Last week, many of you read the first chapter of A Road of Her Own, and hearing your responses made my heart soar! It’s always a little nerve-wracking putting something you’ve put so much energy into out in the world. But you, sweet friends, make it a whole lot easier.
Now it’s time to roll out into the unknown together. Mira is hitting the highway and stops in a town that may be slightly familiar. ; ) Ironically, I wrote this chapter years before I moved to Santa Cruz. Sometimes you write things into existence. Though, here’s to hoping my next surfing attempt doesn’t end up like hers ...
Without further ado, here’s chapter two!
TWO
June 1, 2011—Santa Cruz, California
Mira Quinn is not a surfer. She’s not an open water swimmer. She’s by no stretch of the imagination an athlete. She’s someone who finds calm in routine, and when risk feels manageable, attempts the new. Like that one time she decided to take up swimming and squeezed into a pool lane at the YMCA with five other women, trying to keep the right pace, exactly the right pace, careful not to hit the person ahead or behind. Swimming was relaxing, she heard. Puts you in some kind of flow state. But all she felt were strings tightening in her chest as she tried not to choke on overly chlorinated water.
Here in the open Pacific, salt water stinging her nose and sunscreen burning her eyes, that packed pool sounds like a damn dream.
Mira looks to shore, a strip of beach a couple hours south of San Francisco. The land feels so distant it might as well be detached from the ocean. A half dozen surfers sit on boards a hundred feet ahead, calmly awaiting waves. But she’s still in the thick of breaking waves.
She braces the board so tightly her fingers could snap. The top of a curling wave smacks against her chest. Within seconds, whitewash swallows her.
Impossible. Fucking impossible.
Mira paddles again and again, arms burning.
Just keep paddling. Keep going. Just get to where those surfers are.
Why is she out there in the first place? She had figured if she thrust herself into something she thought she couldn’t do, then this road trip would feel more manageable. She had watched plenty of people surf while living out of her mother’s van, but the ocean had always felt daunting. Too cold. Sharks. Too difficult to navigate. She’d thought about getting a surf lesson, but the waves hadn’t looked that big from shore and plenty of surfers were paddling out. Plus, a lesson was $120—almost two tanks of gas. A wetsuit and board rental? $40. That, she could justify.
Mira paddles until her shoulders feel like they may fall off, but then finally she’s past the shore break. Her torso collapses onto the board, and she presses her cheek to the foam. The water looks calmer from this position—like a big, dark pool she’s floating on. Her eyes drift back to the surfers. She lifts herself up and swings one leg to each side of the board like them. Her stomach rumbles and twists. Something rises from her belly towards her throat. Oh, no. Don’t throw up. If you throw up, I swear to God …
A teenage boy turns his head towards her, eyes squinting from sun or judgment. She reaches for the leash wrapped around her ankle. It’s loose. Is it supposed to be this loose? She peels it off, reattaches the Velcro. Maybe she should paddle back and return the rental for another … or just forget about this altogether.
Mira stays close enough to the rest of the surfers to feel like she’s in the right place, but far enough not to get in their way. The overwhelming tightness in her body reminds her she is always in the way.
Suddenly, the group starts to paddle farther out, every single one of them. She looks ahead. No waves. Just a slight bump in the water. Barely noticeable. Why are they all moving?
Maybe farther out is where the big ones will be. She’s not out here for big ones. Small waves, that’s what she needs. So she stays put.
In the distance the water builds, stacking upon itself. A few surfers spin their boards around, noses facing the shore, and paddle like time is chasing them. Mira watches, belly to board. Stomach rumbling. The wave rises higher as it nears. Its subtle roar gets louder and louder.
Oh, no. Oh, shit. This is the wrong spot. The wave peaks and the curl looks sharp enough to slice right through her. Should she abandon the board? Paddle over?
Too late. Too late.
Within seconds, the wave devours Mira, flipping her sideways and shoving her beneath the surface. Water surges through her skull. Her board escapes her grip and limbs swirl around like a rag doll. The ocean strangles her breath and she feels something she’s never felt before—a tug from her ankle, and then:
Lightness.
Weightless.
Weightless like a loose piece of thread in the ocean.
Weightless like the board is gone. The board is gone. As in, no longer attached to her ankle. She sees nothing but swirling gray. Her chest constricts as her mind catapults to people drowning, swallowed by relentless waves.
There’s a pause in the roar and she pops to the surface. She wipes the wet strands from her eyes. The wave’s twenty feet out. The board’s thirty feet behind. A surging pulse strikes her chest. She needs that board. She’s lost the thing she needs to stay safe, the buoy she clings to when tired. Eyes wide, body stiff, she feels how quickly her lungs lose breath when fear swallows her.
Fuck.
Mira breathes from her belly as another wave barrels towards her. The whitewash rushes over her and the current drags her back. She’s at the ocean’s mercy now. She’ll leave when the water says she will. She breaches the surface again. The board is up against the beach now. The next wave roars, just seconds away. She readies herself, takes a deep breath, and dives. When she rises again, a man paddles towards her from shore, looking bewildered. She sees the fear in his eyes, and it’s even harder to contain her own.
“Are you okay?”
She can’t get words out, can’t waste breath.
The fourth wave comes. Her breath tires even more.
Why doesn’t he save her?
Finally, the ocean lessens its pull. There’s a few seconds’ reprieve. Her body rushes towards the shore.
Thank God, she thinks. Thank God.
She fumbles onto the sand, hair slopped across her face, shoulders slumped, drenched in defeat. Mira shakes her head, imagining a bird’s-eye view of herself, and nervously laughs in case the bystanders are laughing, too. She laughs until a deep sigh envelops her, then plops onto the sand and sinks in, back pressed against the beach, sand sticking to everything she is. The clouds hold her gaze, soft and plump. Her breath slows. She thinks of the obituary she recently wrote for herself, the one folded up in the dash.
Sometimes when you’re closest to death, you feel the most alive.
Her arms sprawl out like a starfish. Day one.
