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Jon (cute, in an I-just-hit-a-joint way) sell me the best of the wax, best of the boards, and best of gear. I spent a small fortune on a board I was in no way qualified to ride and trotted out there determined to make it work. On my way past the parking lot, I’d passed a guy sitting on the back of his car—some kind of American muscle deal—laughing at me openly. I’d goggled for a minute—black-, white-, and orange-striped board shorts riding low on his lean hips, skin burnished dark honey from the sun, damp hair curling on his shoulders—he was yet another reason to learn to surf. I spent most of my first time out pearling while I tried to find my balance, eventually losing that board on the rocks. Black/white/orange board shorts, I found out later named Asher, had been waiting for me on the shore.
    “You givin’ up?” he’d asked, a small smile curling on his lips.
    “Does it look like I have a board anymore?” I’d snapped, annoyed beyond belief that I’d just lost a month’s rent to the rocks and the ocean. The first time in months that I’d stepped out of my comfort zone, and I’d wound up looking like a wet rat, battered, beaten, and laughed at by the ocean.
    “Wrong board anyway. Come out tomorrow. Waves are shit now anyway. I’ll show you what you need.”
    He had. My board now was a quad fish, certainly nothing as high performance as Asher’s gun board, but I couldn’t do those kind of fancy tricks anyway.
    Asher finally saw me and waved, managing to even make wiping out look cool. I paddled out to him and gave him a fist bump. (Really, one day, I had to stop doing that.)
    “Nice wipeout.”
    “Shut up.” He grinned, straddling his board with ease. “Waves are good today. I think even you could catch one.”
    “Fuck off, Asher.”
    We waited out two other hotdoggers out there—God knows I would tank their wave.
    “What’s with the leg brace?” he asked, nodding at the black stretch bandage around my thigh.
    I held it aloft briefly, shaking my head. “Strained it.”
    “You okay?”
    “Don’t I look okay?”
    “You look better than okay, sugar,” he said with a leer. It was fairly harmless. We’d already gone there. Done it a million times. Had the T-shirts. Ripped the T-shirts off. Did it again.
    “You see the posters for the next competition? They’re going up to Big Key in three weeks,” I said, already knowing what his response would be. Or lack thereof.
    For some odd reason, Asher seemed determined to hide his talent. He lived in a small bungalow near the beach and taught surf classes for the curious tourists that landed on our beach every now and again. As far as I knew, he lived in bare feet and board shorts.
    He cut me a sideways look that made his already exotically shaped eyes even more pronounced. “Is that a hint or a question?”
    “It’s whatever you want it to be. Entry fee is a couple hundred. Although you could probably get BoardWay to sponsor you.”
    The surf shack on the beach would definitely sponsor him. He was practically a legend out here.
    “You come out here to lecture me or surf? And you’re corking again.”
    I resettled my center of gravity, grumbling about ungrateful people who hid their light. I took the next wave that broke, not waiting for Asher’s advice, irritated with his stubbornness. I wiped out summarily, but not before getting a few seconds of air.
    “Better,” I sputtered, clinging to my board like a lifeline.
    “Certainly can’t get worse,” Asher agreed cheerfully.
    I grinned. We floated a moment before I pointed out a beauty of a wave and said, “Wait, wait, this is going to be my Blue Crush moment.”
    Asher laughed, managing to utter, “Go for it, dude.”
    As the wave came closer, he pointed, voice raised above the beating surf. “This is it. Cut right!”
    I paddled like mad before rising up smoothly on my board like I’d been doing it all my life—actually I’d been practicing on my bed. I gripped the center with