Surf's Up!

Chapter 1 Encinitas, California The early morning coastal fog had receded enough that the roof on which Raven worked was dry enough to be safe. Although the fog had rolled back from the beach, it left a few curling tendrils here and there. Beneath the thicker layer the Pacific was still gray, but where sunlight caught it the water undulated like a piece of Navajo turquoise rimmed in silver froth. The salty air was cool, fresh, and invigorating. He heard the occasional call of a gull, counterpoint to the incoming waves as they rushed the shore with a soft shoosh. Humming a chant to the morning while kneeling on padded knees, he slid another square of terracotta-colored roofing material in place and nailed it down with an electric gun. He didn’t mind the physical labor, but the roof would warm up mid-morning and before two o’clock it would be too hot to be safe. He smiled. And then I will surf. “Hey, boss. What’re you doin’ here?” Raven sat back on his heels and peered down. “Hi, Jack. Kemper twisted his ankle, so I’m filling in today so we can meet our contract deadline. Johnson’ll be here tomorrow and will stay until Kemp returns.” “Scary to see the chief doing grunt work. Glad to know you ain’t lost the company and we’re all out of work.” Raven laughed. “Not hardly. You don’t have to worry about missing any paychecks.” Condor Building and Design was not only healthy, it was expanding. With the newest contracts coming in, they were actually planning to add more office and construction staff. Pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes with a piece of torn toweling, he looked at the surfers patiently waiting for the big swell that promised a thrilling ride to shore. The swells were five and six feet today, with an occasional seven footer. Perfect for some great rides. He returned to his nailing. About one thirty, he called an end to work for the day. Jack wiped the sweat from his face with an old red rag. “How about a beer and Mex food?” “Thanks, but I’m hitting the water. Surf’s up.” “Forgot you’re a dude. Hell. Tried one of those goddamn boards and fell off every time. Got hit in the head once and almost drowned. Let me fish from a dock and I do jes’ fine.” Raven clapped him on the back and wished him luck. “You ever fish?” Jack asked. “On the Klamath River. From canoes, not docks, you chicken.” Jack roared with laughter, and Raven grinned. He didn’t add that he’d helped build those canoes. He’d grown up in northern California on an Indian reservation, fishing with other members of his tribe. As a kid, he’d also hunted for dentaliums where the river met the mighty Pacific Ocean. Those particular shells were used as decorations for native regalia and could be fashioned into souvenirs to sell. One day while hunting for shells he found a broken Boogie Board in a public beach’s trash can. He repaired it and taught himself to body surf by observing those who did. In time, he sold enough shells to repair a discarded surf board and mastered that water sport, too. Now he shook off the memories and headed toward his truck. Growing up had had its moments, but almost ninety per cent of his relatives lived in poverty. To survive on the reservation, they had raised food, eaten the animals they hunted or what they caught from the river or ocean. They earned money from selling shell jewelry. At least they didn’t panhandle on public streets like the people he’d seen on the sidewalks here. Every day he thanked the Spirits of his people that his father had taken his small family into the white world. An intelligent man despite humble beginnings, his dad found good work as a skilled carpenter and encouraged his oldest son to apply for a college scholarship. It was granted, and Raven was graduated with a degree in architectural engineering. Together he and his father founded the company with Raven its chief designer. Reaching his truck, Raven changed his boots for the freedom of beach shoes and grabbed a tuna salad sandwich and a cola in one of the small cafés on the Pacific Coast Highway. An historical marker in the parkway declared that under Spanish rule the highway had been El Camino Real—the king’s highway. Now it was a bustling four-lane road that followed the line of the sea with railroad tracks running parallel on the opposite side of the street. Eager to be on the water, he barely tasted his lunch, finishing it in about three bites and a chugalug swallow. He pulled his board from his truck and made his way down the cliff stairs to the hot sand. Digging the board’s point into its glinting grains so it stood upright resting against the yellowish cliff wall, he let his shirt and jeans drop to his towel as he stripped down to boy-cut surfer shorts. Under the burning rays of the sun it seemed ridiculous to pull on a tight Neoprene wetsuit, but the breezes out beyond the breakers could chill a wet body while you straddled your board for hours awaiting the next ride. It also protected you from burning the major part of your physique. Sunscreen on his face and hands, goggles over his eyes, and he was ready. Cradling the width of his heavy board between hip and armpit, he reached the dampened sand and waded into the salty water. Later it would become a warm friend, but on this first encounter the cold Pacific shocked as it always did. Dreading that coldness, he forced himself to take in a breath and duck under until he was wet all over. Coming up, he waded out knee deep, then stretched out belly down on his board and paddled out to the bone yard, the place beyond where the waves broke. He sat astride and waited. Patience paid its dividends as he floated. He finally caught a big wave and stood—hanging five—whooping as happiness filled him and the ocean caught his board and swept unerringly to the shore, where it died. With the sun on his face and his board gliding on the green liquid, he felt like king of the sea. Gone were any other concerns in his life. He caught the curl of a cruncher or two, imagining he rode the dangerously huge ones found off the coasts of Hawaii and Australia. Traffic was heavy on the water today. There were near collisions, and one dork dressed in ragged Hawaiian baggies had difficulty steering his way through the crowd. He almost collided with Raven, who yelled, “Watch it!” before eating it to avoid a wipe out. Another guy riding in all the way picked up his board and said, “That guy’s gonna get someone hurt.” “Or himself. He leaves alcohol breath big as a cruncher in his wake,” a young woman in a bikini pretty close to revealing all, said. “It’s stupid to surf drunk,” Raven added. The massive strength of the sea was uncontrolled, unkind, and deadly. “Inebriation out here’s as dangerous as it is while you’re behind the wheel of a car or on a motorcycle.” As the afternoon wore on, Raven’s arms and legs grew heavier and his teeth chattered from the cold. He realized most of the surfers had left the water for the night. The earth was turning its way to nightfall and the moon’s gravity was doing its job, too. Ebbtide had begun, and in his pursuit of pleasure he’d also drifted out of the surfing area. Not wanting to encounter the rocks along this part of the shore, he paddled into a small cove and stepped off his board. He noticed a battered older board bobbing in the surf, so he retrieved it lest it hurt someone or be lost. Pulling his goggles up to his forehead, he hefted his board to his hip and pulled up sharply as his toe caught on something and almost threw him to the ground. What the hell? He’d almost stumbled over a colorful cloth bundle in his path. On closer look, it was the guy dressed in the tattered Hawaiian baggies. He’d obviously emptied his stomach several times and was now in a stupor, asleep face down in the wet sand. Alarm shot through Raven. If the dork was sleeping off a drunk, the morning’s incoming tide might drown him.