In the Break (6 page)

“Did you see me get air?” Jamie said.

“Did you see my snapback?” Amber said.

“Did you see my floater?” I said.

We discussed our waves as we paddled back out into the lineup. Now, however, there were many other guys waiting for waves,
guys
who lived here, and who would have to share “their” surf with us. They
would
share, no doubt about it. Because surfing is all about what you can do. Not what you talk about doing, but what you actually
do on the wave. And theoretically the guy who takes off closest to the curl of the wave, the position that is the most precarious,
has the right of way. Jamie would take off as far back as possible, and so would I, and Amber could hold her own with these
guys, I felt sure. Things could get tense if the proper rotation wasn’t adhered to. In other words, if any guy from a group
dropped in on members from another group, wild things could happen. I’d kicked out on a guy who’d dropped in on me. I’d seen
Jamie launch his board just inches from a guy who’d snaked him. I’d seen him actually nail a guy with his board, a guy who’d
had the audacity to snake him twice. I wouldn’t drop-in on Jamie. He was six feet two inches tall, not one ounce of flab on
him, and his lip was fat and his eye a little swollen from his fight with F. There were welts on his face and upper body.
His nose was kinda big anyway, and now it seemed swollen, probably broken from F’s punches on the beach yesterday. Jamie looked
like a criminal, and maybe was one, for all I knew. Maybe he’d really injured F.

The tension was lessened when we got out to the lineup and one of the guys sitting on his board said to Jamie, “Excellent.”

Jamie was the kind of surfer who inspired respect, appreciation, even, he was so good, his surfing special, rather than the
competition a less accomplished though good wave rider attracted. He could be sponsored, if he wanted. If he’d enter contests.
But he wouldn’t. He said contests are pure bullshit. Contests have nothing to do with surfing, Jamie said. They’re the opposite
of what surfing
is about, he said. Our high school surf coach said there was a spot on the team for Jamie. But Jamie said he wasn’t a performing
monkey, that surfing for him was a spiritual thing, and he wouldn’t cheapen it by competing. The surf coach said no more.

Because of that dude’s comment, when the next set came we held back, letting those guys catch the first waves, since we’d
already had rides, and a nice rotation was established, one which worked until it was too crowded for any order, and by then
the wind began to pick up. It started out as a riffle, tiny puffs of wind skirting the smooth surface but increasing steadily,
the way the sun makes for the low horizon at sunset with the tenacity of a slow-moving tortoise. Soon the waves toppled over
in an uneven fashion, and then the wind rippled the waves’ faces, making for a bumpy ride. That, coupled with all the surfers
in the water, and we knew the best part of the day for surfing was over. The strong west wind made the waves unmakeable, finally,
and it was no longer fun.

Besides, I was tired and hungry and cold, what with the big chop that covered the horizon, making whitecaps out to sea. Kelp
beds just beyond the reef kept the waves rideable far longer than would have been possible at our beach break. Still, we’d
surfed a number of hours, all morning, from what I could tell by the sun’s position in the sky, and we’d surfed some good
waves, though not as big as I hoped they would be.

By the time we got back to the parking lot at Swami’s, it was relatively empty, our car one of the few remaining. Down below,
the surfspot was blown out, the reason nobody else was around. As we toweled off I thought of my mother. A deep sinking feeling
struck me right in the gut. I shouldn’t have taken the car. Not in a strict
sense. But shit was going down last night. True, right now, we’d just gotten out of the water after surfing fun waves all
morning. At present, things didn’t seem so crucial. But last night they had been. And Jamie was safe. I was thinking that
I’d get in trouble, but when I explained the immediacy of the situation my parents might not punish me. My father would be
very angry — you’re not supposed to steal the car! Yet Jamie was still around, not arrested last night. And the bonus was
I didn’t have to be at school, either. The surf was only going to get bigger, as one large blown-out set of waves crashing
on the reef indicated.

Still, in spite of the fun waves, there was a melancholy feeling among us, for we knew that a parting of the ways was inevitable.
Jamie would have to do what he was going to do. I’d have to get my mother’s car back. Amber could return with me.

Jamie and I changed out of our wetsuits using towels wrapped around our lower bodies to hide that which needed to be hidden.
Amber put on a T-shirt so she could remove her stuff and then did the same thing with her towel hiding her lower body. After
changing we were all standing in the stiff breeze, not knowing what to say, what was to come next.

“Can I use your cell?” I asked Amber. Everyone knew the inevitable was here now.

She laughed, crinkling her nose. “I didn’t pay the bill and they cut off my service.” She had spread out a bunch of shells
on the hood of my mother’s car, things she’d collected while Jamie and I had remained in the water.

“No problem,” I said. I didn’t want to talk with my mother anyway; I was just going to leave a message on our home machine.
I
rooted through her found objects: a seagull feather; soft, rounded green glass; sand dollars; and a chunk of abalone shell.
Her usual shit.

Jamie said, “Well, I guess this is it.”

I tried to smile. “What’ll you do?”

“Keep heading south. Baja. The waves will get better and better.”

Jamie was right. The farther south you went, the better the surf would be, for the hurricane-generated waves were coming from
the south so they’d have less distance to travel, less chance to dissipate their energy. I looked at Amber and she looked
as if she were going to tear up. She looked at me for just a second and then turned her gaze out to sea.

“I’m not going back,” she said. “I can’t go back either.” She sort of puffed herself up, making her seem taller than she was
after she made her statement.

Oh, great, I thought. If Jamie were going on alone, I might have had a chance to return. He could take care of himself. The
brother and sister hitchhiking team seemed somehow pathetic to me, whereas Jamie going off on his own wasn’t.

My stomach growled so I changed the subject, something I was good at. “Let’s get something to eat. We’ll figure things out.”
I knew a great sandwich place back up the road where you could get the best avocado and sprout sandwiches in the world.

The Nuevo Papagayo had an outside deck that faced Pacific Coast Highway, where we sat eating. Amber and I had ordered avocado-and-sprout
sandwiches on that homemade wheat bread, Jamie a tuna-fish sandwich. When I heard that term I always thought it was redundant.
Like salmon fish. Or trout fish. Or lobster crustacean. But then there’s catfish. Yet cats are mammals.
Jamie also said things like “warsh” for “wash,” which pissed off Amber. And “eyetalian” for “Italian.” “You sound like an
Oakie,” Amber would tell him. “I am,” Jamie would say. Their parents were originally from Oklahoma, and Mr. Watkins used to
say things like that when he was trying to be funny.

Away from the water and not far off the highway, the afternoon was warm. We were sheltered from the wind, but could see the
giant eucalyptus trees all around rustling about. We sat in silence, enjoying the afternoon sun and each other’s company.

Remembering something funny known only to her, Amber smiled before turning her back on us, facing the sun. Before she turned
away I noticed that her eyes had small bags under them and her hair looked thicker from the salt water.

Jamie looked really tired. His nose was fat at the bridge, and he had a mouse under his right eye. The skin was scraped off
some of his knuckles.

“Well, Watkins, you sure fucked up this time,” I said.

He looked deep into my face. “At least I’m not a car thief like you.”

“Ha! You’ve never taken your mom’s car …” Then I stopped because I remembered all the shit that went down yesterday was because
he had taken F’s car.

Amber turned back to face us, seemingly glowing from the warm sun.

Jamie sighed and looked out over the highway.

I felt so comfortable with them, felt so normal, I didn’t want the moment to end. “Puntos would be unreal with the swell that’s
coming.”

The edges of Jamie’s eyes creased and he laughed his high laugh, the first time since he came out of the water yesterday.

“It would,” Amber said, her cheeks breaking into a huge, knowing smile.

How did she know? She’d never been there. Puntos was my spot. It was a peak wave, breaking in shallow water over smooth rocks.
It was just north of Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico. I’d surfed there on summer south swells, and nobody could touch me,
not even Jamie. It was my power spot.

“My aunt has a place at San Rafael. Maybe Jamie could stay for a while.” He would be safe there, and then Amber and I could
return to get him when things cooled off at home. I was already in trouble, so one more day wouldn’t matter, I figured, in
the big scheme of things.

“Would you drive us down there, Juan? Could Jamie stay there?” Amber said in a voice that made me want to do anything for
her.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve already done plenty,” Jamie said. “You should get back with the car.”

“I want to ride some big waves,” I said. “A perfect wave.”

“Ha!” Jamie said.

There was another consideration as well. Should my parents report the car stolen, the police in Mexico probably wouldn’t know
about it. But in California, they sure would. So the sooner we got south, the better chance Jamie would have of steering clear
of them. This was the bogus logic playing out in my mind. In reality, I didn’t want to look like a wuss in front of Amber.
Plus I didn’t
want to be in school; I’d rather surf big waves than waste my time being bored. And this: I didn’t want my friend cast adrift
to suffer his fate solo. We could be together for a time, maybe see him settled at my aunt’s trailer, till it was cool for
his return.

We repacked the car, loading the boards on top so that when we crossed the border there would be no doubt about our intent.

“You drive, Amber,” I said as we climbed into my mother’s 4Runner. She’d disarm the Federales at the border.

With the afternoon warmth permeating the car, and the wind rustling through the open windows as we headed south, Jamie softly
snored.

“Dog meat tacos.”

“Jamie!” Amber said.

Laughing, I spat out the bite I had just taken. I could see some dogs lying in the sun by my mother’s car, a thin pit bull
and a wiry German shepherd mix, sniffing their genitalia, scratching their backs by snaking upside down on the dirt.

It was a hot afternoon, yet in spite of the heat I could smell the smoke from wood-burning fires, smell food being cooked,
tacos and churros, and once in awhile smell the fetid stench of raw sewage as it wafted up the streets from the river. We
stood on Avenida Revolución in Tijuana, Mexico! in plain sight of the car — I’d heard all the stories about thefts when in
TJ — and had paid a boy to watch it. For a dollar, he said he’d protect our car. Since he was probably the thief, Jamie had
said, it would be in our best interest to pay.

My mother’s 4Runner was down an incline on a dirt track that led to some shacks, just off the main drag. The boy smiled and
waved to me as I memorized where we were: Revolución and Second. Not too far from a big arch that was like photos I’d seen
of the gateway to St. Louis.

“No, really,” Jamie said, “they make these tacos out of dog.” He hiccupped a few high laughs.

“Would you stop,” Amber said.

I didn’t care what they were made of, they were delicious.

There was something about the way the tacos were prepared right in the open, right on the street, the fire before you in a
rolling cart, and the cook/vendor so eager to please, his movements quick and assured. What Jamie said about dog meat was
the standard rap against Tijuana. It was a poor town, a town next to a rich city, San Diego, and the U.S. Navy was stationed
there to boot. Always there were sailors crossing the border, spending their money. Supposedly anything went. Strip shows
and whorehouses. But I’d never been here at night. Thus far it didn’t seem so bad. And this: I’d only driven on the outskirts
of town on my way south with my parents during summers when we’d stay as a family at my aunt’s trailer on the beach in Baja
California. Mexico, with its blaring poverty and wild art and tumultuous history, felt like home to me. And it was, on some
level.

Yet you’re still crossing a border, aware that you’re entering another country. That’s obvious. But the change, the border,
is so stark, so striking, so breathtaking in its contrast, that it’s almost stunning if you think about it.

You drive the I-5, the American freeway, all the way to San Ysidro. While you’re approaching you can see the hills of Tijuana
in the background, looming up, getting more distinct with each passing
mile: shacks and houses and villas with smoke curling up from maquiladora chimneys and house chimneys. A distinct contrast
from the lush, developed hills of La Jolla, say, contrasted in their tired brown appearance, end-of-summer slumping from the
persistent four months of heat already endured by its inhabitants.

As you actually cross the line of demarcation you can see to your left the orderly and repressive-looking archway where the
American agents question anyone entering the U.S. from Mexico. On this side, the side entering Mexico, there are Federales
in their khaki uniforms looking disinterested as you roll by. Then you’re funneled into waves of traffic, emptying into a
bustling and vibrant downtown, almost European, in your imagination at least. The whole transition takes a matter of minutes,
but the feeling lasts, is profound, even, when you think back on it. Especially if you’ve taken your mother’s car because
your best friend has thrashed his so-called stepfather.