GENRE: YA Contemporary
“Anna,” she cooed. “Six to eight feet at Early’s. Clean lines. Perfect barrels.”
I moaned and turned over in bed. It seemed the only time my mother, Sara, used that sweet tone of voice lately was to describe waves or guys. It hadn’t always been that way. Only a few years back it seemed she was sweet about lots of stuff. Not any more. I yanked the sheet over my head.
“Suit yourself,” her tone impatient now, “But if you want a ride, you’ve got ten minutes.”
My door slammed. Thanks a lot Sara, I thought. For tempting me with ideal surf conditions. For always being impossible to ignore. For making me choose, but making your opinion loud and clear.
I opened my eyes and stared at the clock. 6:00. 6:05. 6:09. I closed my eyes one last time and tried to re-imagine the place I had just been, a dream house, a wavehouse. The roof was an impossible green-blue hill of ocean water edged with a white curl of foam. The walls were made of shells and fish bones. If I had gotten out of bed a few minutes earlier and sketched the wavehouse in my notebook it would have existed, at least on paper. But the idea of an ace morning surf session was getting in the way. Now my dream dwelling was blurred from memory, replaced by real wave yearnings.
Surfing wasn’t a choice for me, it was a calling.