Page 1 of The California Dreamers

Ronan Merrick

1985

El Zafiro, California

Fifteen years old

I lie on my board, eyes closed, and let the gentle swell lift me skyward. Up up up, then over, down into the valley and up again. When I was younger, I didn’t understand how surfing is as much about this—waiting—as it is about the thrill. Patience, solitude, surrender—they’re all names for the same thing.

When I open my eyes, the sky is coral-swirled and I’ve drifted toward Cap. He floats on his white-and-blue longboard, his hands trailing in the water. A lazy-looking gesture, but under the surface his fingers work expertly, little fins keeping the perfect right angle of his body aimed at the horizon.

Cap. My father. Named for the Greek fishing captain’s hat he wears on land, tilted far over his eyes. My brothers and Mama went in long ago to nap in the shade, but it’s peaceful, this near-sunset hour, when good waves are rare and for long stretches of time you can sit and watch the light change and let your thoughts float.

A green helix of kelp twists past the nose of my board, and I dip a hand in. The water’s cold but my back is warm, catching the last of the sun.

I hear it before I see it, a distant whisper that breaks free from all the other noises out there, building to a friendly roar. Only seconds away, there’s a fine little wave shaping up. It’ll be two or three feet overhead, nice and wide. It’s Cap’s—he’s closer.

But to my surprise he calls softly, “Yours, Ro.”

I don’t hesitate. I paddle hard, stretching my arms as long as they’ll go, then turn toward the shore just as the swell heaves me up. I pop up fast and shove hard with both heels, skitter up to the nose just in time. A half step back, a little crouch, half a backbend…and I’m right where I want to be.

For a precious, pure moment, the world is a rush of sound, light, color. My board is a streak of ocean that happens to be a different shade of blue.

And then it’s over. The wave breaks into white foam and I grab the nose of my board as I plunge beneath it, waiting for the surface to calm before kicking up to the light. My board’s cool slickness under my chin is as familiar as my pillow.

Cap told me something once.

“Each wave is the ocean pushing us back to land, commanding us to go, be mortal again. But every time we paddle back out we’re saying, ‘Not yet, please. Not just yet.’”

I straddle my board, rake back my wet hair, and aim at the horizon. Cap nods at me, then continues squinting ahead, the sun now an orange hill melting into the water. I hold on to the last seconds of feeling immortal.

Until the next time.