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Authors: Abigail Moore
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guard?” I inquire sharply, still ruffled by his insult. She hands it to me and I stretch it over my head and take my shorts off.
“Who stuck a bee in your bonnet?” Grammy asks.
“Sawyer,” I inform her.
“What’d he do?”
“Said I wasn’t a real surfer and called me a junkyard dog,” I reply, oddly hurt. I suppose an insult hurts, no matter who it’s from. “He also said my board was a pop-out.”
“Well then,” she says. “Prove him wrong.” I smile.
“Oh, don’t worry. He’s got one heck of a shock coming,” I reply with a smirk.
I’m heat two out of eleven for the 15-18 girls division, which goes at the same time as the boys, then I have to wait for the 17-18 boys to go. The 15-16 boys and girls will go at the same time as the 17-18 surfers because of the way the beach is sectioned off for the competition. The under 15 divisions are on another area of the beach. Since it’s almost two miles long, the surf can be totally different at one end then it is at the other, and most often, it is. With the 15-18 event starting now at eight AM, we’ll be done with that by about 12:30 PM. The 17-18 boys will go after that until about 5, then the girls will go until about ten o’clock tonight. Suffice it to say, competitions are exhausting.
Heat one of the girls aren’t bad. One takes a nasty spill a few waves in and can’t shake it, though. I just watch, as that’s all I can do. I won’t know where I stand until much later in the heats. This heat’s on the short end, at just twenty minutes. Over the loudspeaker, I hear them announce my heat and I go line up next to the four other girls I’m surfing with. The alarm sounds and we dive in, paddling out to the lineup.
Once out, I sit up and wait for a wave. I let three of the other girls battle it out over the first wave and take a slightly bigger one that rolls around a minute later. I remember my strategy: assure a decent spot, but don’t show off or make myself a target.
I start the ride with a nice bottom turn, a move to get me into position, a solid 360° carve, then a 180° carve landing backwards and snapping the lip off the top to face forward again. With another 360° carve, I finish out the wave and paddle back into the lineup. Honestly, this is just warm up. No big deal. Unless I get disqualified or don’t do anything but stand up on my other waves, I’m fine.
I get two more clean waves, which score decently, then a third when I show a bit of what’s to come. Papaw and I agreed, no slob air reverse or layback until tomorrow, so today’s pretty easy. 360° carves, a few 180° airs, clidro, vertical backhand snaps and a lot of slashing.
The next nine heats make my serious competition today pretty clear: Sally Emerson, McKayla, an eighteen-year-old named Kara Vanderbilt, and an eighteen-year-old named Paige LeGroe. I end the morning in spot number fifteen. Dead last of the qualifiers. Sawyer ended up in spot number one. I shoot him a glance and a smile upon hearing the results. “I guess junkyard dogs just don’t score well, huh?” he says with a satisfied smirk.
“We’ll see,” I retort, wondering what his face will look like tomorrow. With that I turn away and debate with Grammy, Papaw and the Atwoods what to get for lunch.
Eventually, we settled on sending Papaw, Mr. Hensley and Mr. Atwood to Tara’s, a beachside shack run by Tara Adams and her family. Four words: Best. Tuna. Salad. Ever. I kid you not, I didn’t even like fish before I went to Tara’s. Goldfish crackers were as close as I was going to get to liking the actual things that swim in the water until I had her stuff.
Anyway, they bring us back lunch and we all sit and talk strategy. “That was smart, not making yourself a target,” Mac says. “Sitting in third, I’m not fooling anyone what my skill level is, especially the judges.”
“This next one, do the same thing. There’s less girls, so put a little more out there, but again, not enough to
“Who stuck a bee in your bonnet?” Grammy asks.
“Sawyer,” I inform her.
“What’d he do?”
“Said I wasn’t a real surfer and called me a junkyard dog,” I reply, oddly hurt. I suppose an insult hurts, no matter who it’s from. “He also said my board was a pop-out.”
“Well then,” she says. “Prove him wrong.” I smile.
“Oh, don’t worry. He’s got one heck of a shock coming,” I reply with a smirk.
I’m heat two out of eleven for the 15-18 girls division, which goes at the same time as the boys, then I have to wait for the 17-18 boys to go. The 15-16 boys and girls will go at the same time as the 17-18 surfers because of the way the beach is sectioned off for the competition. The under 15 divisions are on another area of the beach. Since it’s almost two miles long, the surf can be totally different at one end then it is at the other, and most often, it is. With the 15-18 event starting now at eight AM, we’ll be done with that by about 12:30 PM. The 17-18 boys will go after that until about 5, then the girls will go until about ten o’clock tonight. Suffice it to say, competitions are exhausting.
Heat one of the girls aren’t bad. One takes a nasty spill a few waves in and can’t shake it, though. I just watch, as that’s all I can do. I won’t know where I stand until much later in the heats. This heat’s on the short end, at just twenty minutes. Over the loudspeaker, I hear them announce my heat and I go line up next to the four other girls I’m surfing with. The alarm sounds and we dive in, paddling out to the lineup.
Once out, I sit up and wait for a wave. I let three of the other girls battle it out over the first wave and take a slightly bigger one that rolls around a minute later. I remember my strategy: assure a decent spot, but don’t show off or make myself a target.
I start the ride with a nice bottom turn, a move to get me into position, a solid 360° carve, then a 180° carve landing backwards and snapping the lip off the top to face forward again. With another 360° carve, I finish out the wave and paddle back into the lineup. Honestly, this is just warm up. No big deal. Unless I get disqualified or don’t do anything but stand up on my other waves, I’m fine.
I get two more clean waves, which score decently, then a third when I show a bit of what’s to come. Papaw and I agreed, no slob air reverse or layback until tomorrow, so today’s pretty easy. 360° carves, a few 180° airs, clidro, vertical backhand snaps and a lot of slashing.
The next nine heats make my serious competition today pretty clear: Sally Emerson, McKayla, an eighteen-year-old named Kara Vanderbilt, and an eighteen-year-old named Paige LeGroe. I end the morning in spot number fifteen. Dead last of the qualifiers. Sawyer ended up in spot number one. I shoot him a glance and a smile upon hearing the results. “I guess junkyard dogs just don’t score well, huh?” he says with a satisfied smirk.
“We’ll see,” I retort, wondering what his face will look like tomorrow. With that I turn away and debate with Grammy, Papaw and the Atwoods what to get for lunch.
Eventually, we settled on sending Papaw, Mr. Hensley and Mr. Atwood to Tara’s, a beachside shack run by Tara Adams and her family. Four words: Best. Tuna. Salad. Ever. I kid you not, I didn’t even like fish before I went to Tara’s. Goldfish crackers were as close as I was going to get to liking the actual things that swim in the water until I had her stuff.
Anyway, they bring us back lunch and we all sit and talk strategy. “That was smart, not making yourself a target,” Mac says. “Sitting in third, I’m not fooling anyone what my skill level is, especially the judges.”
“This next one, do the same thing. There’s less girls, so put a little more out there, but again, not enough to
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