“Boarding pass?” the gate agent asks, extending her hand. I hand it over and she scans it. “Enjoy your flight, Miss Maverick.”
“Thanks,” I reply, following the elderly couple in front of me through the line.
I board the plane and find my seat fairly quickly. As soon as I stow my Nike bag in the overhead bin, I situate myself in my seat, pull out This Present Darkness (having finished Three Hours Too Soon) and my glasses and await a text from Amy. Sure enough, as some business woman sits down and gets comfortable in the seat next to me, my iPhone buzzes. “SHE SAID YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” it reads. A second later, it buzzes again in my hand. “IM GOING CAMPING WITH LOGAN AND HIS FAMILY AND HIS MOM SAID SHES REALLY GLAD IM COMING AND YEAH IM FREAKING OUT.”
“YAY!” I text back. “Have fun with Logan! On the plane to Oahu right now.” I tag a little smiley face on the end of the message.
“Once again rubbing it in my face I’m not going to Hawaii,” she responds with a little emoticon, who’s sticking his tongue out at me. “Love you girl! Have fun!”
“Thanks! You too!” I put my phone on airplane mode and dive into my book.
Two
Twelve hours and one flight transfer later, I’m walking off the plane in what would be sunny Oahu, if it wasn’t ten o’clock at night. Even so, I can see that the stars are bright and the sky is clear through the gigantic terminal window as I make my way to the baggage claim. I manage to dig my phone out of the depths of my purse, punch in my mom’s number and listen to it ring. “You’ve reached Charlotte Maverick. Please leave me a message with your name and phone number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you.”
“Hi Mom, it’s me. I’m in Oahu right now. No one kidnapped me, my flight didn’t crash and I’m okay. Love you.” I hang up, wondering if she’ll call me back just to say hi. Doubtful. Very doubtful.
Regardless of the time, my grandparents wait for me at the baggage claim looking more awake than if it was the middle of the day.
“Annie!” Grammy exclaims, smiling and holding out her arms. I grin and set down my bags to envelope her in a hug. Her familiar scent of perfume and baking ingredients puts me at ease instantly. “My goodness, you’re so tall! I don’t know whether you grew or if I just forgot what it’s like being face to face with my girl. It feels like forever since we last saw you!”
“I know, I missed you,” I reply, hugging Papaw, who smells of motor oil. Suffice it to say, he’s not as active in the kitchen as my grandmother. He’s a motorcycle guy.
“Amped for some surfing, Kiddo?” he asks, a gleam in his eye.
“You bet,” I laugh. My bright patterned luggage comes around the carousel and Papaw pulls it off for me.
“Gosh, you’d think she was staying for the whole summer, wouldn’t you?” he teases. Grammy laughs.
“I sure hope so,” she replies. The three of us head outside, hop in their car (a beat up, old minivan) and head off to their house.
Of all the places in the world, this one is the place that feels most like home to me. I like New York and I like California, but Oahu is just Oahu. There’s no place like it. And there’s no place like my grandparents’ house, either. 72 Alapio Rd. Big, but not huge. Modern, but not cold. Cozy, but stylish. When I was seven, my grandparents let me decorate one of the guest rooms as my own since I was already practically living there. I redecorated it about 3 years ago to what it is now.
I pass through the aqua and white entryway, living room and kitchen and head down the hall to the second door on the left. My small surfboard door sign still hangs at eye level with “Andrea Kalani” painted in delicate white lettering. As I push open the white door, the first thing my eyes travel to is the poster for Chasing Mavericks and my signed Bethany Hamilton poster. She was in San Fransisco to speak at a convention and my dad let me go for a day. It was great. She’s an awesome girl and a terrific surfer to top it all off.
My ukelele stands on my dresser, across from my bed. Dropping my bags, I hurl myself onto my Endless Summer graphic duvet and flop back, sighing. It’s good to be home.
In the corner stands my favorite guitar I had my dad send here. My mom’s brother that lives in Tennessee taught me to play when I was little, and I’ve never really quit playing. It’s easy to lose myself in someone else’s life when I’m reading, but it makes my own life better when I play music.
Speaking of music, I extract my phone from my purse and hit “Shuffle” on my songs. It lands on “The Reckless and the Brave” by All Time Low and I plug it into my speaker set on my nightstand. I start to unpack my many suitcases, so it can really feel like I’m home, as I sing along. I don’t know why my mother insisted I bring things like dresses and high heels to a place where I’m going to be in the ocean all day. Maybe it’s me, but I don’t even really get that whole concept. You know, like, you wear a fancy and probably uncomfortable dress to Prom to dance and have fun, but you wouldn’t wear a fancy dress to bed or when you’re just going to sit on the couch and relax. Same thing with sweatpants. You wouldn’t wear sweatpants to Prom even though they’d be ten times more comfortable than the dress, but you would wear them to the grocery. I just don’t understand. And I’m a bit of a sweatpants enthusiast.
The many fashion shows my mother drags me to are a different matter entirely, due to the fact that that kind of fashion is art that skeletons walk down a runway in. No one else on the face of the planet could physically wear almost anything I’ve seen during any fashion week ever anywhere but to walk down a runway, and even that would take some intense training. Why? Just why? Why would anyone want to wear a giant strapless dress that looks like someone just knotted a bunch of tulle together and added four bazillion layers of the stuff to the skirt to make it poofy and essentially walk on stilts? I just don’t get it.
“Annie! Weather’s on!” my grandfather calls. I run out to the living room, pausing the music and leaving my unpacking and thoughts about fashion behind, and jump over the back of the couch, legs outstretched. Yes, I watch the weather. That’s one of the unique things about Hawaii. The weather is never just the boring old weather channel. The weather is the surf conditions for the upcoming days, thus bringing with it a tide of excitement because, surfing (duh). “So what do you think? Need a couple of days to get back in the swing of things or ready to get back in the pocket tomorrow?” Papaw jokes.
“You kidding? We may not have waves up north, but I can hold my own on a skateboard,” I boast with a playfully cocky smile. “Didn’t think I would stop training, did you?”
“A true Maverick,” my Grammy calls from the kitchen. “Wild and free.”
“And of the sea,” Papaw adds, smiling warmly. My grandpa picked the name Kailani for my middle name because it means “of the sea.” He was the one who taught me to surf. A long time ago, my dad used to surf, too. He enjoyed it a lot, but decided his company was more important. Add it to the list.
“Alright, we can check the conditions for Sunset and Waimea. Let’s wait a few weeks until we head to Banzai,” Papaw plans. I nod, thinking of the nasty cut I got two years ago on the coral reef at Banzai Pipeline. Great surf spot for people who know what they’re doing, but there’s a coral reef just a short distance under the surface that makes it a hundred times more dangerous. “Oh, that reminds me. There’s a couple of competitions coming up that signups close for this week. We can go get you signed up tomorrow if you want.”
“Yes!” I determine quickly. “Yes. Absolutely. How’s McKayla?” McKayla is my preschool best friend that I grew up surfing with. I see her every time I come for holidays, and we always make it a point to go surfing together like old times. We still text back and forth when I’m in New York, but it’s just not the same.
“Good, last time I saw her,” Grammy assures. “She’s got a boyfriend now. Michael, the boy you two used to play with all the time when you were little.”
“Michael Chase?” I ask. “He’s not bad.”
&nb
sp; “He’s quite a nice boy,” she agrees, nodding.
“There’s also a family that moved here from Australia about a year and a half ago,” Papaw updates me. “The dad’s a board maker and owns a surf shop. All handmade boards, no pop-outs. His two older boys work in the shop with him and his wife. One of the boys is your age and the other is in college. There’s a younger girl, too.”
“Great,” I reply, not really paying attention. I’m watching the flashing lights on the TV screen around Waimea Bay. Good. Not the winter swells, but not quite the summer calm either. Decently sized waves to get me back in the swing of things. By the way, pop-outs are mass-produced, machine made boards that are generally not as good as a handmade board. I have a board that was made by a huge company, but it’s not considered a pop-out because it’s handmade. I yawn. “Well, if I’m getting up and getting back into the island schedule, I better get to sleep. Wake me up when you’re ready to go.”
Papaw kisses my forehead and Grammy pecks my cheek on my way out of the room. I finish emptying all of my suitcases into the closet and dresser and switch my denim shorts for flannel PJ ones. After brushing my teeth and weaving my hair back into a french braid, I burrow down into the covers and glance at my bright green surfboard in the corner, before drifting off to sleep.
Three
The next morning, I wake up from the most amazing dream. I was back in Oahu for the whole summer and— wait. Slowly, my eyelids flutter open. It wasn’t a dream. I’m really home for the whole summer.
I hear several knocks on my bedroom door and Papaw pokes his head in the door. I yawn and stretch, hopping out of bed and rushing to get my things together. “Ready to go?” he inquires.
“Almost. Let me get my suit on and I’ll be ready,” I reply. He heads back into the living room and I quickly change into my favorite plain black bikini, accompanied by my short sleeved green rash guard shirt. Throw on a pair of cotton shorts and I’m ready to go.
For swimming, I’d wear a tankini or a one-piece suit, but since I wear a rash guard, it’s easier to wear a bikini. If I don’t, the fabric bunches up under my shirt. The rash guard is to prevent chafing from the sand or wax on the board and irritation from the water. They’re also used in competition to identify one surfer from another in the water, kind of like jerseys. Competition rash guards each have a number on them and usually come in five colors, as the rounds of a competition have four or five surfers a heat typically.
“Have fun, Kiddo!” my Grammy calls as I dash past her.
“Love you! See you later!” I yell, running out the door with my surfboard in tow. Papaw straps it to the top of the van and I hop in the passenger seat.
“Somebody going surfing?” a familiar voice calls. I turn to see my childhood best friend, McKayla, jogging across the street with her own bright purple board under her arm. “Mind if I hitch a ride?”
“Mac!” I exclaim. “Come on, we’re headed to Waimea.”
“Aw, no Pipeline?” she jokes. “Somebody’s going soft! Not becoming a shubie, are you?”
“No, you kook,” I tease. Shubies are people that dress and talk like surfers, but can’t actually ride and kooks are beginners that only surf to try to look cool. They’re not popular in the surfing community. Papaw straps her board on top of mine as McKayla clambers in next to me. “If anybody’s going soft, it’s the girl who didn’t think I could surf Mavericks!”
“Hey, you can’t blame me for wanting you to come back alive! It’s basically you and Laird Hamilton that are crazy enough to surf those waves,” she fires back.
In addition to watching the pros surf it, I may have surfed Mavericks. Just once. Or twice. Even though the waves didn’t kill me, my mother almost did when she saw the videos, but it was worth it. Definitely the ride of the lifetime. Gliding down the face of a monster wave with nothing but a leash on your ankle tying you down. “Did you just put me in the same category of surfers as Laird Hamilton?”
“Don’t get a big head just yet,” she reprimands, twisting her long black hair into a bun. “You can do that after you win the Pro Curl if you would ACTUALLY COME IN THE WINTER!” She exclaims the last part loudly, being less than subtle about her wishes.
“I know, I know, I’ve tried,” I answer as Papaw pulls out of the driveway. “My parents would never let me. Not for that long.”
“You do remember you’re turning 18 at the end of the summer, right?” she suggests. “You know, legal adult, you’ll be able to vote and not to mention, buy your own house.”
“Yeah, uh, how?” I ask, french braiding my brown locks. “My parents would disown me.”
“Win the Pro Curl, get fifty thousand dollars in prize money, get some sponsors and live the dream!” she shouts.
“Oh, of course, I forgot,” I reply sarcastically. “Silly me.”
“Before you two take on the Pro Curl, you’d better start training for those local competitions,” Papaw points out, throwing the beater into park. McKayla and I hop out onto the patch of grass we parked on and start unstrapping our boards. I glance at the waves. Good size, nice pace and there’s almost no one out there. “Pick you up for lunch?”
“Nah, we’ll walk down to Tara’s, then walk back from there,” I reply. He nods.
“Okay, see you groms later,” he calls, pulling out. Groms are what little kid surfers are called.
“Later, grey belly!” I shout back, calling my grandpa the surfer slang for old guy. McKayla glances at me with an evil glint in her eye.
“Race ya!” she shouts suddenly, dashing to the sand. I run after her, my long legs quickly outrunning her shorter ones.
“What was that you were saying about going soft, Gidget?” I shout. Gidget = girl midget. Surfer lingo for short girl surfer. At 5’ 9”, I’m not exactly a Gidget. She laughs.
“Okay, point taken,” she pants. Moments later, we’re paddling out to the lineup (just behind where the waves start to break) and battling it out to catch the first wave. In the end, I win, dropping in on my first wave in what feels like forever. I love this feeling. It always feels like flying, no matter how old I get or how many times I’ve done it.
Like it’s nothing, I swerve my board to snap the lip of the wave, which is basically doing a sharp turn that causes a shower of sea water to spray up behind me. “And she’s still got it!” McKayla yells as I do a couple more tricks.
“Now let’s see you, paddlepuss!” I call back as I paddle back towards her. She goes after a wave and passes me on my way back out. On my next wave, I start playing with some of my favorite skateboarding tricks, adapting them just a bit for the water.
“What was that?!” she yells as I swim towards her.
“A skateboarding trick,” I answer.
“Maybe I should get into skateboarding.” I paddle up next to her and lay out on my board, my stomach against the deck of the board.
“Maybe you should,” I suggest. “It’s good for coming up with tricks. Although, it’s not so good for keeping your bones all together.”
“Ever broken anything?” she asks, taking a cue from me and laying back on her board.
“Nope. I’ve seen kids fall at the skate park before though and there were one or two that were particularly nasty,” I reply.
“Like, how particularly?”
“Like, bone sticking out,” I respond nonchalantly.
“Yeah, that’s a little… gnarly…”
“Yeah, but only a few people have that happen, and that’s when they’re doing what’s called extreme stupid,” I point out. “Or they’re just barneys.” Barneys are the same thing as kooks (not big purple dinosaurs that sing “I Love You”). Don’t worry, I’m used to explaining this stuff. You have no idea how long it took me not to say the surfer slang for everything in school in New York. My classmates used to stare at me like I had turned green or something. “So, moving on. New around the island?”
“Well… Michael may have asked me out,” she admits. S
he smiles widely, unable to contain her grin.
“That’s awesome,” I reply, smiling back. “You’ve known him for practically forever.”
“So you’re not mad?” she clarifies.
“Mac, just because I don’t think true love exists doesn’t mean I can’t be happy for you,” I assure her. “No matter your decisions, I’ll stand by you. But some decisions, we’ll be having a serious talk about.”
“Don’t worry,” she laughs.
“Good,” I return. “Seriously, though, be careful, okay?” She nods. I notice a surfer about twenty yards or so away. Pretty tall guy, decently skilled. After further observation, I notice he’s doing skateboarding tricks, like I was a minute ago. Choka, dude. I turn my attention back to McKayla. “What else is new?”
“Um, about a year and a half ago this Australian guy, Mr. Hensley came over and started a business and bought a house and all that,” she updates me. “Then halfway through the school year, his kids and wife came over too. There’s a boy that’s twenty, I think, Daniel, a boy our age, Sawyer, and a girl that’s about in 6th grade, Julia. They all surf and they’re all great. Sawyer’s about the most fun person you’ll ever meet. Smart, not exactly ugly, and, well, Aussie.” She pronounces “Aussie” like “Ozzie” that way Australians do, to which I laugh.
“Sounds like quite the superman,” I reply, glancing back over at the other surfer. He’s gotten a bit closer. Just so long as he knows his wave etiquette, as my grandma calls it. Surfing is a bit like driving. Just like a driver has the right-of-way in certain scenarios on the road, a surfer has the right-of-way on certain waves. No one likes a drop in.
The Only Exception Page 2
