Chapter 1
Where I’m supposed to be is cleaning a toilet. I’m supposed to be checking the mustard levels. I’m supposed to be pulling quarters out of Q*Bert and Alien Syndrome and sharpening dozens of those tiny golf pencils.
But where I am is sprawled out on a rainbow-printed beach towel in the hot sand of Wahoo Beach, my nose covered in opaque neon yellow Zinka sunblock, a can of Tab in my right hand, watching surfers line up on the break to try to catch a solid ride. At least fifty people jockey for position in the water, about quintuple the normal amount, everyone getting one last practice in before the big day. The 1986 Surfing National Championships start tomorrow, right here on Wahoo Beach, just outside my business’s front door.
I squirt a little Hawaiian Tropic SPF 15 sunblock into my hands and rub it on my shoulders. My mountain of bright red hair comes with pretty pale skin that burns quickly if I’m not careful.
“You know who is going to be here for this competition?” Dylan asks in an eager tone, adjusting his aviator sunglasses on his face and gazing out into the breaking waves with a dreamy smile.
Since he’s told me about three times already, I do know. But I let him tell me one more time anyway, because it makes him mega happy.
“Oliver Hera, Kiri Hera, Quinn Remington, Riff Kelly….” He shakes his head. “All the greats, man. It’s going to be radical.”
The competition is going to be fierce and fun to watch, for sure. Personally, I’m looking forward to all the new customers this huge event is going to bring into my Putts & Stuff Boardwalk Playland over the next week. Surfers and their buds and girlfriends or boyfriends with nothing to do after the sun goes down should pack my arcade and mini-golf courses every night until the championships are over and everyone clears out next Monday.
A wave crashes hard against the beach, sending a tiny brother and sister squealing and racing back up to dry land, where they plop down in the sand next to their parents and immediately start digging a hole with their little plastic shovels. The surf has been building up due to some tropical storm down in the Bahamas, pushing in double overhead waves with a very light offshore breeze, absolutely ideal surfing weather, with not enough wind to even spray salt in your eyes as you drop in. They say it’s going to be the best week of surf we’ve had here in Wahoo Beach in a decade.
Some guy in bright yellow board shorts and no shirt grunts as he jabs the pointy end of a giant blue beach umbrella into the sand. Another guy stabs in the anchor for a bright turquoise banner reading “Surfing Nationals - 1986.” Past that is the spot where the actual surfing will go down. That area of Wahoo Beach, the whole stretch that lies just between here and the river mouth, is technically named Breakwater Bay, but we locals have always called it Straws, on account of the multitude of small tubes that roll in when a storm is pouring over Bermuda or pushing this way off the coast of Senegal.
“So with all your heroes here and competing, how are you ever going to win?” I tease him.
“Lucky for me, they are all in the young guy category,” he says with a laugh. “And I’m in the old guy over-30 category. But I’m still not going to win anything. I just want my free Wahoo Beach Surfing Championships t-shirt.”
I believe that he believes it when he says he doesn’t expect to win. But I also know he’s been out here almost every morning for the past month practicing his moves before heading off to his job at the Wahoo Beach Police Department. I also know his love of Wahoo Beach t-shirts, and that part is definitely real.
The sound of a drill followed by some guy yelling through a hand-held loudspeaker interrupts us. A crew of a half-dozen guys is putting up some short bleachers facing out toward Straws. There’s a table for the judging team already set up. Beyond that, past where I can see from here, I know there are a few beer tents, a media tent, t-shirt and souvenir vendors, and food kiosks being set up.
“This is going to be like MTV’s Spring Break thing they just had in Daytona Beach,” Dylan says. “It could be a lot of fun, or I could end up working the whole week, depending on how dumb people get.”
I think of the footage I saw on MTV a few months ago during their spring break event. It was a giant party, with kids going bananas in every direction and in every way imaginable. I have a feeling Dylan might be right about working all week. But I also have a feeling it could be a lot of fun if I let myself enjoy it.
“I’m going to try to have a good time,” I tell Dylan in a very serious tone. He’s been on me for the past month to offload some of my Putts & Stuff business stress to my more capable employees, and spend time each day taking care of myself. I’ve been meeting him out here for a surf at sunrise a few days each week, having drinks with Britney from the Breezy Tees shop, and I even managed to drive my busted little yellow Rabbit convertible into town last week and get a haircut. Self-care can be kind of exhausting, but it’s probably a good idea in the long run.
A big neon orange banner waves in the distance, flying over the check-in area for the competition. “Surf, Sun, Sport,” it says.
I nudge Dylan in the ribs and point to it. “Maybe that ought to say Beer, Bands, and Bad Decisions.”
“And surfing isn’t a sport. It’s a way of life,” he says with an expression of mock solemnity.
“Easy there, Spicoli,” I say with a laugh, knowing Dylan’s love of Fast Times at Ridgemont High, while wondering if we have time to grab some food before I go back to the arcade, back to my bills and forms and responsibilities.
A navy blue van pulls up in the parking lot behind the mini-golf courses and eases into a parking space. The van is emblazoned with a logo of a local news channel – a number 4 with a large swirl behind it that looks like a hurricane. A stocky man climbs out, hoisting his heavy video camera to his shoulder with what looks like some effort even from here. A younger woman, obviously a reporter by the looks of her perfect hair and extensive makeup – two things you don’t see a lot of here on the boardwalk – climbs out of the front seat and checks her lipstick in the van’s side mirror.
The radio pumps out the first few bars of “Simply Irresistible,” by Robert Palmer.
Dylan sits up straight and I know he’s about to lay some kind of music trivia on me. It’s kind of his thing and it’s mega adorable.
“Hey, have you seen the video for this song?” he asks. “You know the models in it?”
I have seen it, and I know what he’s talking about. There are dozens of models with short dark hair, pale skin, and bright red lipstick shifting and swaying behind Palmer as he performs the song. It’s weird but oddly captivating. “Yeah,” I say. “The bored-looking ones?”
“Yes!” He says, smiling wide. He loves this. “So, the women in the video are modeled after what’s called a Nagel Woman, after this guy Patrick Nagel.”
“Ok, sure,” I say. “Nagelwoman.”
“Nagel was an artist, super into pop art and art deco. He also did the cover for the Rio album by Duran Duran? And if you look at that album cover… it’s the same woman. Short dark hair, pale skin, red lips.”
“Interesting,” I say, which is true. The trivia Dylan always has on hand about one singer or another band or another video is at least always interesting. “Nagelwomen. Learn something new every day.”
The drill buzzes and the loudspeaker guy barks orders, and some hammering starts from closer by. “This might end up being a long week.” I sigh and lay my head back down to soak up a few more rays before we both have to pack up our towels and flip-flops and get back to our jobs.
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