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  When they reached waist-deep water, the girls slid onto their boards and stroked out toward the horizon. Their objective was the smooth blue water just past the breaking point. Even though their movements looked effortless, it took stamina, skill, and a lot of practice to make it look so easy.

  As the whitewater from a breaking wave exploded in front of the girls, they quickly grabbed the rail of their surfboards and, with one fluid motion, pointed the nose deep under the wave while drawing one knee under them and throwing the other foot out and up as balance.

  This maneuver, if done properly, would allow the girls to dive under the power and reversing force of the wave. If done improperly, the end result could mean that they would be pushed all the way back to the beach. Bethany and her friends zipped through the crashing whitewater like pros.

  For the next hour the girls raced along the face of powder blue waves, executing arcing turns and finding the tube time and time again.

  Jenna, not recognizing anyone, found a spot on the sand and watched in awe as the remarkably talented, bronzed men and women took to the water in competition.

  Behind her, the announcer called out a commentary on what was happening in the water and on the scores of the winners. Every few minutes the air horn would sound, indicating the start or end of a heat.

  Just then, Jenna noticed a cluster of girls standing at the edge of the water. Each wore a different colored jersey. One of the girls Jenna recognized, even though her back was turned. She was tall —taller than the others. She had almost white-blonde hair, and the left sleeve of her jersey was knotted. It was Bethany, the girl she had met the week before on the beach.

  The starting horn blared, and Bethany raced toward the waves, her long legs giving her a sprinting advantage that she would otherwise lose because she could only paddle with one arm.

  Shortly after the shark attack and her return to a competitive career, contest judges had offered her special consideration due to her handicap. Bethany turned them down cold. She would compete at the same level, with the same rules as the rest of the girls. If she had a physical disadvantage, then she would just work harder to overcome it.

  Now paddling to the take-off spot with breakneck speed, Bethany and the other girls in the heat would compete for the top seat in a good-natured but aggressive battle.

  Points were given for each wave ridden and were also determined by how long a surfer stayed on the wave and how complicated the maneuvers were that were done on the wave. A surfer could win a contest by catching lots and lots of waves with the best rides of those waves being counted for points. Yet it was possible to win a contest by catching just a few waves and outperforming the competitors.

  Surfers could suffer penalties as well. Taking a wave that an opponent was already riding would result in a “triangle” for the offending surfer as would shoving or pushing another surfer, trying to dismount them from the wave.

  A small wave popped up, and several girls scrambled to take the point position on it. Bethany, her ocean sense honed by many hours looking at the horizon, felt before she saw that there was something more substantial than this wave. Rather than chase the small swell in, she paddled farther out.

  Suddenly, a large breaker loomed up. It was one of the larger set waves of the day. Bethany smiled to herself. She knew she had the wave since the other girls were hopelessly inside and scrambling just to avoid being caught by its breaking power.

  She spun her board toward shore and took several strokes with her powerful right arm. Bethany felt the bottom drop out of the wave, and she gracefully came to her feet. This wave was now hers to control.

  Bethany used the speed of the drop to drive out into the flat water in front of the pitching wave and then dig hard on her inside rail to snap the board back up the face of the wave, stalling midway up on the breaker.

  Bethany saw the wall of water stand up in front of her. She knew she had to take one of two opportunities: she could power drive across the wall and use her speed to make huge snap turns, or she could sink her back foot, stall just a moment more, and slip into the spitting tube.

  With the ease of a champion, Bethany slowed her drive and let a turquoise lip of water envelop her.

  On the beach, people jumped to their feet. Her dad began counting under his breath: “One thousand one, one thousand two . . .”

  Bethany had vanished completely behind the curtain of water; only the tip of her board was visible.

  “One thousand three, one thousand four, one thousand five . . .”

  Cameras whirled and clicked.

  With a huge burst of spray, Bethany exploded from inside the collapsing wave. Hoots and cheers went up, and judges, not waiting for her to finish her ride, began to scribble on their pads.

  Bethany continued her drive down the wave, picking up speed, which she used in a stunning backslash maneuver, snapping back to a small fl oater as the wave diminished on the shore.

  Bethany smiled to herself. She knew that her competitors would have a tough time matching that wave in the limited time each heat was held.

  She turned her board away from the beach and paddled back for more.

  On the beach, Jenna found herself on her feet, cheering for Bethany. And even though she didn’t really understand a lot of what she had just seen performed, she knew it took real skill to pull it off.

  The air horn sounded, and Jenna watched from a short distance away as Bethany’s friends and family went down to the water’s edge to congratulate her as she came sliding in on her belly.

  Everyone seemed so happy for her. Jenna inched closer to the group, feeling invisible —but wanting to be a part of something that felt so . . . good. Jenna saw a woman that she didn’t recognize laugh and toss a towel on Bethany’s head as she stood up.

  “Great job, kiddo!” the woman said with a smile.

  “Thanks, Sarah!” Bethany said, hugging the woman.

  “We’re so proud of you,” Bethany’s mom whispered.

  “Ho! You gotta come see your ride!” a young man, who must have been her brother, shouted as he replayed the video over and over to the crowd standing around him.

  Jenna trailed behind them as they made their way back to the judges’ tent.

  “And the winner of the junior division, with an incredible barrel ride of over five seconds, is Bethany Hamilton!” sounded the loudspeaker.

  Before long, Bethany was standing on the winner’s platform, a beautiful lei around her neck and a haku, or headband lei, on her head, holding a huge trophy as the emcee continued on about the “Comeback Kid.”

  When the microphone came to her, Bethany said a simple thank you to God and her family and then handed it back to the fast-talking commentator and the next round of winners.

  Jenna held herself back as a group of girls she didn’t know surrounded Bethany. She recognized Malia in the group, but it seemed too odd — too uncomfortable — to push her way in.

  She wanted to tell Bethany that she was impressed with her surfing ability and that she admired the fact that she hadn’t let the shark attack stop her from her dreams. She wanted to say thank you for the small kindness shown to her. She wanted to say that she didn’t know many people on the island that she could call a friend and that she hoped that Bethany and Malia might be those people.

  All this was going through her head as Bethany pawed through the ice chest, looking for something. Her huge trophy lay heating up on a beach towel, and her lei, Jenna noticed, was now draped around her mom’s neck.

  Bethany found a large bottle of water and guzzled it down quickly and in a very unladylike way.

  “Bethany!” her mom said, laughing.

  Bethany smiled sheepishly and plopped down in a beach chair, bottle of water in her hand. Then she looked up — looked right at Jenna — and looked down again. But not before Jenna had seen that she recognized her.

  She doesn’t want to be bothered with someone like me, Jenna thought, a low, sinking feeling swirling over her.


  Jenna walked away as quickly as she could, not pausing to watch the other surfers for fear someone might see the tears in her eyes. She had almost reached her own towel when she heard someone say her name.

  “Jenna?”

  She turned around and saw that it was Malia.

  “I thought I recognized the red hair. Did you see the contest?” Malia asked excitedly.

  “Yeah, sweet,” Jenna swallowed and managed a cheerful smile. “And Bethany won.”

  “With a tube ride like that she could have fallen off on every other wave and still won,” Malia said, rolling her eyes good naturedly. “So, are you still up for a surf lesson?”

  Jenna studied Malia’s face; she really seemed sincere.

  “I would, but I’m going to have to go pretty soon.” She grinned sheepishly. “And then there’s the fact that I don’t have a surfboard!”

  Then a thought came to Jenna, a thought that bubbled up through the rejection and clung to the hope that she could still be a part of it all.

  “Malia, where do you buy a surfboard?”

  “New or used?”

  “Oh, for sure, used,” Jenna said.

  “Well, usually people buy those off friends or maybe from the paper or at a garage sale. What size are you looking for?”

  Jenna’s face had a blank look on it, so Malia looked at her size.

  “If I were you, I’d start with an eight-footer. Much longer, and it would be hard to carry, and much shorter, too hard to catch waves with it if you haven’t surfed much.”

  “Eight foot. Okay . . . I can remember that.”

  Jenna’s mom, holding shoes in her hand, approached the girls.

  “Jenna, I’ve been looking all over the beach for you! You were supposed to be at the parking lot for me to pick you up twenty minutes ago!”

  “Oh, uh, I’m sorry, Mom. I lost track of time,” Jenna said, mortified that her mom had yelled at her in front of Malia.

  Jenna’s mom scowled at her.

  “Okay, see you later,” Malia said cheerfully, as if she sensed trouble brewing. “We’ll give the surf lessons a rain check.”

  “Yeah, later,” said Jenna, already turning toward the parking lot with the slow, weary shuffle of someone who’s not so sure “later” was going to happen.

  The ride home was unpleasant, as she’d expected, but Jenna didn’t pay much attention to the lecture her mother delivered. Malia had given her back a sliver of hope, and she wasn’t about to let go of it. Not yet.

  She had another adventure on her mind: to buy a surfboard and learn to surf.

  seven

  After showering, Jenna scoured the classified section of the paper for surfboards. She found a few, but they were not the right size, and some seemed very expensive.

  She piled all of her money on her bedspread and counted it several times. Including quarters, dimes, and nickels, she had just about ninety dollars saved up. If she got creative, she might make it to a hundred.

  Jenna dug around for change in all the usual places: under sofa cushions and in drawers. In the end, she was a few dollars richer but still short of the hundred-dollar goal.

  The next morning, a Sunday, Jenna stuffed her money in the pocket of her shorts, hopped on a bike, and started cruising the neighborhoods for garage sales.

  As with many things, garage sales seem to be everywhere — until you start looking for them. Then they are as scarce as hen’s teeth. Jenna stumbled upon several, but the offerings were a hodgepodge of leftover stuff with not a surfboard to be found.

  She had just about finished the one-mile loop and was approaching home from the back way when she spotted a hand-lettered sign stuck in a lawn that read, Garage Sale Today.

  The early bargain hunters had already been at this location too. Only a few boxes of used clothing and electronic odds and ends seemed to be left. Under the shade of the eaves sat a large, dark-skinned Hawaiian man. His massive flat feet were wrapped in well-worn rubber slippers, and his thick arms were locked around a solid belly. He wore a wide smile, and his eyes danced with warmth.

  Encouraged, she laid her bike on its side on the lawn and wandered into the garage. The big man turned his head, watching her.

  She glanced around for a moment. No surfboards anywhere. She sighed in defeat and then turned back toward her bike.

  “Can’t find what you are looking for?” the big man sang out.

  “No,” Jenna said shyly, glancing back at him.

  “Well? Maybe I can help. What you afta?”

  “A surfboard.”

  “Ah, you gotta know for where to look, sistah,” he said with a smile. “Come!”

  With that he pulled his huge body off the chair and strolled into the middle of the garage. He paused, looked up at the ceiling, and pointed.

  There in the rafters were surfboards of all sizes, almost a dozen of them. Jenna couldn’t believe it.

  “What size you looking for?”

  “Eight foot,” she whispered, trying not to get her hopes too high.

  “I got one of dem for sure,” said the big man, who produced a small rickety ladder and reached up into the rafters.

  He pulled down a yellowing eight-foot board with a softly rounded nose.

  “I used to ride dis years ago. Was more skinny in dem days,” he added with a laugh.

  “Uh, how much is this?” asked Jenna.

  “Hmm. How much you have?”

  “Well, I have a little over ninety-three dollars.”

  “As all you money?”

  “Yeah, that’s all my savings,” Jenna said, and then rushed on. “But if you’ll hold it for me, maybe I can earn some more.”

  “I tell you what,” said the man. “You can have ’um for twenty bucks if you promise to be da best surfa in da watta.”

  “How can I do that?”

  The man squatted a bit and looked the young redhead straight in the eyes. His voice turned merry as he said, “By having da most fun!”

  On her way home, Jenna couldn’t stop grinning, in spite of struggling to guide her bike with one hand, while cradling her new-used surfboard with her left.

  She imagined herself gliding across the waves as she had seen Bethany do the day before. She imagined herself tanned and fi t, talking with the Hanalei girls.

  When Jenna got home, she put the surfboard in the backyard under a tree. The board still had a leash on it, although it was old and worn. She practiced fastening its Velcro strap on and off her ankle. She didn’t know anything about being a goofy foot or a regular foot, so she tried it on both ankles to see if there was a right way to wear the thing.

  Her mom was less than enthusiastic, though, when she got home and learned of Jenna’s purchase.

  “I don’t know if just jumping into surfing is such a good idea,” her mom ventured, looking over the board.

  Jenna felt her new world about to drop out from underneath her.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, it’s a dangerous sport,” said her mother.

  “Lots and lots of girls surf, so it can’t be that dangerous.”

  “It’s the ocean that’s dangerous. And those girls know the ocean because they were raised around it. It has dangerous animals too — just ask that Bethany girl. I don’t want you eaten by a shark.”

  “Mom!” Jenna said, feeling the tears well up in her eyes.

  “Jenna, you can’t . . . you don’t . . . ” her mother stammered, taken aback by tears instead of Jenna’s usual shouting.

  “I don’t what?”

  “Those girls are strong swimmers,” her mom said finally.

  “I swam every summer in the public pool back home!” Jenna said. “Besides, surfboards have a rope thing that is attached to you in case you fall off.”

  Jenna’s mother sighed and then relented.

  “I guess,” she said, “if it will make you happy. But I still think we should both learn a little more about what it takes before you jump into that ocean.”

  “Thank you,
thank you, Mom!” said Jenna gleefully. “And you don’t have to worry. Those girls I told you about promised to give me lessons. So . . . can you take me to the beach now?

  “Now?”

  “Okay, after lunch.”

  “I suppose,” her mother said, forcing a smile.

  With that, Jenna spun away and went outside to hose the dust off her new used surfboard.

  eight

  Bethany spotted the Hanalei girls as soon as service was over, and she quickly made her way over to the little group that had formed around Malia. Her eyes grew wide, as she saw Malia hold a bandaged, swollen foot up for all to see.

  “Shoot, Malia! What did you do to yourself?”

  “I sprained my ankle last night,” Malia explained with a hint of embarrassment. “Jumping on our trampoline with my sister. My timing was off. Hurt so bad when I landed on it, I thought it was broken.”

  “Looks like you won’t be surfing with us today,” Holly said.

  “Nah, I can’t even put a leash on this foot,” said Malia. “But I may just come down and hang out.”

  “That’s cool,” Holly said. “How long do you think you’ll be out of the water?”

  “I dunno. As soon as I can put some real weight on it, I’ll be back in.”

  “You want us to pick you up on the way?” Bethany offered and was surprised when Malia shook her head no.

  “Nah, it’s okay. If I decide to go, I’ll ask my mom to drive me down.”

  “Okay,” Bethany said, still staring at Malia. Something was wrong, but she wasn’t sure what it was.

  “So,” Monica piped in, “if you can’t surf, you have to shoot photos of us!”

  “No way!” shot back Malia.

  “That’s the rule!” said Monica, half joking. “Those who can’t surf must take photos of those who can.”

  “They’d all be out of focus anyway,” Bethany teased, getting a small smile from Malia.

  Just then, Sarah Hill walked up and said, “Malia! What in the world happened to you?”

  Jenna had a dilemma.

  On the advice of Malia, she had purchased an eight-foot surfboard. But now she realized that the little sedan her mother drove was not much longer than her surfboard. And the car had no racks to throw the board on.