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snack and it was still before noon. I felt like I had time. I checked Janie’s garage and she still had my old Rainbow surfboard there, so I stole a pair of baggies from Janie’s husband—who, luckily, was rocking a spare tire about the size of mine—and walked the seven blocks down to 3 rd Street North.
    Everyone out surfing was wearing a wetsuit, but I wasn’t worried. I’d just rolled down the mountain from Flagstaff. My body was still used to snow and sub-freezing temperatures. Sixty-degree water wasn’t gonna kill me. Besides, the waves were good. A solid chest high and pretty good form. I remembered enough about Cocoa Beach waves to remember that this wasn’t all that common. It was almost like things were looking up for me.
    I strapped my leash on my ankle and ran for the water and, just like a grommet on his first day out, I tripped over the leash and fell on the sand. Things got worse from there.
    My board slid out from under me the first time a wave came my way. By the time I was back on the board, a new set was coming in and I got crushed by every wave of that set. My timing was off. I would try to duck under the wave and start too early and pop right into the undertow. Or I’d duck too late and get spun around by the whitewash. One wave after another. It was ugly.
    It took ten minutes for me to finally get out to the line-up. By then, I was huffing and puffing like a fat kid chasing after an ice cream truck.
    The worst thing about it was that I knew I used to be good at surfing. I did this shit every day in high school. I’d catch rides with friends down to Second Light, right by Patrick Air Force Base, and I’d hold my own with the best surfers in the area. High school girls would come out and watch us and dig it and say to me things like, “How’d you learn to do that three-sixty?” or “I saw you totally spray that kid,” or “That was pretty gnarly.” And I’d try to ride it for all it was worth. It was all I had at seventeen.
    And now, here I was on the verge of thirty, hardly able to make the paddle out and so chubby that, when I sat on my shortboard, it was completely submerged.
    That’s okay, I told myself. It’s sunny and the air is warm in January and there are waves and I’m out here now.
    The line-up wasn’t too crowded and before long, a wave came right for me. I timed it right, paddled right into it, and promptly nose-dived. This kinda set the tone for the next twenty minutes. I took off too late on the next wave and got dumped. I stood on the next wave, tried to cut up off the lip, and wiped out. I stepped on my leash when I stood on the next wave and slipped off my board. And so on.
    Thirty minutes into my session, I was exhausted and a little frustrated. I felt like even the ocean was fucking with me. Which was ridiculous. The ocean didn’t give a shit about me one way or another. It was what it was. I just needed to relax.
    I took several deep breaths. I counted to ten. Out of principle, I let a wave pass underneath me. When the next wave rolled in, I timed it right, caught it just ahead of the break, and stuck with the face of the wave. I was too heavy for my board. I felt like the wave was dragging me more than pushing me. Water lapped over the tail of the board, and I didn’t have a whole lot of speed. But I was surfing. That was all that mattered. I rode the wave all the way in to shore.
    As I walked out of the ocean, I noticed an older longboarder heading out for a session. He had short, spiky hair on the top of his head and long, curly locks in the back. He looked kinda like my brother Joe. So much so that I did a double-take. Of course he couldn’t be Brother Joe, but just seeing this old longboarder made me feel good.
    I walked across the sand and toward the boardwalk. A young, black girl was sitting there. She made me think of Rosalie White. And, of course, she couldn’t be Rosalie,