Chapter 25

I told Kim about my sports massage revelation on the way to school the next day. She listened without saying anything. When I finished, she looked at me and asked, “Seriously? You’re concerned that you weren’t as prepared as you could have been?”

“No. Well, yes, but also, how did I forget something that I thought was a big deal just a year ago? Why am I writing stuff down in my journal if it’s not helping me?” I held the door for her, she got out of the car and we started walking to the entrance. She stopped us.

“We’ve been together nearly two years. We’ve been from Puerto Rico, to Atlanta, to Nashville together, along with every beach in South Carolina. You learned to ride. A lot. We’ve done a lot in the last two years. You rarely make mistakes, get pissed off when you miss a test question, and you never make the same mistake twice. You got pissed off when you missed, what was it, three questions on the SAT test, and they wouldn’t tell you which ones. News bulletin, everyone makes mistakes. Everyone misses stuff. Everyone forgets things.” She was frustrated with me.

“I don’t want to make mistakes and forget things, though.”

“Tough shit, Jack. It happens. Let it go. There’s your lesson. You don’t always remember. You don’t always get stuff exactly right. Write it down so you remember that. Sheesh. Especially write down what you did to me last night. Don’t ever forget that,” she said, smiling, and, undoubtedly, trying to change the subject.

Teachers struggled to get us all motivated. We have three weeks of classes between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thanksgiving decorations were still half up, but some teachers had taken them down, and Christmas decorations would soon follow. I thought teachers needed to be motivated just as much as we did. The days were shorter, and it was getting cooler. The tourists were long gone. Our football season was over, and the girls didn’t have their cheerleading competition until after the new year.

If that wasn’t enough, the beach was getting cool, and the water was definitely cold; our pool was closed, and I didn’t really need to be in shape for baseball. It was a good thing that I didn’t need anything to motivate me. I was a man of excellence. That was my standard. Keep telling myself. Keep telling myself.

At lunch that day, Gizmo sat across from me and next to Kim. “Do you want to go surfing with me this afternoon?” he asked.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“The surf at Folly Beach today is just as good as it is at Pipeline.”

“Pipeline in Hawaii? The place that’s on the cover of Surfer Magazine six times a year?”

“Yup.”

“And you’re telling me that the surf at Folly Beach is just as good? I don’t believe it.”

“Well, they’re both flat as a pancake, so you can believe it.”

“Wait. You’re telling me it’s terrible, but since it’s terrible at Pipeline, too, you want to go surfing?”

“Exactly. That way, I can tell my grandchildren that I surfed the Washout when it was as good as the Pipeline.” The Washout was the name for the north end of Folly Beach, where the surf was marginally better.

“You’re doing this so you have a story to tell.” He nodded. “Is that why you lit my shoe on fire last season, so you would have a story to tell?”

“No. That was so you have a story to tell. I can’t tell it. That’s not how it works.” Only Gizmo would think like that.

“Do you want me to light your shoe on fire so you have a story to tell?”

“No. You can’t do the same thing. Then, we’d have the same story. It would have to be different.” I was speechless. Kim held her stomach to keep from hurting. She laughed so hard.

“You’re something else, Gizmo. I don’t even know your first name. Nobody does.”

“Sure, you do. Gizmo.”

“That’s not a nickname?”

“No. My real name is Gizmo. Want to go surfing?”

“So that I have a story to tell?”

“Yup. And tomorrow, if the weather holds, we can do it again when the surf is just as good as Waimea Bay.”

“How would you know? How do you know it’s flat at the Pipeline today?”

“I call the number.” I had no idea. “There’s a number you can call and they tell you the surf conditions at every place in the movie Endless Summer. It’s in California, so it’s a long-distance call. Cheaper than flying to Hawaii.”

“Do it, Jack. Go surf those big waves,” Mel said, and Kim agreed.

“I don’t have a board and I’ve never been before.”

“Got you covered, Aquaman.”

That afternoon, the pool was closed, and our PE class was in basketball. I can dribble. I can pass. I can guard. I can rebound. I can’t shoot. You have to practice for that. Since I was tall, I played center. My team would throw the ball in deep to me, and I’d find the open man. I could do that, then turn around and wait for the rebound if he missed. It was actually kind of fun.

When school was out, Gizmo and I stopped at his house and picked up two surfboards, and drove to the Washout. Kim had taken my car to my house. I got a crash course on how to surf, and we paddled out in some very cold water. All I had to do was catch one wave, and then I’d have a story to tell. So said Gizmo.

He had given me a large ‘fun board’ to try to ride. It was a big board, which meant it was very forgiving and didn’t mind if the waves were small. That was a good thing since the waves were small. I lost count of how many times I tried to catch a wave before I figured out the timing of it. When I finally caught one, I waited too long to stand up and had to start over. I was getting a great workout.

Finally, I caught a little wave, grabbed the edges of the board, and popped up, with both feet landing on the board at the same time. I stood up, sort of, kept my balance for about two seconds, and then fell off. Tada. Gizmo caught three or four waves, complained that it was too cold, and we paddled in.

It was a lot less exciting than I’d hoped for, even knowing how small our waves were. “You surfed the Washout when it was as big as the Pipeline. Not a lot of people can say that.”

“I’m not sure I can say that. You’re a nut, Gizmo.”

“Thanks. I strive. You’re officially a surfer.”

What I wanted to be was warm. I wanted nothing more than to be wearing my warm-up poncho. He drove me back to my house and dropped me off. I thanked him for the unique experience. He laughed and was gone.

Mom and Kim were cooking dinner together. I’m pretty sure it was some African recipe I’d never heard of. There were a dozen spice bottles on the counter. I read the labels, and I hadn’t heard of most of them either. What was Sumac or Grains of Paradise, anyway, and wasn’t Sumac poisonous? Cardamom? Who knew?

“Well?” Kim asked.

“I’m officially a surfer, according to Gizmo.” I told them about how much work it was for such little satisfaction. They seemed unimpressed.

Dane was home in time to join us for dinner. We had some chicken dish with a yellow sauce that tasted somewhat nutty, over rice. Our salad looked suspiciously American. Neither Kim nor I had any homework, and we drove to the center to see how much tutoring we could do.

I had Micah and Adam that night. Micah was doing better with his manners, and I thought perhaps his self-esteem had gone up a bit because of it. Adam was usually really quiet, and I had a chance to get to know him a little better. Micah actually seemed interested. Since Micah’s world revolved around Micah, that was unusual, too. The more I got to know Adam, the more he seemed like a young Bobby. He had a wicked sense of humor, but he rarely used it.

One of the things we were surprised to learn was that many of our kids were on some sort of psychotropic drug. We had learned the names and uses of a half dozen drugs. Ritalin and Clonidine for hyperactive kids, Imipramine and Lorazepam for depression and anxiety, and Lithium as some sort of mood stabilizer were the most common, but there were others. Since we worked with the kids right before bedtime, one of the staff came out with their meds. They didn’t complain or question it. This was normal for them.