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.