you’ve caught the wave.”

  On the next wave, I leaned back and, well, I wiped out, but not right away. I actually dropped down the face, and then I skidded out in front of the wave. I was so excited I tried to stand up. That’s when I slipped off the board and got walloped by the wall of water behind me. I came up spitting sea juice. But I was smiling.

  I never did stand up that day. And I was waterlogged. But it felt good.

  Ray suddenly looked tired. “Ready to go ashore?” he asked.


  “Yeah. I’m stoked but wasted.”

  “It’s a good combination.”

  I looked up at the headland just then and there was a girl sitting with Mickey D. I squinted into the sun to get a good look. It was Tara. And she saw me looking. I waved to her, but she didn’t wave back. Instead, she stood up and clapped her hands as if she had just watched a performance of some kind—my performance.

  Mickey D met us on the beach, wagging his tail but having a hard time walking on the slippery rocks. Tara was nowhere in sight. Ray had to sit down before we walked the long hike back to his van. “I’m out of shape, dude.Too much driving. Too much time cramped up in the van.” Ray looked a little pale just then.

  “You all right?”

  “All right is relative, Ben. I’m not as good as I used to be. But I’m not dead yet.” He laughed and coughed so hard I was afraid he’d hurt himself.

  “Wanna stay at my house for a bit? You’d get to sleep in a bed.”

  “I’m not a mooch. I don’t think I’d be comfortable at your ole homestead. Rather be in the van. Stay close to the water.”

  “You want to be close to the water?”

  “Yeah. I need to be able to wake up, look out the window and see the ocean.”

  “I got an idea,” I said.

  After we wrestled ourselves out of the wet suits, I told Ray I wanted to take him on a sightseeing tour.

  “Food first,” he said, and he set out a loaf of whole wheat bread, a jar of peanut butter and one of homemade jelly. Ray made a big sandwich for me, one for Mickey D and one for himself. There was so much peanut butter in it that the whole thing stuck to the roof of my mouth and I could hardly swallow. Mickey D wolfed his down in four bites. So did Ray. “Where to?” Ray asked, picking up his keys.

  We drove out to the fishermen’s shacks at the end of Osprey Island Road, and I told him to stop in front of an old weathered three-room structure by the harbor there. “It was my grandfather’s,” I said. “He didn’t live here, but he stayed here overnight if he was going out to sea in the morning.”

  I led Ray first out onto the rickety wooden wharf that was attached. He was wide-eyed as he looked into the deep clear water. “Your granddad was a fisherman?”