Read Online Pulled Under (Sixteenth Summer) by Michelle Dalton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michelle Dalton
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over it. “Pure evil.”
Ben takes it all in for a second and turns to me. I can tell he’s conflicted about something but doesn’t know how to say it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Spit it out.”
“You love surfing, right?”
“More than you know.”
He looks out across the store again and then back at me. “Then why isn’t this your favorite place on earth? I mean, the name says it all. This is Surf City.”
I don’t reply with words so much as I emit a low growl.
“Okay, let me rephrase that,” he says. “I know this place is like the worst place in the world, but since I’m just a cheesehead from Wisconsin, could you help me develop the right vocabulary to fully describe how awful it is?”
“I’d be happy to. First of all, it’s owned by a faceless corporation and only exists to make money. It just happens to be that they make it selling surfboards. There’s no love of the ocean or surfing in its DNA. I mean, just look at the boards. They’re arranged by color, like that’s the most important feature. It’s like if you went into a bookstore and all the books were arranged according to how many pages they had.
“No one’s concerned about matching customers with the right one. They just want you to buy any of them. And to be honest, the boards are mostly here to create an artificial atmosphere so they can sell you overpriced swimsuits, Hawaiian shirts, and sunglasses. Or, best of all, a bunch of Surf City T-shirts with their logo everywhere so you can go back home and become a human billboard as you tell everyone about your ‘radical adventure hanging ten and riding gnarly waves.’ ”
When I reach the end of my rant, I realize that it was a little more passionate than I had intended. But Ben takes it all in stride and makes a joke out of it.
“So, you’re saying you don’t like it?”
“Yes,” I say with a laugh. “I’m saying I don’t like it. But it’s not about what I like or don’t like. It’s about showing you how to blend in among the locals. And if you look around, you’ll notice that there aren’t any here. Only tourists. See the fanny packs and the sunburns?”
“And the white socks.”
“Pulled all the way up,” I add, shaking my head.
“I wish you told me yesterday before I went and bought all those Surf City T-shirts.”
He’s joking, but I still give him my “don’t mess with me” look. And, while I don’t like to brag, my “don’t mess with me” look is quite impressive.
“But you said that they’re evil . How is any of this more evil than selling saltwater taffy? That’s just as fake and you’re okay with it.”
“Seven dollars for a decorative gift box of candy is a lot different from seven hundred for a longboard,” I say.
“Seven hundred dollars?” he says with a comical laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“Take a look.”
We walk over to a row of blue longboards, and he looks at the price tags. He shakes his head in disbelief.
“And the worst part isn’t even the money,” I say. “This is way too much surfboard for a beginner. But they’ll never tell you that. They’ll just let you walk out the store and totally bomb in the water. They’d never tell you that you can get a used fish for about seventy-five bucks that’s much better to learn on.”
“A used fish?”
“It’s a type of surfboard,” I say. “But we’ll save that lesson for later. We’re still taking baby steps.”
He laughs and we start to leave (escape?) when we pass the store’s Wall of Fame. It features action photos of some of the surfers who make up the Surf City Surf Team and a display case full of their trophies.
“Impressive,” says Ben.
“Yeah. As much as I hate to admit it, their team is amazing,” I concede. “They win most of the tournaments in the state.”
“Like King of the Beach?” he says, referring to the annual Pearl Beach tournament.
“How’d you know about King of the Beach?” I ask.
“It’s sponsored by
Ben takes it all in for a second and turns to me. I can tell he’s conflicted about something but doesn’t know how to say it.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Spit it out.”
“You love surfing, right?”
“More than you know.”
He looks out across the store again and then back at me. “Then why isn’t this your favorite place on earth? I mean, the name says it all. This is Surf City.”
I don’t reply with words so much as I emit a low growl.
“Okay, let me rephrase that,” he says. “I know this place is like the worst place in the world, but since I’m just a cheesehead from Wisconsin, could you help me develop the right vocabulary to fully describe how awful it is?”
“I’d be happy to. First of all, it’s owned by a faceless corporation and only exists to make money. It just happens to be that they make it selling surfboards. There’s no love of the ocean or surfing in its DNA. I mean, just look at the boards. They’re arranged by color, like that’s the most important feature. It’s like if you went into a bookstore and all the books were arranged according to how many pages they had.
“No one’s concerned about matching customers with the right one. They just want you to buy any of them. And to be honest, the boards are mostly here to create an artificial atmosphere so they can sell you overpriced swimsuits, Hawaiian shirts, and sunglasses. Or, best of all, a bunch of Surf City T-shirts with their logo everywhere so you can go back home and become a human billboard as you tell everyone about your ‘radical adventure hanging ten and riding gnarly waves.’ ”
When I reach the end of my rant, I realize that it was a little more passionate than I had intended. But Ben takes it all in stride and makes a joke out of it.
“So, you’re saying you don’t like it?”
“Yes,” I say with a laugh. “I’m saying I don’t like it. But it’s not about what I like or don’t like. It’s about showing you how to blend in among the locals. And if you look around, you’ll notice that there aren’t any here. Only tourists. See the fanny packs and the sunburns?”
“And the white socks.”
“Pulled all the way up,” I add, shaking my head.
“I wish you told me yesterday before I went and bought all those Surf City T-shirts.”
He’s joking, but I still give him my “don’t mess with me” look. And, while I don’t like to brag, my “don’t mess with me” look is quite impressive.
“But you said that they’re evil . How is any of this more evil than selling saltwater taffy? That’s just as fake and you’re okay with it.”
“Seven dollars for a decorative gift box of candy is a lot different from seven hundred for a longboard,” I say.
“Seven hundred dollars?” he says with a comical laugh. “You can’t be serious.”
“Take a look.”
We walk over to a row of blue longboards, and he looks at the price tags. He shakes his head in disbelief.
“And the worst part isn’t even the money,” I say. “This is way too much surfboard for a beginner. But they’ll never tell you that. They’ll just let you walk out the store and totally bomb in the water. They’d never tell you that you can get a used fish for about seventy-five bucks that’s much better to learn on.”
“A used fish?”
“It’s a type of surfboard,” I say. “But we’ll save that lesson for later. We’re still taking baby steps.”
He laughs and we start to leave (escape?) when we pass the store’s Wall of Fame. It features action photos of some of the surfers who make up the Surf City Surf Team and a display case full of their trophies.
“Impressive,” says Ben.
“Yeah. As much as I hate to admit it, their team is amazing,” I concede. “They win most of the tournaments in the state.”
“Like King of the Beach?” he says, referring to the annual Pearl Beach tournament.
“How’d you know about King of the Beach?” I ask.
“It’s sponsored by
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