Nothing But Wild (Malibu University 2)

“’Sup, brah,” one of the locals hollers at me. We both stand on the sand looking out, boards tucked under armpits, eager and ready to charge into the freezing Pacific.

“Praying the surf gods don’t call me home today.”

“Today is a good day to live,” he returns. Smiling, he gives me the shaka sign and I nod back.

He’s got the look of a guy living out of his van, baked by the sun to a dark coffee brown, his dreads bleached out. Free to be and do whatever the hell he wants. To love whoever he wants.

My mind snaps right back to big brown eyes widening in surprise. Then looking crushed under the enormous weight of a dumpster-load of disappointment.

Fuck if I know why I care, but I do. Which pisses me off. She’s a stranger. She doesn’t know me––not really. Nobody does. Empty vessel, my ass. I’m far from empty. And who is she to judge me, anyway. One day soon I’m going to be the king of fucking beer, owner of a bottling empire. On Forbes richest under thirty. She’s just a girl––a nobody…a girl who doesn’t give two shits about who I am or what I have.

The pressure starts to build, my head aching with it, my skin hypersensitive. Anger makes me run full-throttle into the frigid ocean. As soon as I hit the water, I take an involuntary sharp inhale. Not even the roar of the surf breaking can drown out my errant thoughts, my head filled with images of a cute redhead who thinks I’m dumb and spoiled. An empty vessel. Shit, maybe I am…maybe she’s right.

I mount the board and paddle hard into the surf. Waves crash over me as I cut them in half, diving under and out the other side, the salt in the air scraping my lungs raw. I welcome the pain. Maybe I even deserve it. Maybe there is something inherently wrong with me. God knows I come from rotten stock.

Shaka Brah is already up and riding the next one in. He swivels his hips, rides up the crest, goes airborne, and comes out the other side. His dreads flying behind him, grinning from ear to ear.

Today is a good day to live.

He gets it. Nothing like the jacked-up thrill of a big wave ride. It’ll burn your veins, make the organs inside your ribcage expand until it feels like your lungs will explode, and crown your ego a king among men.

Or it can kill you. Leave you paralyzed. Shit like that.

Paddling hard, I catch the next one. It’s bigger and breaks early, building and building into a monster. I enter the tunnel, hand scraping the wall, the thrill blanking out everything else.

For a split second, the quiet makes me whole again. Soothes my soul. Then I realize I wasn’t paying attention and rode too far in. I’m suddenly seconds from crashing into the jetty, an outcropping of rocks. It’s either bail or get hammered. In a split second decision, I bail and get dragged under. The force of a big wave is similar to that of a tornado. You are literally powerless to resist, a rag doll at the mercy of its undiscriminating violence.

Caught under, the washing machine keeps me spinning and spinning. The safety line to my board snaps. It feels like I’m under an eternity. Until a strong hand takes hold of my wrist and pulls me to the surface. Breaking the waterline, I suck in air and the backwash of the wave. My lungs are on fire, my throat a 405 pile-up––nothing is getting through.

Gasping for air, I stumble out of the water and fall to my knees next to Shaka Brah.

“Thanks, man,” I croak, desperately trying to suck in air. I’d be dead if it weren’t for him.

“You bet,” he says and walks away. “Be well, brah.”

Problem is, I don’t think I’ll ever be well again.

“Baby, what happened to your beautiful face?” Brenda says as soon as I walk into the living room.

My mother doesn’t even bother getting off the couch. She places the glass of red wine she’s nursing like a baby with a bottle on the coffee table and raises her thin suntanned arms, her long fingers waving me over.

“Surfing Mavs,” I mutter.

“One of these days, it’s going to catch up with you.”

“I’m pretty sure it already has.” I point to my face.

Making my way to the couch, I sink down into it and tap the shiner developing on my brow bone which hurts like a bitch.

“You should put some ice on that,” she says with a goofy smile, a clear indication that the wine has taken its toll.

Brenda’s tall––around five foot ten––and really thin so it doesn’t take much. I’ve watched her for years go from one controlled substance to another, which makes me an expert on the subject.