Chapter One

All my life, surfers had been coming to my beach—Lawrencetown Beach in Nova Scotia. There were tall surfers, short surfers, skinny surfers and fat surfers. Hairy surfers and shaved-head surfers. Smart surfers and stupid surfers. Surfers with great cars. Surfers who hitchhiked. Surfers who were friendly and surfers who were rude and nasty. There were even girl surfers who sometimes smiled at me.

Even though I lived by the ocean, I had never surfed. I was a lousy swimmer, and I knew the sea could be dangerous. There were rip currents near the headland that pulled swimmers so far out to sea that helicopters had to save them or pick up whatever was left. And sometimes there were huge killer waves.

It was a dangerous world out there once you left dry land. My grandfather—a great old guy—had been a fisherman.

“Ben,” my grandfather told me one day while we were watching some kids from the city surf overhead waves, “you don’t play around with the North Atlantic Ocean. I used to risk my life to go out there and catch a couple of darn fish so we didn’t starve. But you don’t just go out there in that friggin’ cold water for the fun of it.” He had died last spring, and I still missed him.

His words stuck with me. He was right. It could be dangerous. People had drowned at Lawrencetown, unaware of how treacherous it could be. And it was bloody cold, even in the summer. Surfers had to wear wet suits almost all the time. There were a few warm days when people came out from Halifax and swam in their bathing suits, but they were rare. Usually the water was so cold it was painful. Maybe I was smart to avoid the ocean.

But it was driving me crazy. Despite everything my grandfather said, despite every reason there was to avoid it, I wanted to surf so bad it was ripping a hole in my head. I had to at least try.

My parents were opposed to it.

“I’m sixteen,” I told them. “I can decide for myself.”

“You remember what your grandfather told you,” my father said. He had not become a fisherman like his father but worked at a place in Burnside that made cardboard boxes.

“You’re going to get hurt, I know it,” my mom said. “What if you drown?”

“I’m not going to drown. I’ll have a wet suit on. It will keep me afloat.”

“You’re going to put your body in one of those rubber things?” my dad asked. “I’d rather eat nails with ketchup.”

“I’m going surfing,” I said. And left, slamming the door.