Chasing Forever Down (Drenaline Surf Series)

by Godwin, Nikki

  “How can you be an honorary Hooligan?” I ask.

  “Kale didn’t grow up here. He’s from Hawaii, and Dominic said if we let him in, we’d have to let anyone in,” Miles says. “He just doesn’t like anyone else in our waters. None of us do, really. But Kale surfs with us anyway.”

  Dominic has been a jerk since I got here. I’m betting he was beforehand too. Just thinking of that smug grin on his face the day I flipped off of the jet ski with A.J. makes me cringe.

  “Kale gets it though,” Miles says.

  We approach the lonely maroon can he’d kicked earlier, still hanging on to the sand, refusing to be taken out to sea. Miles kicks it again.

  The cloudy ocean water rushes over my flip flops. I take them off and carry them along the way. “Gets what?” I ask.

  “Surfing,” he says. “Like real deal surfing. He gets what it’s like to be out there, being a piece of the ocean, becoming a part of the wave. It’s spiritual really, seeing how big the ocean is and how small you are. Just having faith and trusting in the ocean like you’d trust in God to watch out for you.”

  And here I thought it was about the adrenaline rush – the wind breezing past you, the salt water stinging your skin, riding that wave into shore and defying nature by staying upright on a wild splash of ocean. I shouldn’t wonder what it’s like for Colby, if he does it for the thrill or for that moment that no one else could possibly understand because you’re the only person in it riding that wave.

  I stop and watch the greenish brown waves roll toward us. I bet Shark taught him the secrets of the surf right here in Horn Island, between those jagged rocks and the collapsed pier in the distance. My inner forever-chaser wants to haul all of that wood away to plaster around Shark’s underwater photos, but my more poetic side can’t imagine this beach without a collapsed pier. It gives the place character.

  “So,” I say, hoping to keep the conversation alive, “Dominic doesn’t get it. Why does he do it then?”

  Miles stops, repositions the Dr. Pepper can, and draws his leg back like he’s about to kick the game-winning field goal. “For the glory of being the best,” he says. “But he’s not the best. You can’t be the best when you’re a fucking show off.”

  The maroon can grows smaller and smaller as it flies through the air. I don’t see where it lands, but I’m sure Miles will kick it again if we stumble across it. A group of people move in our direction, coming from beyond the collapsed pier.

  “Who the hell are they?” Miles asks, like I’m supposed to know.

  I don’t answer him. He stands as solid as those jagged rocks in the water. We stay right here on the shoreline until they come within a few feet of us. I feel like I’m on the front line in an ancient war, like I can’t fire until I see the whites of their eyes.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Miles asks.

  There are two girls and three guys, two of whom are carrying surfboards. Both of them are taller than Miles, who is probably five-foot-six flat-footed. Still, Miles doesn’t move.

  “To surf,” one of the guys says. “The waves are better down there.”

  “I know,” Miles answers. “But that’s Hooligan territory. From the pier to those rocks – those waves are spoken for.”

  I glance behind us to take in a panorama of ‘Hooligan territory.’ The waves are definitely better there.

  The other guy laughs and rams the tip of his surfboard into the sand, letting it stand next to him. “I don’t see your Hooligan name anywhere on it. It’s a free country, so I’ll surf in whatever water I want to surf in.”

  Miles laughs and shakes his head. “You’re either deaf or just fucking stupid. The pier to those rocks – my water. The pier and beyond – your water. Now get the fuck out of here or I’m gonna fuck you up and drown you in my water!”

  I take a few steps back because I know with everything in me that Miles will hit this guy. He’ll get into a knock-down brawl before he’ll let these guys surf in Hooligan territory.

  The first guy who spoke hurls his surfboard onto the ground. Oh, how I wish it would’ve snapped in half. He bulks up, standing a good six feet, and looks down at Miles. Part of me wants to scream for the other Hooligans, just for back up, but the smarter part of me knows not to dare insult Miles’ pride that way.

  I don’t have time to scream, though. Miles lunges forward, slamming the guy into the sand in one blow. He rears his fist back and blasts the guy’s jaw. The girls with the intruders both scream – for help and for the other guys to do something – and I’m thankful because they’ve alerted the other Hooligans.

  I spin around just as Kale dashes past me and tackles one of the standing guys to the ground next to Miles’ grappling session with the tall guy. Theo lands in the mass of flying fists in record time. I guess his lifeguard rescue training paid off for other things as well.

  “What happened?” Jace asks, catching his breath next to me.

  “They wanted to surf in your territory,” I say.

  It’s amazing how calm Jace remains while his friends indulge in the ass kicking assembly before us. He doesn’t join them, but he doesn’t make any effort to stop them. He waits it out, as do I, while the other girls scream and cry for their boyfriends to stop fighting. These fifteen seconds feel like a solid five minutes.

  But the intruders scramble to their feet and run – back toward the outskirts beyond the collapsed pier, away from Hooligan territory. Miles dusts off his shorts, and the others head back down to the water, like nothing ever happened.

  I seriously want to head back to the cove now. This Hooligan business is no joke!

  “Sorry about that,” Miles says. “What were we talking about?”

  Gosh, this guy is freaking bipolar. “Dominic,” I say.

  “Right,” he says. “And guys who don’t get it. Like those kooks.”

  Kook – a wannabe surfer. Now I remember.

  “If Dominic wins that sponsorship, I’m quitting surfing altogether,” Miles says.

  I stop on the shoreline. Sponsorship. Every surfer’s dream. Who the hell would want Dominic’s arrogant smile plastered on a billboard? Who’d want him wearing their merchandise and being a poster boy for them? Forget the fact that he’s actually a decent surfer. From what I gather, he’s terrible at being a decent human.

  “Who wants to sponsor him?” I ask.

  Miles bends his eyebrows, and I’m not sure if it’s because of my question or the sun.

  “Drenaline Surf,” he says. “Dominic and I are both up for sponsorship. They’re announcing the winner at the end of competition week. It’s a huge deal. How can you not know about this?”

  I suddenly feel so out of the loop, out of this close-knit little circle that I thought I was becoming a part of. A.J. hasn’t even mentioned sponsorship or the Hooligans having competition within their own surf gang. I thought A.J. was pretty open about everything with me.

  “I guess they don’t want to bring up the fact that there’s a battle within a family,” I say.

  Miles smirks and nods his head, which lets me believe that my pathetic attempt at an excuse might be somewhat true.

  “We used to be pretty good friends,” he says. “But he got wrapped up in himself. Topher’s always been my best friend, though. The only good thing about Dominic winning would be that he’d ditch us and Kale could be official.”

  My heart aches for Miles. It aches for him to win this, to have the chance that Colby has to live out his dream with the Drenaline Surf logo pushing him forward, into new places and new waters and new waves, and letting him conquer them head on.

  The sky is orange with the red sun falling back into the ocean, just like the graffiti painting by the parking lot. The water ripples with colors of fire and blood. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the beach at Crescent Cove look this eerily beautiful. It’s haunting, and I think this moment will stick with me forever – being on the run down beach of Horn Island, sitting in the dirty sand with Miles, Kale, and still
too many blue raffle tickets, watching the waves slosh against the rocks and the remnants of what use to be a massive pier.

  I never want to leave. It’s that same magical feeling I feel in Crescent Cove when I’m watching the blue waves and sitting in the white sand with a cotton candy sky around me. But this time, it feels real. Real in a sense that I haven’t felt since I’ve been here. Real in a way that I couldn’t understand because I was too busy chasing Colby to realize how much was around me and why he had to bail on me with nothing to remember him by but memories and a lime green paper star. California, the ocean, this surfer way of life…

  Kale grabs a seashell that just washed up with the waves and turns it in his hand. It’s the perfect shape of a mountain goat’s horn. He places it in the palm of my hand, and I squeeze it, letting the edges dig into my skin, savoring this moment and soaking in every ounce of Horn Island air I possibly can.

  CHAPTER 15

  The morning sun glints off of Linzi’s rhinestone-studded flip flops and blinds me for half a second. She rocks back and forth, heel to toe, studying the whiteboard hanging outside of the turquoise snowcone stand. Summer Snow stretches across the lime green roof in bright pink letters, the letter O a snowcone. Luckily the guy ahead of us is as indecisive as Linzi.

  “Brad, dude, c’mon. Make up your mind. I’ve got real customers behind you,” the blonde behind the stand says. His lopsided smile is childlike, and his hair is as wild as A.J.’s.

  His name tag reads Alex, and Linzi instantly begins talking about her Enchanter named Alex and how she wonders if Enchanted Emily named it after snowcone guy. This Brad guy settles on blue raspberry and moves along so Linzi can study the selection list more closely.

  “Just get the usual,” Vin says from behind me.

  Reed laughs. “You’re so boring. It’s always something simple. Watermelon. Grape. Apple. You need to live a little.”

  “Fine,” Vin spits back. He leans over my shoulder and scans the flavors while Linzi orders Mango Mandarin.

  Despite Reed’s jab at Vin for being boring, I play it safe myself and order pineapple, not so much because I’m scared to live a little but more so because I don’t want my mouth to be blistering red or deep ocean blue while I attempt to sell the rest of these tickets. I need my smile today. I don’t have Miles to help me out or show me who I need to target.

  “Tiger’s blood,” Vin says. “It sounds badass.”

  But three seconds after he bites into the snowcone, tiger’s blood splatters across the sidewalk and Vin curses, something about strawberries and damn-it-fucking-coconuts. I grab his arm before he tosses it into a nearby garbage can.

  “Wait,” I say. “I like coconut. We can trade.”

  I pull the spoon from my clear pineapple ice and offer it to him, although every fiber of my confidence is mocking me and laughing at my attempt to be nice to Vin, like he’d even accept such a gesture.

  So when he hands me that bleeding red ice and says ‘thank you’, I’m too dumbfounded to respond. I stand on the sidewalk, watching the back of Reed’s T-shirt blend into the crowd as he and Vin disappear into the mass of tourists and locals near Strickland’s Boating. I attempt to drop the red ice down my throat without it hitting my tongue or teeth, but Linzi sticks her orange tongue out at me, and I realize it’s pointless. I hope her orange tongue is up for selling tickets because my mouth will look like that of a well-fed vampire soon.

  After an hour of listening to Linzi’s attempt to sell tickets, I see my salvation down the sidewalk. A.J. flexes his arm back, showing off the dragon across his forearm to the girl working at one of the T-shirt stands. She leans forward on her elbows in that flirty way Linzi does, and I assume she asked if he has more because he turns and shows her the crescent moon skull on his other shoulder. Neither Linzi nor I approach until Alston pulls his shirt over his head to show off the tribal art between his shoulder blades.

  I swap glances with Linzi, whose eyes are flaring with some sort of emotion that I can’t exactly decipher, and we trek forward to the T-shirt stand. The guys are already past it though, A.J. with his arms flailing and his turquoise dragon flying crazily with his motions. For him to be so thin, I really think he could take Alston right now. His eyes are flaring, just like Linzi’s, and I suddenly feel like I should be mad too.

  “Every fucking time! Every. Fucking. Time. You just have to get in the way. You can’t give me a single fucking moment!” A.J. shouts the words too loudly, and it won’t be long before some Crescent Cove cop gets word that his favorite troublemaker is at it again. God, I hope it’s not that Pittman guy.

  Alston shakes his head and just laughs. “Dude, don’t trip. All I did was show her my tat. You’re not the only one with them, you know.” He drapes his arm around Linzi, but she shrugs him away.

  “No!” A.J. shouts. “That’s not all you did, and you fucking know it! You have Blondie. Is that not enough for you?” He motions to Linzi, who obviously isn’t enough to feed Alston’s need for attention.

  A.J. doesn’t wait for an answer. He tells Alston to go to hell and cuts between two vendor booths before he disappears. The three of us stand in awkward silence while life carries on around us – volleyball, shopping, swimming – until Dexter circles Alston’s legs and drops that hot pink UFO onto the sidewalk.

  My heart erupts into a mass of burning flames. Dexter. Colby’s dog. His pet. One of the few aspects of normalcy in his abnormal life. I wonder if he takes him out on the beach for morning runs or if he plays Frisbee with him in the sand. Dexter doesn’t even know that his owner is the ultimate west coast surf star.

  But I can’t dwell on Dexter or wonder if there really is any normalcy in Colby’s life when he has to live in the shadows to hide who he used to be. Right now, I have to find A.J.

  “Where is he going?” I demand answers from Alston, but he just laughs.

  “To join the freak show,” he says.

  I wait just a second longer for a real answer, but he isn’t going to give it to me. He’s more concerned with sucking up to Linzi and convincing her that she’s the only girl he has eyes for. I leave them on The Strip, cut between the two vendor booths, and hurry back to my car. I hope Alston’s smartass remark is legit because my instincts tell me that I already know where A.J. went.

  A.J. is perched on that same orange octopus on the sea creature carousel that he sat on the night Reed and I hid in the House of Mirrors. He doesn’t acknowledge me even when I straddle the tentacle next to him. I don’t know what to say. We sit in silence for so long that I finally stand up and make a circle around the carousel. My heart silently breaks to see this beautiful piece of machinery go to waste.

  “I wish I could take this thing apart,” A.J. finally says from the octopus. “I can’t stand it, watching it rust like this.”

  He flicks a piece of orange paint from the tentacle. It floats like a leaf on a windswept morning and lands on the carousel’s metal floor. He pushes off of the octopus and jumps off the carousel. He doesn’t speak on his walk toward the giant pirate ship. I trail behind, watching the giant dragon grow larger as we draw closer.

  “I used to damn near live out here,” he says. “This was my second home...until it shut down. I didn’t have anywhere else to go when Reed and Alston were out doing their speed junkie stuff. Vin was always working, so I came here. Now it’s decaying and everyone’s moved off and Lickety doesn’t remember me and–”

  “Whoa,” I say. I grab his dragoned arm and force him to face me. “The schizo ghost?”

  He nods his head. “C’mon up,” he says, climbing into the pirate ship. “He’s not dead. He’s in a nursing home about four miles from here.”

  We settle onto the last bench seat toward the dragon’s head. I wish we could turn this thing on, let it send us higher than the rest of the carnival rides. We could see the far side of the ocean, away from Alston and Linzi, away from surfers, away from all the things that don’t feel right anymore.

  “Haley, what the
hell happened to your mouth?” A.J. asks, staring directly at my tiger’s blood-stained lips, teeth, and tongue. Damn.

  “Vin,” I say. “He got a tiger’s blood snowcone, and it had coconut mixed with it, so I traded him, and now I look like a vampire.”

  “It’s kind of hot,” he says.

  From swamp creatures to vampires. God help him.

  “Tell me about Lickety,” I say, changing the subject before it ventures into whatever paranormal creature A.J. may be fantasizing about next.

  “He was a war vet,” A.J. says. He stares off into the distance while he talks. “He didn’t have anywhere else to go, and he joined this traveling carnival. They finally stayed here, but he was pretty fucked up from the war.”

  This place isn’t nearly as creepy in the daytime. The ocean splashes behind us, quietly and calmly, with no disruptions from undead surfers, wild storms, or territorial surf gangs. And the fact that Lickety isn’t lurking around waiting to attack me with shards of mirrors helps too.

  “He used to tell me stories, not that they all made sense, but he liked to tell them,” he says. “After the surf scene blew up and Drenaline opened, this place went to hell pretty quick. Most of them moved off, but Lickety was too far gone. The war, the carnival closing, no family – he just couldn’t take it.”

  A.J. stretches his arm out again, showing off the dragon on his forearm. I pull his arm closer to me and trace the ink with my index finger.

  “He went with me when I got this. I was underage and he signed for me,” he says. “I used to visit him in the nursing home every week, but his dementia got to a point that he didn’t remember me. He thought I was some ghetto Mexican thug coming to kill him.”

  He pulls his arm back and runs his hand back and forth over the dragon.

  I inhale and stare at the House of Mirrors. “Why the ghost story?” I ask.