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Description
I'm a Californian at heart—anyone can see that. I grew up living and breathing the ocean, loving Mexican food, calling everyone "dude", and going to school with a swimsuit on underneath my clothes in case we all decided to hit the beach. Winter, spring, summer, or fall, everyone in this tiny Spanish village by the sea found themselves spending time out in the sun.

Surfing was a part of that lifestyle. Mr. Heinrich was my sixth-grade science teacher, the one that liked to teach us all the terrifying natural disasters that could bring about the end of the world as we knew it, carried a mallet for smashing phones that went off in class, and let his golden retriever wander about the classroom to comfort us while we sat our exams. He was also the middle school surf coach.

The prospect of meeting—and riding with—other kids my age who loved the sport as much as I did was exciting, to say the least. At a request from Mr. Heinrich, we all received a warm sweatshirt with the school's logo on the back, a long, beautifully curling wave; the words "BAMS Surf Team" written in script beneath the hood; and our last names stitched onto the front right-hand side. I wore mine proudly. We would need them, for certain, as a chilly morning fog is one of the many constants in Southern-California life.

I knew I wasn't the most experienced surfer—I didn't catch a wave on my own until the age of eight, and my first solo session had scarcely been but a year before—but my dad believed in me, and that was enough. My spring suit hung in the garage right next to my rash-guard and my boots, atop the box that kept our winter suits safe until January would come and the water temperatures dropped below fifty degrees. Should worse come to worst, we even had a pair of water gloves set aside for those days when you could scarcely push up on your board due to the numbness of your fingers.

Thus, while the whole wide world of my school slept in late on Tuesday morning (when school started a full hour later than usual) I was dragged from my bed into the kitchen to choke down a bowl of oatmeal, some yogurt, or if I was running especially late, just an apple that I could carry along with me in the car. Sweating in my wetsuit—obviously intended for water use, not stumbling out of the house at five a.m.—my dad would load my board, my boots, and our ancient red cooler into the car and we'd pull out onto the highway, bound for what us locals call T-street.

That first practice, I stood on the shore, staring out at the water and catching glances of the rest of the team stretching before grabbing their boards—short, long, sponge—and daring to be the first to enter the frigid water. I could feel the cold through my boots. On the ground, by my side, was a tri-fin board leashed to my right ankle. An encouragement gift from my dad, the short board was barely six feet long and not even an inch thick in the middle. With its double-concave, pintail, and narrow rails, this was the board of a professional big-wave rider. Not an eleven-year-old girl that was borderline amateur and longing for the 8'3" funboard that my dad had deemed too bulky to bring out into faster waves with forty other kids in the water. I wasn't yet strong enough to handle something like that in such a crowded place on an unfamiliar break. According to my dad, the board I was using now had belonged to a fifteen-year-old in Hawaii that had just gone pro. That hardly made me feel any better.

Sorry, I told it silently in my head. This ought to be a little anticlimactic after all you've see your riders do.

It was still dark out, and whatever depth perception every surfer is born with was completely void. Waves could sneak up on you when the entire surface of the ocean looks flat and even. The tell-tale signs of an incoming set—the shadows, the trough, the color, the reflection of the sun—all were only visible during the day. Here, before the sun rose, all of us were at the mercy of the blank grayness that took over the sea when it went to sleep every night. I hoped it would get lighter soon.

The sound of footsteps on the hard-packed sand found their way into the silence of the still air, before the heat could bring about a breeze.

Emily—one year older than me and also sporting a new board—stopped short next to me, tentatively testing the water with her toe. Her face screwed up in displeasure, giving it an even more pinched look than it usually possessed. A tiny flame of irritation lit itself in my gut, and then disappeared just as quickly. We were all dedicated enough to brave the cold and the darkness, and here she was, considering not going in. But she was my only friend here right now—just the girl I carpooled with, but a friend all the same—and I was glad she was there. She'd only joined because I had. When I'd asked her once how long she'd been surfing, she'd replied, "I went once when I was in Hawaii, and it was awful," and said no more. Taking in her brand-new board and brand-new wetsuit and brand-new boots and brand-new gloves, it almost seemed like her parents were just desperate to get her involved in something.

"Let's go," I said as brightly as I could, hoisting my board beneath my arm and hoping that I looked professional. I turned back to the stairs that led you from the street, over the railroad, down the hill, and onto the beach, where my dad and Mr. Heinrich (Sage, his faithful dog, by his side) were silhouetted against a street lamp that turned the dawn's gray into a fierce goldenrod. They both waved.

I looked out towards the horizon and stepped into the sea.

Before I had the chance to chicken out, I ran through the waves, only setting down my board when the water reached my thighs and I had to slow my advance because of the agonizing drag my legs had in the water. A wave of crumbled whitewash smashed against my chest, and I lifted the tip of the board and guided it over, weighed down with the pressure from my hands. I heard Emily shriek somewhere behind me, but I didn't bother turning around.

It wasn't until I could no longer jump over the waves without getting pushed back further than I'd come that I kicked off of the bottom and vaulted myself onto the board, ready to begin the exhausting paddle out to the top of the break. The first wave rose to challenge me, and I punched right through it, knowing that the energy I put into pulling myself past the breakers—arms and shoulders straining—would be easily recovered once I made it to the place where the swell only rolled and pitched. At last, breathing heavily, soaked with spray, and physically taxed, I crested the last of the set and turned my head back towards shore.

The sky had turned the silvery off-white of morning, and color had slowly started spreading along the beach. Twenty feet behind me, floundering in the water, Emily squealed as the same wave I'd just conquered tore her board from her hands. "Get on and paddle!" I called out, propping myself up on my elbows. "Push up to get over the wave, and then drop down the other side!"

After five minutes of coaxing and at least a dozen more wipeouts on her part, we managed to get her even with me and the both of us set out to find a good place to wait for the swell. "You'll go faster if you scoot up more on your board," muttered one of the older boys as he paddled past Emily. I glanced back at her. Her board's nose was a good foot out of the water.

"He's right," I said, once he was out of earshot.

"It's hard," she said before promptly falling off.

"How about even with the two trees?" I suggested, pointing to an available vantage point.

"How about we go back in?" she suggested, pouting.

By the time the sun rose at 6:15, both of us were miserable—her from whatever ailments she could possibly come up with in those ten minutes of paddling, and me from her incessant complaining. Fed up with the entire ordeal, but bound by the promise I'd made to both her and her mother to help her as best I could, I cut off her rant on how the board was too big and the leash too short to steer us into safer waters—literally and figuratively.

I asked her about her favorite teachers, moving us carefully out deeper, where only the biggest waves could possibly peak and where we could float in peace. It felt odd, me having to turn the direction of our heading and our conversation as though I were the older one. "Here's good," I mumbled, stopping my forward momentum simply by sitting up and swinging my legs in the water. Emily opted to remain lying down.

It wasn't how I'd hoped to spend my first surf practice—talking with a girl that didn't really want to be there, floating in a spot between breaks where the waves were impossible to catch but I wasn't ultimately concerned. I had the entire year to make the most of, didn't I? It was with that thought nestled carefully into my mind that I put up with Emily's chatter and contented myself with watching the other surfers from behind.

A couple of things became routine about surf practice on Tuesday mornings. First, my dad would bring a milk jug filled with warm water in the cooler that he would dump on my head after I'd regained land. I appreciated it far more than I think he ever realized. The paddle of shame back to shore when there aren't any waves left to catch, coupled with the freezing trudge across the sand while the wind does its best to freeze you solid, is enough to chill anyone to the bone. Warmth in any form was enough to make me feel better.

Second, I always made sure I was the first person—or if not the first person, the first girl at least—to get into the water. Nothing could stop me from milking these sessions for all they were worth. A sense of pride put a highlight on the morning, however small it was.

Third, my dad and I would pray in the car on the ride to the beach each morning, asking for good waves, a fun time, and a fulfilling practice. I liked to think that the sun would rise just a little bit sooner whenever we prayed for it, and everyone singing "Here Comes the Sun" as it crested the hill every practice—whether under their breath or at the top of their lungs—brought a smile to my face every single time.

Fourth, and finally, Emily and I would always paddle out past everyone else, giving up the best positions to the ones that knew what they were doing. We'd have our conversations way out in the deep water, where she didn't have to fear the waves and I didn't have to fear making a fool of myself. We always went back in just far enough to catch a ride to shore when Mr. Heinrich blew his whistle—a clear sound that could make itself heard over anything, even the crashing of the breakers and the hissing of sea spray—though more often than not, we simply ran our arms ragged trying to catch something until we hit the sand.

Every week though, there was that one massive wave—the one we called the Wave of the Day—that we all anticipated and secretly wished that we'd be the one to catch. It was the one that broke all the rules of the three triplet breaks we'd spread ourselves over; it peaked before the breaker zone, spread past the stitches where we liked to paddle out in absence of powerful waves, and peeled off in both directions. In essence, the perfect ride, if you had the guts to go for it. Because if you didn't get over in time...you were going to get crushed underneath gallons upon gallons of water trundling along with enough energy to power an entire small town for a week.

It wasn't until the fourth practice that I truly appreciated Emily's insistence that we spend all our time far out in the water, where the bottom was who knew how deep and the lemon sharks liked to hide on the sand in the summertime. If you were lucky, sometimes the little two-foot long critters would swim with you a while before losing their courage and rejoining their families further out to sea.

We were a good thirty feet further than everyone else, except for a random man on a canoe-like one-finner that could probably catch anything. If I strain hard enough, I can remember smaller details about that one minute before all hell broke loose—like the fact that the water was incredibly warm for October and most of the team had gone without wetsuits, or that Emily and I were talking about some of the stranger dreams we'd had, or that we were in the middle of the longest lull I'd sat through to date, or that the sun was just barely peeking over the hills, not quite risen yet but getting close. It was the perfect image of a beautiful morning uncurling into a great day, but it was quickly ripped to shreds by the chaos that ensued mere seconds later.

It started with the seagulls. An entire flock suddenly took flight—from where, we weren't sure—cawing as though they'd spotted a school of fish and were ready for some breakfast. I followed their path with my eyes, unease starting to kindle inside of me, and I chanced a brief look at my dad. He was waving, which wasn't uncommon, but this time it was with both hands. Whenever I was out in the water, that meant only one thing: pay attention. That was when more than half of us—the team and the man on the long board—all turned our gazes towards the horizon, where the sky was just starting to turn from gray to blue. The surfer's sense told us that something was coming.

Then the horizon—there's no other word for it—changed. Instead of being the fuzzy transition between sea-blue and sky-blue that we were all easily accustomed to, it was suddenly a defined line between water and open air. The most experienced ones understood right away what that meant, but it took me half a second to realize what I was seeing.

It was a wave. And it was massive.

Shouts rang out along our team's entire length, easily carrying over the water. Anything from, "DIBS!" to "HOLY COW, I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" to "Dude, get your own board!" exploded from everyone's mouths. Without exception, every single surfer—spongers included—had pointed their boards south, straight out into open water, and were paddling with a vigor unmatched by anything but the effort put into a paddle-battle between two friends—a fight for domination over a wave, where the competition was to be the first to catch it and stand, and the prize was the ride.

Of course, I didn't see any of this. Emily and I had already taken off. "GO! GO! GO!" I shouted, eyes bright with excitement and mirth. "WE'VE GOT TO PUSH TO MAKE IT!"

My friend was screaming her poor little head off, sounding like she was nearing tears as she struggled to keep up with my pace. I had at least five years of experience on her when it came to maneuvering a board, but her panic kept her even with my feet. I couldn't help laughing as anticipation and fear and excitement threatened to overwhelm me.

The wave rose before us, easily a mountain. It took on the same hue of deep blue that the distant sea had, proving the obvious fact—this monstrosity wasn't just tall, it was deep, and it was going to crash right over our heads. Fifteen, twenty feet high; it was impossible to say. Waves simply didn't get that big around here unless there was some hurricane off of Hawaii sending pure havoc our direction.

The lift I felt as soon as I started climbing the wave was enormous. It had nearly reached its peak—the tipping point where it would suddenly keel over and crash—and I was paddling nearly straight up. I dug deeper, hands cupped for the most efficient stroke, and at last, just as I felt myself start to tip backwards, I broke through the top of the wave and made it.

With an instinct bred not from being at home on the water, but simply being more curious than the cats that trait had killed, I turned my head back and down and in a split second took in the entire scene folding out below me. I was balanced on the edge of a cliff, a goliath wall of water, which towered over the three dozen other kids that were still racing in an attempt to beat the wave. The three boys that had been furthest in to begin with had made it to shore and were sitting in the shallowest part of the breaker zone, watching the wave get ready to topple over on top of everyone else. A girl I knew vaguely from choir class—at the front of the pack because of the advantage of her long board—stared up at me and the wave with wide eyes, expertly checking behind her to make sure that no one would get crushed if she wiped out. Mr. Heinrich, on the shore, and three other parents (my dad included) had raced from the stairs down to the edge of the water and ogled at the episode. I didn't see Emily, which must've meant that she'd made it to the top just as I had and was merely suspended in that moment before everything would come crashing down.

And crash it did, with an incredible roaring sound that echoed behind me. Neither Emily nor I felt any of it, simply floating down the back as if it had been nothing more than a ripple. Breathing heavily, the both of us glanced at one another and then back at the wake of destruction. Now halfway to shore, the wave had left behind it dozens of surfers hunting down their boards, surfacing and taking headcounts, making sure that their leashes were intact...the adrenaline still pumping through my bloodstream, I let myself slip off the board and into the water, where I treaded and thanked my lucky stars that Emily and I were such cowards when it came to where we'd catch our waves.

When Mr. Heinrich blew the whistle that day, Emily didn't want to go back in for fear of being caught inside should another wave come. I ended up grabbing her leash and dragging her in, pushing her into a whitewash wave that she was forced to ride in. She hit the shore with water up her nose, sand in her wetsuit, and a pebble in her boot.

She didn't come to practice again.

I did feel kind of bad being alone once more, as I was the youngest member of the team by far, but the lack of distraction was welcome, as it gave me the chance to really apply myself to learning the ways of a short board and getting steadily better as time went on. I caught at least one wave every practice, even if I didn't manage to stay standing for more than a couple of seconds. I courteously gave up a few waves to other surfers, even if it was just because I was going to miss it anyways. And when the time came to try out for slots in the upcoming surf meet, I debated the entire practice until I finally joined the last heat for tryouts.

I only knew one other girl in my heat—she was the only other eleven-year-old that had joined the team. I felt remarkably out of place as I put on the blue jersey that Mr. Heinrich gave me and paddled out with five other girls on the far break, out of the way of the rest of the team. He called out the rules to us as we stepped into the water. Ten minutes. Play nice. As many waves as you can. Show what you can do. Stay out of everyone else's way. Have fun.

The waves were smaller that day than any other practice, and for that I was glad. Maybe I actually had a chance against these girls. Maybe I could earn my spot on this team. I paddled out quickly, stopping halfway out to catch a little inside wave that was just getting ready to break. I turned...dug in...stood...and fell. I got up and glanced to shore. My dad gave me a thumbs-up. My coach smiled. They started to talk to one another. I bit my lip and tasted the salt on my face before getting back onto the board and paddling out once more.

Four waves total in that tiny heat—and I fell off of every single one of them. But strangely enough, I found myself having fun. The water was clear in that one small portion of the beach, and the six of us laughed with one another during the two lulls that fit into our timeframe. Time seemed to stretch out longer, and by the end of it, I knew I'd missed out on my chance to represent my school in the upcoming meets—but I didn't really mind. Dripping, I jogged out of the water with a grin on my face. My dad wandered over and held the board for me before giving me a massive hug.

People were always there to support me. Later, even, I'd find out that Mr. Heinrich had extended the time in my heat. Each time I'd get up on a wave, he and my dad would wait...and I'd fall. "One more wave," he'd say every single time, according to my dad. "Just one more wave. I know she can do it."

It's easier to believe in yourself when others do first.

All throughout that school year, I both dreaded and adored those Tuesday mornings. I couldn't wake up early to save my life. I didn't like big waves. I didn't like yogurt that much, either, and the water got cold in wintertime. Yet sometimes I'd wake up to a big mug of hot chocolate. Sometimes it was so cold that only a couple of people came to practice, and my dad would take me to my favorite break at San Onofre. Sometimes I would catch one perfect wave that made me feel like it was completely worth it getting up that morning.

I don't think I realized how much I loved those Tuesday mornings—for me they were something special about who I was, where I called my home, and the way my life was back when things were simple and I was innocent. Think about it: Mondays are Mondays—the end of the weekend, drab and gray. Wednesdays are hump days—pushing through to the second half of the week. Thursdays are the stepping stone days—the day before Friday, the only weekday I can truly say is fun. Friday is the start of the weekend, a time where you can do what you like, leaving all the rest for later. Saturday is the real weekend, the day you get to sleep in, read as much as you want, when people plan their get-togethers. Sunday is the closing of a break in your week, where you finish up your business and ready yourself for the coming Monday.

But Tuesday? They're the invisible days. The days that people don't remember. The days that are just sort of there, filled with simple things that are inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

And yet it was these days that remind us—remind me—what's truly important. So whenever I slip on my wetsuit and tuck my board under my arm, I'm able to look back and map out my growth. I can see how far I've come and don't have to worry about how far there is left to go; all I have to do is compare myself to the me I used to be, the me I was on a typical Tuesday morning.

Description
I'm a Californian at heart—anyone can see that. I grew up living and breathing the ocean, loving Mexican food, calling everyone "dude", and going to school with a swimsuit on underneath my clothes in case we all decided to hit the beach. Winter, spring, summer, or fall, everyone in this tiny Spanish village by the sea found themselves spending time out in the sun.

Surfing was a part of that lifestyle. Mr. Heinrich was my sixth-grade science teacher, the one that liked to teach us all the terrifying natural disasters that could bring about the end of the world as we knew it, carried a mallet for smashing phones that went off in class, and let his golden retriever wander about the classroom to comfort us while we sat our exams. He was also the middle school surf coach.

The prospect of meeting—and riding with—other kids my age who loved the sport as much as I did was exciting, to say the least. At a request from Mr. Heinrich, we all received a warm sweatshirt with the school's logo on the back, a long, beautifully curling wave; the words "BAMS Surf Team" written in script beneath the hood; and our last names stitched onto the front right-hand side. I wore mine proudly. We would need them, for certain, as a chilly morning fog is one of the many constants in Southern-California life.

I knew I wasn't the most experienced surfer—I didn't catch a wave on my own until the age of eight, and my first solo session had scarcely been but a year before—but my dad believed in me, and that was enough. My spring suit hung in the garage right next to my rash-guard and my boots, atop the box that kept our winter suits safe until January would come and the water temperatures dropped below fifty degrees. Should worse come to worst, we even had a pair of water gloves set aside for those days when you could scarcely push up on your board due to the numbness of your fingers.

Thus, while the whole wide world of my school slept in late on Tuesday morning (when school started a full hour later than usual) I was dragged from my bed into the kitchen to choke down a bowl of oatmeal, some yogurt, or if I was running especially late, just an apple that I could carry along with me in the car. Sweating in my wetsuit—obviously intended for water use, not stumbling out of the house at five a.m.—my dad would load my board, my boots, and our ancient red cooler into the car and we'd pull out onto the highway, bound for what us locals call T-street.

That first practice, I stood on the shore, staring out at the water and catching glances of the rest of the team stretching before grabbing their boards—short, long, sponge—and daring to be the first to enter the frigid water. I could feel the cold through my boots. On the ground, by my side, was a tri-fin board leashed to my right ankle. An encouragement gift from my dad, the short board was barely six feet long and not even an inch thick in the middle. With its double-concave, pintail, and narrow rails, this was the board of a professional big-wave rider. Not an eleven-year-old girl that was borderline amateur and longing for the 8'3" funboard that my dad had deemed too bulky to bring out into faster waves with forty other kids in the water. I wasn't yet strong enough to handle something like that in such a crowded place on an unfamiliar break. According to my dad, the board I was using now had belonged to a fifteen-year-old in Hawaii that had just gone pro. That hardly made me feel any better.

Sorry, I told it silently in my head. This ought to be a little anticlimactic after all you've see your riders do.

It was still dark out, and whatever depth perception every surfer is born with was completely void. Waves could sneak up on you when the entire surface of the ocean looks flat and even. The tell-tale signs of an incoming set—the shadows, the trough, the color, the reflection of the sun—all were only visible during the day. Here, before the sun rose, all of us were at the mercy of the blank grayness that took over the sea when it went to sleep every night. I hoped it would get lighter soon.

The sound of footsteps on the hard-packed sand found their way into the silence of the still air, before the heat could bring about a breeze.

Emily—one year older than me and also sporting a new board—stopped short next to me, tentatively testing the water with her toe. Her face screwed up in displeasure, giving it an even more pinched look than it usually possessed. A tiny flame of irritation lit itself in my gut, and then disappeared just as quickly. We were all dedicated enough to brave the cold and the darkness, and here she was, considering not going in. But she was my only friend here right now—just the girl I carpooled with, but a friend all the same—and I was glad she was there. She'd only joined because I had. When I'd asked her once how long she'd been surfing, she'd replied, "I went once when I was in Hawaii, and it was awful," and said no more. Taking in her brand-new board and brand-new wetsuit and brand-new boots and brand-new gloves, it almost seemed like her parents were just desperate to get her involved in something.

"Let's go," I said as brightly as I could, hoisting my board beneath my arm and hoping that I looked professional. I turned back to the stairs that led you from the street, over the railroad, down the hill, and onto the beach, where my dad and Mr. Heinrich (Sage, his faithful dog, by his side) were silhouetted against a street lamp that turned the dawn's gray into a fierce goldenrod. They both waved.

I looked out towards the horizon and stepped into the sea.

Before I had the chance to chicken out, I ran through the waves, only setting down my board when the water reached my thighs and I had to slow my advance because of the agonizing drag my legs had in the water. A wave of crumbled whitewash smashed against my chest, and I lifted the tip of the board and guided it over, weighed down with the pressure from my hands. I heard Emily shriek somewhere behind me, but I didn't bother turning around.

It wasn't until I could no longer jump over the waves without getting pushed back further than I'd come that I kicked off of the bottom and vaulted myself onto the board, ready to begin the exhausting paddle out to the top of the break. The first wave rose to challenge me, and I punched right through it, knowing that the energy I put into pulling myself past the breakers—arms and shoulders straining—would be easily recovered once I made it to the place where the swell only rolled and pitched. At last, breathing heavily, soaked with spray, and physically taxed, I crested the last of the set and turned my head back towards shore.

The sky had turned the silvery off-white of morning, and color had slowly started spreading along the beach. Twenty feet behind me, floundering in the water, Emily squealed as the same wave I'd just conquered tore her board from her hands. "Get on and paddle!" I called out, propping myself up on my elbows. "Push up to get over the wave, and then drop down the other side!"

After five minutes of coaxing and at least a dozen more wipeouts on her part, we managed to get her even with me and the both of us set out to find a good place to wait for the swell. "You'll go faster if you scoot up more on your board," muttered one of the older boys as he paddled past Emily. I glanced back at her. Her board's nose was a good foot out of the water.

"He's right," I said, once he was out of earshot.

"It's hard," she said before promptly falling off.

"How about even with the two trees?" I suggested, pointing to an available vantage point.

"How about we go back in?" she suggested, pouting.

By the time the sun rose at 6:15, both of us were miserable—her from whatever ailments she could possibly come up with in those ten minutes of paddling, and me from her incessant complaining. Fed up with the entire ordeal, but bound by the promise I'd made to both her and her mother to help her as best I could, I cut off her rant on how the board was too big and the leash too short to steer us into safer waters—literally and figuratively.

I asked her about her favorite teachers, moving us carefully out deeper, where only the biggest waves could possibly peak and where we could float in peace. It felt odd, me having to turn the direction of our heading and our conversation as though I were the older one. "Here's good," I mumbled, stopping my forward momentum simply by sitting up and swinging my legs in the water. Emily opted to remain lying down.

It wasn't how I'd hoped to spend my first surf practice—talking with a girl that didn't really want to be there, floating in a spot between breaks where the waves were impossible to catch but I wasn't ultimately concerned. I had the entire year to make the most of, didn't I? It was with that thought nestled carefully into my mind that I put up with Emily's chatter and contented myself with watching the other surfers from behind.

A couple of things became routine about surf practice on Tuesday mornings. First, my dad would bring a milk jug filled with warm water in the cooler that he would dump on my head after I'd regained land. I appreciated it far more than I think he ever realized. The paddle of shame back to shore when there aren't any waves left to catch, coupled with the freezing trudge across the sand while the wind does its best to freeze you solid, is enough to chill anyone to the bone. Warmth in any form was enough to make me feel better.

Second, I always made sure I was the first person—or if not the first person, the first girl at least—to get into the water. Nothing could stop me from milking these sessions for all they were worth. A sense of pride put a highlight on the morning, however small it was.

Third, my dad and I would pray in the car on the ride to the beach each morning, asking for good waves, a fun time, and a fulfilling practice. I liked to think that the sun would rise just a little bit sooner whenever we prayed for it, and everyone singing "Here Comes the Sun" as it crested the hill every practice—whether under their breath or at the top of their lungs—brought a smile to my face every single time.

Fourth, and finally, Emily and I would always paddle out past everyone else, giving up the best positions to the ones that knew what they were doing. We'd have our conversations way out in the deep water, where she didn't have to fear the waves and I didn't have to fear making a fool of myself. We always went back in just far enough to catch a ride to shore when Mr. Heinrich blew his whistle—a clear sound that could make itself heard over anything, even the crashing of the breakers and the hissing of sea spray—though more often than not, we simply ran our arms ragged trying to catch something until we hit the sand.

Every week though, there was that one massive wave—the one we called the Wave of the Day—that we all anticipated and secretly wished that we'd be the one to catch. It was the one that broke all the rules of the three triplet breaks we'd spread ourselves over; it peaked before the breaker zone, spread past the stitches where we liked to paddle out in absence of powerful waves, and peeled off in both directions. In essence, the perfect ride, if you had the guts to go for it. Because if you didn't get over in time...you were going to get crushed underneath gallons upon gallons of water trundling along with enough energy to power an entire small town for a week.

It wasn't until the fourth practice that I truly appreciated Emily's insistence that we spend all our time far out in the water, where the bottom was who knew how deep and the lemon sharks liked to hide on the sand in the summertime. If you were lucky, sometimes the little two-foot long critters would swim with you a while before losing their courage and rejoining their families further out to sea.

We were a good thirty feet further than everyone else, except for a random man on a canoe-like one-finner that could probably catch anything. If I strain hard enough, I can remember smaller details about that one minute before all hell broke loose—like the fact that the water was incredibly warm for October and most of the team had gone without wetsuits, or that Emily and I were talking about some of the stranger dreams we'd had, or that we were in the middle of the longest lull I'd sat through to date, or that the sun was just barely peeking over the hills, not quite risen yet but getting close. It was the perfect image of a beautiful morning uncurling into a great day, but it was quickly ripped to shreds by the chaos that ensued mere seconds later.

It started with the seagulls. An entire flock suddenly took flight—from where, we weren't sure—cawing as though they'd spotted a school of fish and were ready for some breakfast. I followed their path with my eyes, unease starting to kindle inside of me, and I chanced a brief look at my dad. He was waving, which wasn't uncommon, but this time it was with both hands. Whenever I was out in the water, that meant only one thing: pay attention. That was when more than half of us—the team and the man on the long board—all turned our gazes towards the horizon, where the sky was just starting to turn from gray to blue. The surfer's sense told us that something was coming.

Then the horizon—there's no other word for it—changed. Instead of being the fuzzy transition between sea-blue and sky-blue that we were all easily accustomed to, it was suddenly a defined line between water and open air. The most experienced ones understood right away what that meant, but it took me half a second to realize what I was seeing.

It was a wave. And it was massive.

Shouts rang out along our team's entire length, easily carrying over the water. Anything from, "DIBS!" to "HOLY COW, I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" to "Dude, get your own board!" exploded from everyone's mouths. Without exception, every single surfer—spongers included—had pointed their boards south, straight out into open water, and were paddling with a vigor unmatched by anything but the effort put into a paddle-battle between two friends—a fight for domination over a wave, where the competition was to be the first to catch it and stand, and the prize was the ride.

Of course, I didn't see any of this. Emily and I had already taken off. "GO! GO! GO!" I shouted, eyes bright with excitement and mirth. "WE'VE GOT TO PUSH TO MAKE IT!"

My friend was screaming her poor little head off, sounding like she was nearing tears as she struggled to keep up with my pace. I had at least five years of experience on her when it came to maneuvering a board, but her panic kept her even with my feet. I couldn't help laughing as anticipation and fear and excitement threatened to overwhelm me.

The wave rose before us, easily a mountain. It took on the same hue of deep blue that the distant sea had, proving the obvious fact—this monstrosity wasn't just tall, it was deep, and it was going to crash right over our heads. Fifteen, twenty feet high; it was impossible to say. Waves simply didn't get that big around here unless there was some hurricane off of Hawaii sending pure havoc our direction.

The lift I felt as soon as I started climbing the wave was enormous. It had nearly reached its peak—the tipping point where it would suddenly keel over and crash—and I was paddling nearly straight up. I dug deeper, hands cupped for the most efficient stroke, and at last, just as I felt myself start to tip backwards, I broke through the top of the wave and made it.

With an instinct bred not from being at home on the water, but simply being more curious than the cats that trait had killed, I turned my head back and down and in a split second took in the entire scene folding out below me. I was balanced on the edge of a cliff, a goliath wall of water, which towered over the three dozen other kids that were still racing in an attempt to beat the wave. The three boys that had been furthest in to begin with had made it to shore and were sitting in the shallowest part of the breaker zone, watching the wave get ready to topple over on top of everyone else. A girl I knew vaguely from choir class—at the front of the pack because of the advantage of her long board—stared up at me and the wave with wide eyes, expertly checking behind her to make sure that no one would get crushed if she wiped out. Mr. Heinrich, on the shore, and three other parents (my dad included) had raced from the stairs down to the edge of the water and ogled at the episode. I didn't see Emily, which must've meant that she'd made it to the top just as I had and was merely suspended in that moment before everything would come crashing down.

And crash it did, with an incredible roaring sound that echoed behind me. Neither Emily nor I felt any of it, simply floating down the back as if it had been nothing more than a ripple. Breathing heavily, the both of us glanced at one another and then back at the wake of destruction. Now halfway to shore, the wave had left behind it dozens of surfers hunting down their boards, surfacing and taking headcounts, making sure that their leashes were intact...the adrenaline still pumping through my bloodstream, I let myself slip off the board and into the water, where I treaded and thanked my lucky stars that Emily and I were such cowards when it came to where we'd catch our waves.

When Mr. Heinrich blew the whistle that day, Emily didn't want to go back in for fear of being caught inside should another wave come. I ended up grabbing her leash and dragging her in, pushing her into a whitewash wave that she was forced to ride in. She hit the shore with water up her nose, sand in her wetsuit, and a pebble in her boot.

She didn't come to practice again.

I did feel kind of bad being alone once more, as I was the youngest member of the team by far, but the lack of distraction was welcome, as it gave me the chance to really apply myself to learning the ways of a short board and getting steadily better as time went on. I caught at least one wave every practice, even if I didn't manage to stay standing for more than a couple of seconds. I courteously gave up a few waves to other surfers, even if it was just because I was going to miss it anyways. And when the time came to try out for slots in the upcoming surf meet, I debated the entire practice until I finally joined the last heat for tryouts.

I only knew one other girl in my heat—she was the only other eleven-year-old that had joined the team. I felt remarkably out of place as I put on the blue jersey that Mr. Heinrich gave me and paddled out with five other girls on the far break, out of the way of the rest of the team. He called out the rules to us as we stepped into the water. Ten minutes. Play nice. As many waves as you can. Show what you can do. Stay out of everyone else's way. Have fun.

The waves were smaller that day than any other practice, and for that I was glad. Maybe I actually had a chance against these girls. Maybe I could earn my spot on this team. I paddled out quickly, stopping halfway out to catch a little inside wave that was just getting ready to break. I turned...dug in...stood...and fell. I got up and glanced to shore. My dad gave me a thumbs-up. My coach smiled. They started to talk to one another. I bit my lip and tasted the salt on my face before getting back onto the board and paddling out once more.

Four waves total in that tiny heat—and I fell off of every single one of them. But strangely enough, I found myself having fun. The water was clear in that one small portion of the beach, and the six of us laughed with one another during the two lulls that fit into our timeframe. Time seemed to stretch out longer, and by the end of it, I knew I'd missed out on my chance to represent my school in the upcoming meets—but I didn't really mind. Dripping, I jogged out of the water with a grin on my face. My dad wandered over and held the board for me before giving me a massive hug.

People were always there to support me. Later, even, I'd find out that Mr. Heinrich had extended the time in my heat. Each time I'd get up on a wave, he and my dad would wait...and I'd fall. "One more wave," he'd say every single time, according to my dad. "Just one more wave. I know she can do it."

It's easier to believe in yourself when others do first.

All throughout that school year, I both dreaded and adored those Tuesday mornings. I couldn't wake up early to save my life. I didn't like big waves. I didn't like yogurt that much, either, and the water got cold in wintertime. Yet sometimes I'd wake up to a big mug of hot chocolate. Sometimes it was so cold that only a couple of people came to practice, and my dad would take me to my favorite break at San Onofre. Sometimes I would catch one perfect wave that made me feel like it was completely worth it getting up that morning.

I don't think I realized how much I loved those Tuesday mornings—for me they were something special about who I was, where I called my home, and the way my life was back when things were simple and I was innocent. Think about it: Mondays are Mondays—the end of the weekend, drab and gray. Wednesdays are hump days—pushing through to the second half of the week. Thursdays are the stepping stone days—the day before Friday, the only weekday I can truly say is fun. Friday is the start of the weekend, a time where you can do what you like, leaving all the rest for later. Saturday is the real weekend, the day you get to sleep in, read as much as you want, when people plan their get-togethers. Sunday is the closing of a break in your week, where you finish up your business and ready yourself for the coming Monday.

But Tuesday? They're the invisible days. The days that people don't remember. The days that are just sort of there, filled with simple things that are inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

And yet it was these days that remind us—remind me—what's truly important. So whenever I slip on my wetsuit and tuck my board under my arm, I'm able to look back and map out my growth. I can see how far I've come and don't have to worry about how far there is left to go; all I have to do is compare myself to the me I used to be, the me I was on a typical Tuesday morning.