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?”

“Up until the time the fish were gone.”

“Damn.”

“Come on in.” I found the key under an old fish crate by the window and opened the door. “You can stay here if you like. No one’s been using the place since he died.” I felt like crying. Ray could see it in my face.

“I love it,” Ray said, looking out the window at the sparkling water just a few feet from the shack. “I’d like to call it home for a while.” Then he turned to the dog. “What do you think, Mickey? Okay if we crash here for a while?”

Mickey just wagged his tail. Then he went outside, lifted his leg and peed on an upright post. “Mickey D says thanks. Me too.”