Clash

by Rick Bundschuh Bethany Hamilton

  Bethany’s mom made allowances for her daughter’s handicap: oranges and bananas were peeled and the bread was cut before the girls came to the table. But for Bethany, the loss of an arm provided only a temporary challenge for most things and a change of activity or choices for other ones.

  Tying shoelaces with one hand was difficult and time-consuming. Bethany had already spent most of her life barefoot or wearing inexpensive rubber sandals, but now any shoes or boots she would need to purchase had to be put through the “can-I-do-this-with-one-hand?” test. Slip-ons worked best. Velcro straps performed the job as well.

  Tackling simple tasks such as peeling a giant jabon — a grapefruit-type fruit that grows all over Hawaii — was performed by sitting on the floor, holding the fruit between her bare feet, and tearing into the thick skin with her right hand.

  For surfing, Bethany had made one compensation: a handle attached to the deck of the surfboard gave her a head start to get to her feet. By losing an arm, she’d lost the ability to use the push-up grasp surfers use to hang onto the surfboard when diving deep enough to get under the crushing water of a broken wave.

  The girls had finished their breakfast by the time Bethany’s older brother Tim, the second in the line of three siblings, came stumbling from his room.

  “Bethany,” Tim said groggily, “you didn’t leave any for me!”

  “Snooze, you lose,” Bethany shot back.

  “There’s more on the counter.” Their mother grinned, shaking her head. “Juice is in the fridge.”

  “Oh, and Tim,” Bethany added playfully, “last one up has to do dishes. Bye!”

  And with that, the girls giggled and darted from the table. “We’re ready to go, Mom!”

  “Not until you put away the futon and straighten your room,” Mom said, evoking a grin from Tim.

  Within minutes, the chores were done and Bethany and Malia were in the garage, pulling their surfboards from their resting places against the wall.

  “Whatcha think, Bethany?” Malia said. “The Bay? Pine Trees? Chicken Wings? Rock Quarry?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bethany said, chewing her bottom lip. “I didn’t check the surf report this morning, but I bet my mom did.”

  “I wish my mom and dad surfed,” Malia said.

  Bethany grinned. “Noah says we were all born with saltwater in our veins.”

  Malia laughed. “Sounds like something your brother would say.”

  “North, northeast swell — four to six feet,” Mrs. Hamilton announced as she came around the corner. “My bet is on Kalihiwai, especially with the tide at this hour.”

  Both girls grinned at each other.

  “Let’s go! I love that wave, and it’s one of the best barrels on the island,” Bethany said excitedly. Then she noticed her friend’s hesitation. “You okay with that, Malia?”

  “Sure,” Malia said, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

  Bethany sensed her friend’s uneasiness and reached for Malia’s hand.

  “Malia, you can do it! Even though you’re a goofy foot like me and this is a big right, you still have an advantage. At least you can grab your rail with your left hand. I gotta pull in real tight to make it, so we’ll both be working at it.”

  Malia brightened at the encouragement.

  It was fun surfing with Bethany. She always made it fun. It wasn’t about who was better, bigger, braver, stronger, or more fluid. It was mostly about having fun and enjoying what God had provided: the warm sun, the crystal-clear water, the turtles darting along the cliffs, and the crisp tubing waves.

  “Don’t forget, girls,” Mrs. Hamilton cheerfully reminded them, “the best surfer in the water isn’t the one who’s ripping the hardest, it’s the one who’s having the most fun!”

  Both girls looked at each other and then back to Bethany’s mom. “Ancient surf wisdom,” she added gravely, and they all laughed.

  With that, Mrs. Hamilton slid behind the wheel of her minivan packed with surfboards, and the two girls piled into the van, followed by Ginger.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I stop by the bank on the way,” Cheri said as she backed out of the driveway and saw Bethany’s frown in the rearview mirror.

  “Mom! The bank isn’t even open this early,” Bethany said impatiently, wanting to get to the beach.

  “The ATM is always open, Bethany,” Cheri said — and Bethany saw her mom’s frown in the rearview mirror. Not good. Cheri opened her mouth to say something else, but Malia beat her to the punch . . . with something that sounded like a growl.

  “What — ” Cheri started.

  “Sorry, Mom!” Bethany said, suddenly contrite, and then she and Malia grinned at each other, pleased with their new code.

  “Okay . . . so what was the growl for?”

  “Aslan,” Malia announced, as if that would explain everything. Both girls laughed, seeing Mrs. Hamilton’s confused expression.

  “We were talking about the Chronicles of Narnia books last night,” Bethany explained. “I told Malia it would be cool if God could roar at us like Aslan to let us know if we did something wrong — ”

  “So, I offered to roar at Bethany if she does something wrong,” Malia added. “And she offered to roar at me if I do something wrong.”

  “Ah,” Cheri said, “that sounds like the mark of a true friendship!”

  Bethany nodded, glancing shyly at Malia as her mom pulled into the shopping center. She was a true friend — even if it didn’t bother her to hit the waves late as much as it did Bethany. She watched her mom head for the ATM, while Malia scrambled across the lot to get some lip balm.

  “Take your time,” Bethany called after Malia with a mischievous grin. “We’re only missing perfect waves!” She tilted her car seat back as far as it would go and leaned back so the warm sun and soft trade winds could blow across her face. All she needed now was her board and a wave.

  That’s when she heard the fight.

  “You don’t care!” a girl’s voice shouted in the clear morning air.

  “I do care,” an older woman’s voice replied. Not quite as loudly, but clearly perturbed.

  “If you really cared about me, you would’ve never done it. You would’ve never made me move here!”

  Bethany felt an uncomfortable feeling wash over her, and she sank lower in her seat. She didn’t want to hear what was going on, but it was hard not to. Way too loud to block it out, that’s for sure.

  “You don’t care if I’m happy! All you care about is if he’s happy!” yelled the girl.

  Mother/daughter feud, no doubt about it.

  “Look, life has been stressful for me too,” the mother shot back. “I’m doing the best I can to satisfy everyone, but you — you’re never satisfied!”

  The young voice rose another octave.

  “Oh, sure! You were thinking about my feelings the whole time. Like you cared that I had to leave my horse, like you cared that I had to leave my friends, like you cared that you made us sell everything to come here! You’re nothing more than a self-centered . . .” And then she used a swear word on her mother. In fact, she unleashed a torrent of horrible words on her mother.

  Bethany winced.

  The Hamilton kids had always been taught to respect and honor their parents — even if they disagreed with them. And while Bethany knew that from time to time she could get a little sarcastic —like this morning with the diversion to the bank before going surfing — to truly show disrespect at the level that was coming from the car nearby was unthinkable.

  It was a firm family rule.

  The voices in the other car scrambled together as the mother returned the verbal abuse, and the argument ended with both parties yelling and swearing at each other at the top of their lungs.

  Bethany considered for a moment showing herself by sliding up into her seat when, suddenly, they stopped shouting. A car started, and Bethany raised her head slowly to catch a glimpse at the brawlers.

  She only managed to catch the back
end of an older-model tan sedan with a broken taillight speeding away.

  “Unbelievable!” Bethany muttered.

  A few moments later, her mom appeared at the car door. “Okay! Let’s go surfing!”

  “Malia isn’t back yet,” said Bethany with a distracted frown.

  Then the slap of flip-flops could be heard as Malia ran to the car.

  “Sorry, sorry!” she said. “I got behind a guy who paid for all his stuff with change.”

  “Excuses, excuses,” Bethany said teasingly, then turned back to her mom. “Mom, what would you do if Noah, Tim, or I ever swore at you?”

  “First, I would cry,” said her mother.

  “Cry?”

  “I’d cry because I would be hurt by your lack of respect.”

  “Oh,” Bethany said softly with a side glance at Malia, but her best friend was turned, looking out the window.

  “And then I would tell your father,” said Cheri. “And then you would cry.” Bethany’s mother smiled.

  “Ah!” Bethany said. “Then it would be Ivory soap time.”

  “A full diet of Ivory soap, followed by restriction to your room until you’re eighteen, and hours of slave labor — oh, and surfboards hacked to pieces.”

  “You mean you wouldn’t pull off my fingernails too?” Bethany laughed.

  “Honestly, I don’t know what your father would do,” her mother said. “But I’m sure it would cure the situation once and for all. Why? Are you thinking of cussing me out?”

  “No, I just overheard some girl cursing at her mom, and it kinda made me sick to my stomach. I just don’t get families that do stuff like that.” She glanced at Malia, who appeared to be thinking hard about all that was being said.

  “We’ve taught you well, thank God. It should bother you. Who was it? Someone we know?”

  “We don’t know them,” Bethany said and then wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think I want to, either.”

  Malia didn’t say a word, which seemed odd to Bethany. Instead, Malia turned and looked back out the window. But not before Bethany had caught the troubled look on her friend’s face.

  two

  The conversation was soon forgotten as Bethany’s mother steered the minivan around the narrow cliff-side roads, passing new million-dollar homes of movie stars and the ramshackle houses of a few old-time residents. Bethany and Malia hung their heads out the windows, drinking in the rich smell of blossoming plumeria trees and laughing at wild chickens that darted quickly out of their path, hustling young chicks in front of them.

  Then the road dropped down a steep incline that opened up onto a majestic bay. Bethany felt her excitement rise. At the near end of the crescent, there were only a couple of cars with empty surf racks that bore greasy stains from melted surfboard wax on their rust-eaten roofs and trunks.

  Plenty of room left for us, Bethany thought happily.

  Just past the cars, a long rugged point of black volcanic rock loomed out into the sea. Around that point in the ocean steamed head-high waves that marched toward the beach before suddenly pitching forward, like a huge arm reaching for shore.

  Bethany spotted a surfer racing across the standing wave. She motioned for Malia to watch while he tucked himself into a ball as the lip of the wave tossed over him, placing him in the tube for a few seconds before spitting him out in a burst of spray.

  “Wooo! Looks like fun, Malia! And it isn’t too big — just fun size.”

  “I wish I hadn’t hurt my shoulder playing tennis the other day!” Bethany’s mother said wistfully.

  “What’s that you always say?” Bethany patted her mom’s arm. “The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree!”

  Bethany winked, and Malia laughed. The wind and waves had erased whatever it was that was troubling her, and Bethany could tell her best friend was itching to hit the surf.

  Within moments, the van was parked, sunscreen applied, surfboards waxed up, and the girls were trotting quickly along the sand toward the paddle-out spot.

  Bethany glanced over her shoulder as her mom pulled out the video camera and tripod from the back of the van. She gave her mother one last wave, and her mom waved back before turning to talk with a group of tourists who were slowly encircling her. Bethany shook her head as she continued to jog toward the ocean.

  Bethany still didn’t get it — all the attention of people wanting to have their pictures taken with her and wanting her autograph. She didn’t get it, but she was trying.

  “What an awesome opportunity you’ve been given!” she remembered her mom whispering to her after an interview at the hospital. “To share your faith with so many — people you might have never met if this hadn’t happened.”

  Yet, she didn’t know how she was going to help someone else when she was just learning how to help herself.

  Bethany felt Malia reach for her hand as their bare feet slapped on wet sand — time to pray. Malia had picked up the habit from Bethany — and Bethany from her father, when she was first learning to surf.

  The prayer was simple. Bethany, aloud and without shame, thanked God for his creation and for the privilege of enjoyment he had given. Then she asked that he would give them his protection while in the water.

  Considering what she had gone through only a year ago, the request had a powerful ring to it —one that seemed to hang in the air between them for a moment.

  “Amen,” both girls said at the same time and then laughed and sprinted out into the waves.

  The first twenty feet of ocean bottom was covered with thick, large-grained sand. After that, it was replaced by coral-encrusted rocks that fanned out into a sharp reef. The girls quickly scrambled onto their boards as the bottom turned rocky, and then they paddled toward their surfer’s playground on a riptide.

  Rips, as they’re known by surfers, are spent waves that create their own pathway back to the ocean in a kind of a reverse but under-the-surface river. They also cause the greatest danger for visitors, small children, or those unfamiliar with the ways of the ocean. Most people who have drowned in the waters around Hawaii stepped into a riptide and were dragged out to sea by an invisible surge far too strong to swim against.

  Surfers like Bethany and Malia, with their greater understanding of the ocean and its dangers, often use a rip to get a free ride out to the action.

  The girls ended their trip on the rip by racing each other to the lineup, laughing and duck diving under several clean but not terribly powerful waves along the way.

  The other faces in the water were familiar ones — like Pete, the old-school guy on a thick, long board who actually surfed wearing a baseball cap to protect his balding head. To keep track of his hat, Pete had leashed it to his leather necklace. The other surfer watching the next set of waves was Eddie, a hefty, dark Hawaiian guy who spoke thick pidgin English with a happy smile.

  “Hey, Bethany!” Eddie said as the girls paddled by him.

  “Hey,” Bethany chirped back in greeting.

  Bethany paddled out farther than the others. She was gunning for the larger of the waves, and from her experience at this surf spot, she knew exactly what objects on the beach to line up with in order to get the most exhilarating ride.

  She didn’t have to wait long. A bump in the water appeared on the horizon and raced toward the surfers. Bethany guessed that the second or third wave would be larger than the first. She scrambled toward the bump that was now taking the shape of a swell by pulling powerfully with her right arm and compensating for the pull toward the right by correcting with the lean of her body.

  The first wave rolled under her board, unbroken. The second wave stacked up in front of her. This was the one!

  Bethany spun her board toward shore and paddled hard. Like a plane racing down the runway, she paddled hard into the wave. When it hit the shallow reef, the wave suddenly jacked straight up. The offshore winds tore away at the lip of the wave, casting off a plume of spray. Bethany took one last stroke and felt the bottom fall away. This was the criti
cal point — the takeoff.

  With years of experience that made the difficult look effortless, Bethany planted her hand flat on her board and did a one-hand push-up. Then in one lightning-quick movement she drew her legs beneath her and bounced to her feet as both she and the surfboard dropped down the face of the wave.

  Now planted firmly on her feet with a strong but elegant stance, Bethany let gravity take her past the vertical face of the wave and out into the fl at water before throwing her weight and speed into a hard bottom turn that threw a sheet of spray into the air.

  Rising back to face the wave, Bethany found what surfers call the sweet spot — the place where the wave has the most speed and where the prospects of the wave curling over her in a tube were the most likely.

  Bethany’s heart soared! She was born for this. The wave stood up all the way across the end of the cove as it unwrapped on the shallow reef. A stall or misstep now would not only create a wipe-out but would toss Bethany up on the shallow, razor-sharp reef. She was unafraid.

  The crest of the wave began to pitch out. Bethany tucked her body down to keep the lip from hitting her in the head, and a spinning circle of powder blue and green water enveloped her in a tube. The sound changed to a kind of hollow, gentle roar, as if she were inside of a can.

  Bethany could see out the end of the barreling wave. She could see Malia smiling and hooting as she stroked out of the way and over the wave.

  It lasted only a second or two, and then with a terrific burst of speed, Bethany shot out of the tube and raced down the wall of the wave, pulling huge turns off the lip of the wave and ending her ride with a magnificent attempt to break her airborne record.

  Grinning from ear to ear, Bethany rejoined her friend in the lineup. “Okay, Malia, just one more for me. I’m starving!”

  “Right behind you,” Malia called after her.

  A medium-sized wave rolled in, and Bethany scratched toward it at an angle. Having spent a lifetime in the ocean and knowing this particular surf spot, she quickly read the incoming wave and positioned herself in the right place to catch it. A few strokes later, she was sailing past Malia, shouting “food!” at the top of her lungs.