I surfed Nirvana Farm and another spot farther down the shore with Tara. It was a place called the Wreck because a steamship had run aground there in the 1930s. You could still see chunks of the hull on the shore, and part of it was beneath us where we surfed in the clear dark water. The waves were perfect A-frames with a right and a left ride from the peak. Tara and I could both take off at the same time and turn in opposite directions, sliding smoothly down away from the peak. We were still sitting near the break at the Wreck when Tara said, “You know, you should surf in the contest this weekend.” I had decided to steer clear. “No way. I’d get chewed up.” “Not necessarily. You’d have three options. Go in the junior men’s division. Or go in the longboard. Or go in both. Hey, what do you have to lose?” “It’s not my scene. I’m a loner, remember?” “Well,” she said, paddling for an upcoming wave, “I’ve entered the women’s category. And there’s some stiff competition.
