the center of my brand new board, I can’t.

“Maybe it’s just this bag,” he says,assessing the damage.

I move aside as Glenn kneels down and liftsboard after board, shaking his head at the carnage in my bag. Ibite down on my lip so I won’t curse again. Even with the extrapadding, the damn kooks at the airlines still managed to wreakhavoc. These things haven’t even touched water yet. They haven’tbeen waxed. They haven’t sat on the shoreline soaking up the sunand sand. I could ram the end of a broken board through theseidiots.

“Aww hell,” Glenn says. “Is this the onefrom our Fiji trip?”

I clench my eyes shut, remembering that themagic carpet was in this bag. “Damn it,” I mumble. “I didbring that one.”

He zips the bag up and offers me thatapologetic face that only parents know how to give. My dad stillhasn’t nailed that expression, and really, I don’t expect him to atthis stage of the game, but my stepmom Cassie is a pro. Sheactually means it, though. My dad doesn’t do pity.

“Maybe the other bag made it in one piece,”Glenn says, as if that will mend my shattered surfer heart. As ifthat will bring back the magic board from Fiji. As if thatwill…

“Where’s your other board bag?” Glennasks.

I snap out of my sorrow. I haven’t seen myother board bag since we landed. I’d actually thought Glenn grabbedit alongside his bag.

“Did you not have it?” I ask. “I didn’t seeit at baggage claim. I thought maybe you’d picked it up.”

The confusion on his face is enough, nowords necessary. He asks his daughter to stay with our stuff as werush back to see if maybe the board bag is floating around waitingfor someone to claim it. Not a single employee in this tiny airporthas seen it, and after multiple checks, I’m asked if the items wereinsured and told to talk to customer service.

“It’s okay,” Glenn says, like this isn’t theworst thing in the world. “I’ll talk with someone and see what wecan do. We’ll see if we can get the boards replaced.”

I shake my head as we walk back over to ourluggage. “Forget about it. I’ll call my dad. He can have someboards overnighted,” I say. “I’ll just tell him what happened. Myshapers have all my measurements on hand. They can whip somethingtogether. I have the other Fiji boards at home too.”

Kaia stares me down, like she’s a piece ofaircraft about to fly over the Bermuda Triangle and I’m theparanormal force that sucks planes from the sky and into theirdemise. But she’s not having any tragic mishaps. She probablyGoogled me beforehand. It’d explain the death glare.

“No boards?” she asks.

“Well, I have some busted ones, if thatcounts.” I motion toward the bag. “Can’t exactly ride those,though.”

She looks through me, as if I’m not evenhere or maybe because she doesn’t give a damn about me or my brokensurfboards or being here this summer. She shrugs and grabs herluggage before following her dad and leaving me behind with myshattered pride and damaged equipment.

Glenn is already explaining our exit plan toKaia when I catch up to them. He points ahead, saying somethingabout catching a boat to take us to the island from the mainland. Alocal named Santino is supposed to be picking us up. We walkoutside and wait in the breeze for the car to pick us up and takeus out to the docks.

The colors of the mainland are so muchbrighter than California. The palm trees seem greener, and the skyis bluer. I felt this same thing in Fiji and again in Tahiti. Inever realized island life could be a true paradise. I’ve alwaysseen the cruise commercials and magazine photos, but it doesn’tcompare to reality. The only “island” I’d ever seen before thispast year was Horn Island, California, and that’s not even anisland.

When the car pulls up, Glenn and I load ourluggage into the back. Kaia takes the passenger seat, leaving herdad and me to squeeze in the back with the bags that wouldn’t fitin the trunk. I probably shouldn’t have bothered with my bustedboards, but I didn’t want to abandon them in a foreign airport.

Glenn chats with Santino about the upcomingswell, the best foods to try, and what time is best to get in thelineup. But Kaia and I remain silent. I don’t know where herheadspace is, but I’m somewhere between the airport and HornIsland. I question if it’s even worth this. Every surf trip, everystrike mission, every island… I’ve been chasing swells for monthson end, thriving on jetlag and caffeine, hopping time zones likeit’s no big deal.

The exhaustion hasn’t quite caught up to meyet, but if this doesn’t pay off, it may catch up and literallykill me. It doesn’t matter how many shapers want to work with me orhow many companies reach out to me after seeing my surf clips. I’mlacking in competition footage because I haven’t competed in ages,but my free surfing makes up the difference. That’s where theexcitement happens anyway, when you’re free to just hit the lineupand do whatever you want on a wave. There’s no worry about scoresor impressing judges. You’re just pushing your limits andimpressing yourself. I guess that’s why they call it a free surf.It catches people’s attention for sure.

But the truth is, I need that Drenaline Surfsticker on my boards. I need to be part of their team. They were myfamily. Drenaline Surf was home. There’s no way they’d hear me outafter all that’s happened, so I have to let my surfing do thetalking for me. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll see that I’vechanged along the way.

Vin Brooks may never hand me a contract tosign, but I will fight through every broken board, every injury,and every tabloid story for the chance to have their logo on mysurfboards.

Nearly an hour later, we follow Santinoalong the pier toward Bungalow 3, the small overwater beach housewhere we’ll be saying for the next few weeks. All of the bungalowslook exactly the same, aside from the number above the front door.They all connect via a wooden pier that sprouts out the

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