California, the result of the hurricane off Hawai’i. The waves from the
storm would hit our coast anytime, so the surf forecasters had said. Everybody who surfed was pumped up, waiting for the action.
It looked as if Jamie would be getting those waves, while I wouldn’t
I felt somewhat guilty for taking my mother’s car — opening the garage and pushing it down the road before starting it, and
without her permission — and definitely felt guilt for stealing all the cash in her purse. Yet there was an excitement in
the air, a veiled electricity, what with the approaching big swell and the chaos surrounding Amber’s and Jamie’s lives.
Downtown was deserted, and we didn’t want to get pulled over. For no reason the police would stop a car with kids in it late
at night, and if they were looking for Jamie, well, they’d find him. Amber had her license so we were legal. Still, I was
relieved when she turned on Ninth Street and got off the Coast Highway, heading toward Greg Scott’s house. She coasted to
a stop one house away from where our boards were stored.
The air was humid and thick with salt these few blocks up from the water. Palm fronds riffled above us as we made our way
to the backyard. Even the streetlights seemed to conspire a sort of “muffled” light, if that’s possible. You could hear the
soft creaking of a nearby oil well, a remnant of the city’s past, moving up and down, up and down, a mechanical beast of burden
that never slept, so nobody would be able to hear any noise when Jamie got his board.
Amber and I went with him into the backyard. There was a sticky gate latch, which stuck, of course, and Jamie made a big
thunk
! muscling the gate open. The whole scene struck us as funny, and we began giggling, the first light moment since the beach
this morning. Trying to suppress our laughter, we made our way to the garage. Inside, Jamie moved some boards, and Amber took
hers, then I grabbed mine so that Jamie could get his, but a strange thing happened. Amber and I held on to our boards, leaving
the backyard with Jamie. I don’t think it was a conscious decision or anything, just an opportunistic moment of self-delusion.
“We need to get them back anyway,” I whispered to Amber.
“Oh, absolutely.” She nodded agreement.
As we loaded the boards in the back of the SUV I said, “Maybe we’ll catch a few waves in the morning.” It wasn’t that far
off.
“It might be good,” Jamie said.
“Yeah,” Amber said.
Suddenly Greg Scott showed up in the street. “What’s up?” he said.
“Jamie’s got to get away for a while,” I said.
He looked at my mother’s car. “Where you headed?”
“South,” Jamie said.
“Do you have any stuff?” Greg Scott said.
“Just what’s in my pack,” Jamie said.
Greg Scott looked at all of us. “Hang on.”
In a while he returned, carrying a pile of things. “This might help,” he said, dropping it on the floor. Sleeping bags and
towels and God knew what else. As he handed Jamie some money, he said, “Late.” He turned and walked away.
Greg Scott was the best! Jamie, Amber, and I stood alone in the dark quiet street. We transferred the pile from the grass
on the parkway into the back of the truck, trying not to make noise with the doors.
Avoiding Main, Amber drove the backstreets of town. When we were past the trailer park, we got on the Coast Highway, heading
south, my mom’s 4Runner our raft, the Pacific our Mississippi.
CHAPTER 4
The early morning swells humped on the horizon, racing toward shore. Once they hit shallow water the tops cascaded down and
over each other with a lovely creamy-white grace, a turbulence contrasting with the still blue of the lightening sky and the
deeper black-blue of the water.
I pulled myself out of the passenger side of the car. Amber was scrunched up though comfortable-looking in the back, a sleeping
bag over her and her hand right on her mouth. Jamie was in
storm would hit our coast anytime, so the surf forecasters had said. Everybody who surfed was pumped up, waiting for the action.
It looked as if Jamie would be getting those waves, while I wouldn’t
I felt somewhat guilty for taking my mother’s car — opening the garage and pushing it down the road before starting it, and
without her permission — and definitely felt guilt for stealing all the cash in her purse. Yet there was an excitement in
the air, a veiled electricity, what with the approaching big swell and the chaos surrounding Amber’s and Jamie’s lives.
Downtown was deserted, and we didn’t want to get pulled over. For no reason the police would stop a car with kids in it late
at night, and if they were looking for Jamie, well, they’d find him. Amber had her license so we were legal. Still, I was
relieved when she turned on Ninth Street and got off the Coast Highway, heading toward Greg Scott’s house. She coasted to
a stop one house away from where our boards were stored.
The air was humid and thick with salt these few blocks up from the water. Palm fronds riffled above us as we made our way
to the backyard. Even the streetlights seemed to conspire a sort of “muffled” light, if that’s possible. You could hear the
soft creaking of a nearby oil well, a remnant of the city’s past, moving up and down, up and down, a mechanical beast of burden
that never slept, so nobody would be able to hear any noise when Jamie got his board.
Amber and I went with him into the backyard. There was a sticky gate latch, which stuck, of course, and Jamie made a big
thunk
! muscling the gate open. The whole scene struck us as funny, and we began giggling, the first light moment since the beach
this morning. Trying to suppress our laughter, we made our way to the garage. Inside, Jamie moved some boards, and Amber took
hers, then I grabbed mine so that Jamie could get his, but a strange thing happened. Amber and I held on to our boards, leaving
the backyard with Jamie. I don’t think it was a conscious decision or anything, just an opportunistic moment of self-delusion.
“We need to get them back anyway,” I whispered to Amber.
“Oh, absolutely.” She nodded agreement.
As we loaded the boards in the back of the SUV I said, “Maybe we’ll catch a few waves in the morning.” It wasn’t that far
off.
“It might be good,” Jamie said.
“Yeah,” Amber said.
Suddenly Greg Scott showed up in the street. “What’s up?” he said.
“Jamie’s got to get away for a while,” I said.
He looked at my mother’s car. “Where you headed?”
“South,” Jamie said.
“Do you have any stuff?” Greg Scott said.
“Just what’s in my pack,” Jamie said.
Greg Scott looked at all of us. “Hang on.”
In a while he returned, carrying a pile of things. “This might help,” he said, dropping it on the floor. Sleeping bags and
towels and God knew what else. As he handed Jamie some money, he said, “Late.” He turned and walked away.
Greg Scott was the best! Jamie, Amber, and I stood alone in the dark quiet street. We transferred the pile from the grass
on the parkway into the back of the truck, trying not to make noise with the doors.
Avoiding Main, Amber drove the backstreets of town. When we were past the trailer park, we got on the Coast Highway, heading
south, my mom’s 4Runner our raft, the Pacific our Mississippi.
CHAPTER 4
The early morning swells humped on the horizon, racing toward shore. Once they hit shallow water the tops cascaded down and
over each other with a lovely creamy-white grace, a turbulence contrasting with the still blue of the lightening sky and the
deeper black-blue of the water.
I pulled myself out of the passenger side of the car. Amber was scrunched up though comfortable-looking in the back, a sleeping
bag over her and her hand right on her mouth. Jamie was in
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