If it’s not worth doing, do it anyway. That’s my motto. It keeps me going. Leaving Willis Harbor knocked the wind out of me. Moving to the city was not my idea. I liked my old hometown by the sea. I had lots of time to myself. I had the sea. I had my skateboard. I was the only skate-boarder in that small town. And I had the rocks, the Ledges, as they’re called. At the Ledges I pictured myself as the boy with wings. The Wingman. That’s not what they called me in the city. The guys I met at the skate park on the commons tried out a whole lot of names on me. But the one that stuck was this: Freak. Skate Freak. That first Friday afternoon it was crowded at the downtown skate park. Everybody knew each other. There were kids on Razors, rollerblades, mountain bikes, freewheelers and, of course, skate-boards. The skaters ruled. The other kids were just in the way. And the skaters—well, some of them were good. I’d never skated a real skate park, not a manmade one anyway. Back home, I had the main road, a paved roadside ditch, one church railing and—the big challenge—the Ledges.
