“To stop the wetsuits rubbing around the neck and under the arms when you’re paddling out,” explained Mitch. “We won’t need them today—the water at this time of year is around 63oF.”
I made a note of that and snapped a quick photo of the back of the van with all the boys pulling faces and flipping the bird.
“Caroline brought food,” Sebastian announced happily.
They must have all been starving because the rolls evaporated like water in the desert, and the pressé was passed around between them. I was sure I could have brought twice as much food, and it would have disappeared the same way.
We drove across the spectacular Coronado Bridge, then headed south, stopping occasionally for a surf check.
Mitch explained that they were looking for a steady swell and offshore breeze to hold up the waves; the best conditions for producing long, workable rides.
In the end, Mitch pulled up at the side of the road near Cays Park and the boys spilled out of the back, their reckless enthusiasm catching. Mitch and Bill were somewhat more circumspect, but I couldn’t tell whether that was because of their seniority, or because I was inhibiting them from the whole male-bonding ritual.
“Just forget I’m here,” I added, somewhat helplessly. “I’ll just watch and soak up the vibe.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Bill, smiling at me, as he tugged off his t-shirt to reveal a barrel chest, thickly coated with reddish-brown hair.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sebastian scowl at him, yanking off his own t-shirt. His skin was the same beautiful, golden color that I remembered, but I’d not noticed before how well muscled he was. All those hours of surfing had left him with long, lithe muscles, and a marvelously toned body. In fact all of them were in great shape. I wondered if I should get into surfing, although 63oF didn’t sound that warm to me.
Mitch handed Sebastian a garish red and yellow board, smiling kindly. It was then I remembered that Sebastian’s own father had destroyed the blue surfboard I’d first seen him with.
I took some more snaps as they posed for the camera, and then watched as they sprinted into the water and paddled out beyond where the waves were breaking. I knew from my half-hour of research that this was called the line-up. They sat there, a gaudy flock, waiting for their wave. As the swell approached, they all started paddling, their arms stroking through the sea, the green water lifting them up; they raced down the shoulder of the wave, so graceful, so powerful. It took my breath away to watch them. Then, inevitably, the wave broke and they all dived off in different directions, bobbing to the surface seconds later.
After I’d watched for a while, Sebastian caught a wave that carried him into the beach, and he jogged over to join me, flicking his hair out of his eyes, skin glistening.
“You finished already?”
“I thought it might help if I explained some more—for your article.”
“That would be great—it all looks kind of the same to me.”
He laughed lightly. “Not really. See, Mitch is using a long board with a rounded nose. He can work the smaller waves with that, and do some hippy shit like hang ten. Ches is riding a short board, so he can slash across the wave, catch some air and do the more radical stuff.”
I had no idea what he’d just said to me—it was like learning a foreign language, but for some reason his words made me smile.
“What sort of board do you have—have you borrowed?”
“This is a short board, a thruster; same as Ches and Fido. See how fast they’re going there? You can’t do that on a long board.”
I began to see what Sebastian meant about the surfing styles as he patiently pointed out the differences, then named and described the different maneuvers. I made copious notes and was pretty sure I could turn this into a workable article.
“How many guys on the Base surf?”
“Quite a lot: once you’ve got your board, the ocean is free. You can be an individual out here—you know, different from military stuff.”
I got what he meant immediately: there were no rules out here, no regulations, no one barking orders at you.
“Well, there are some rules,” Sebastian said, seriously. “Firstly, you don’t drop in and steal someone’s wave. That’s bad etiquette. The guy who takes off first—that’s his wave.”
“And the second?”
“You go help anyone in trouble.”
Obvious, when you think about it.
“Sebastian, don’t let me keep you from your friends; I’m quite happy to sit here and watch.”
He shook his head and looked at me intently.
“I can surf anytime; I’d rather be here with you.”