Chasing Swells
by Nikki Godwin
Drenaline Surf novella #1
***
Copyright © 2017 Nikki Godwin.
All rights reserved.
First edition: August 29th,2017
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personalenjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away toother people. If you would like to share this book with anotherperson, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Ifyou’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was notpurchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.comand purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’swork.
This book is a work of fiction. Names,characters, places, and incidents either are products of theauthor’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance toactual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, orlocales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For the underdogs and the hometown heroes
Chapter One – Kaia
I cram my luggage into the back of Dad’s van and slamthe door shut, just for good measure. I cut my eyes in hisdirection, but he can’t see my evil glare through my sunglasses. Itdoesn’t matter, though. Dad knows I’m pissed.
“If you want to stay, this is your last chance to sayit,” Dad says, shielding his eyes with his hand from the earlymorning sun. “I’d love to have you with me, but if you would ratherstay with your mom, I won’t force you to go.”
It’s not that I don’t want to be here. I just don’twant to go on this trip. I wanted this to be another Dad/Kaiasummer where I lounged in the pool all day and snuck out for crazyparties with the locals at night. Dad would spend his days watchingsurf events, yelling at the screen about better ways to land aerialmaneuvers and how that turn would’ve been better had the guyditched the fins. At night, he’d light up the back deck withtwinkle lights and fire up the grill, blissfully unaware that Iwould be sneaking out through my bedroom window once he retired forthe night.
That’s what summer with Dad is. It’s the smell ofcharcoal and the taste of fruity drinks. It’s the splash of poolwater and the annoyance of tan lines. It’s salty ocean air, beachwaves in my hair, and living up that ‘wild and free’ hippie lifefor two months.
“I don’t want to stay with Mom,” I tell him.
I pick up my purse and walk around to the passengerseat. I can’t deal with another day of everyone in my familydrooling over the new baby. I don’t know what possessed my mom tohave a second kid when her firstborn was graduating highschool.
This is the lesser of the two evils. Dad’s back inhis element, and I can’t crush that. He’s been frothing for acoaching job since Neil Harper retired. For the last few weeks,he’s been all over the globe, one swell after another, coachingthis guy out of Crescent Cove. Apparently the guy’s family is rich,so they have my dad thinking he’s some kind of jet-setting surfceleb now. It’s one of those things where you smile and nod whileDad shows you pictures of his adventures.
“It’ll be like a working vacation,” Dad says, pullinghis seatbelt across. “Well, you know, for me anyway. It’s a nicebreak from reality. You may actually like being off the grid.”
That’s doubtful. A remote island could be someone’sidea of paradise, but only one location on the entire island withstable Wi-Fi? That’s my own personal hell. What does Dad expect meto do for hours on end while he’s in the water coaching and I don’teven have a connection to the modern world?
“So is Donovan flying out when we do or is he takinghis own personal jet?” I ask.
Dad shoots me that bent eyebrow ‘Dad glare’ thatmeans I need to watch my tone or my words or my attitude. Amazinghow that glare can be tossed at so many different actions and stillhave the same effect.
“First, his name is Dominic,” Dad corrects me, eventhough I knew that. “And he’s meeting us at the airport, so Iexpect you to put on a friendly face. I know you have one.”
“I’ll be nice,” I concede. “It’s not like I’ll beseeing much of him anyway. You guys will be surfing, and I’ll bepoolside.”
Dad drops his Oakley shades over his eyes beforepulling out of the driveway. “That’s the spirit,” he says.
St. Catalina Island is picturesque. At least that’sthe vibe I get from their website. The airport’s Wi-Fi isoverloaded, but the photographs of waterfalls and fresh fruit loadwith ease. It’s like the universe is taunting me, showing me thehellish paradise that is stealing away my summer in my finalmoments with a decent connection.
I glance over my shoulder to make sure my dad isn’tcreeping around watching my every move. Then I open up Instagram. Idon’t even have to search Dominic’s name. He’s at the top of mysuggested list since he was the last person I scoped out on theapp. He’s posted again since I looked last night. It’s a photo ofhis boards, sealed away in their bags, with the caption, “Islandbound with the super coach!” I wonder if he even knows I’m taggingalong.
I continue to scroll through his pictures, but mostare surf photos or beach pictures from places he’s visited. It’spretty impersonal. No family photos. No hanging out with friends.Not even a few arrogant selfies, which I actually expected to seemore of. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to ink some kind of modelingdeal on the side with a surf brand. He looks like the type whowould, and I’m sure his rich daddy could hook up him with all theright people.
Maybe somewhere among the approximate 175,000residents of the island, there will be a raging bonfire and fruitydrinks. What Dad doesn’t know won’t hurt him. That’s my summermotto at his house every year, and I intend to abide by it on theisland. It’s still summertime with my dad. It’s just uprootedthanks to the pretty boy surfer.
I take a sip of my airport coffee, but it tastes theway I imagine garden dirt and rain water would taste. I wish I’dasked Dad to stop at Starbucks. Unlike my mom, he’s not a fan ofmajor
