Chasing Swells Read online

  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 personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales 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 slam the door shut, just for good measure. I cut my eyes in his direction, but he can’t see my evil glare through my sunglasses. It doesn’t matter, though. Dad knows I’m pissed.

  “If you want to stay, this is your last chance to say it,” Dad says, shielding his eyes with his hand from the early morning sun. “I’d love to have you with me, but if you would rather stay with your mom, I won’t force you to go.”

  It’s not that I don’t want to be here. I just don’t want to go on this trip. I wanted this to be another Dad/Kaia summer where I lounged in the pool all day and snuck out for crazy parties with the locals at night. Dad would spend his days watching surf events, yelling at the screen about better ways to land aerial maneuvers and how that turn would’ve been better had the guy ditched the fins. At night, he’d light up the back deck with twinkle lights and fire up the grill, blissfully unaware that I would be sneaking out through my bedroom window once he retired for the night.

  That’s what summer with Dad is. It’s the smell of charcoal and the taste of fruity drinks. It’s the splash of pool water and the annoyance of tan lines. It’s salty ocean air, beach waves in my hair, and living up that ‘wild and free’ hippie life for two months.

  “I don’t want to stay with Mom,” I tell him.

  I pick up my purse and walk around to the passenger seat. I can’t deal with another day of everyone in my family drooling over the new baby. I don’t know what possessed my mom to have a second kid when her firstborn was graduating high school.

  This is the lesser of the two evils. Dad’s back in his element, and I can’t crush that. He’s been frothing for a coaching job since Neil Harper retired. For the last few weeks, he’s been all over the globe, one swell after another, coaching this 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 surf celeb now. It’s one of those things where you smile and nod while Dad shows you pictures of his adventures.

  “It’ll be like a working vacation,” Dad says, pulling his seatbelt across. “Well, you know, for me anyway. It’s a nice break from reality. You may actually like being off the grid.”

  That’s doubtful. A remote island could be someone’s idea of paradise, but only one location on the entire island with stable Wi-Fi? That’s my own personal hell. What does Dad expect me to do for hours on end while he’s in the water coaching and I don’t even have a connection to the modern world?

  “So is Donovan flying out when we do or is he taking his own personal jet?” I ask.

  Dad shoots me that bent eyebrow ‘Dad glare’ that means I need to watch my tone or my words or my attitude. Amazing how that glare can be tossed at so many different actions and still have the same effect.

  “First, his name is Dominic,” Dad corrects me, even though I knew that. “And he’s meeting us at the airport, so I expect you to put on a friendly face. I know you have one.”

  “I’ll be nice,” I concede. “It’s not like I’ll be seeing much of him anyway. You guys will be surfing, and I’ll be poolside.”

  Dad drops his Oakley shades over his eyes before pulling out of the driveway. “That’s the spirit,” he says.

  St. Catalina Island is picturesque. At least that’s the vibe I get from their website. The airport’s Wi-Fi is overloaded, but the photographs of waterfalls and fresh fruit load with ease. It’s like the universe is taunting me, showing me the hellish paradise that is stealing away my summer in my final moments with a decent connection.

  I glance over my shoulder to make sure my dad isn’t creeping around watching my every move. Then I open up Instagram. I don’t even have to search Dominic’s name. He’s at the top of my suggested list since he was the last person I scoped out on the app. He’s posted again since I looked last night. It’s a photo of his boards, sealed away in their bags, with the caption, “Island bound with the super coach!” I wonder if he even knows I’m tagging along.

  I continue to scroll through his pictures, but most are surf photos or beach pictures from places he’s visited. It’s pretty impersonal. No family photos. No hanging out with friends. Not even a few arrogant selfies, which I actually expected to see more of. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to ink some kind of modeling deal on the side with a surf brand. He looks like the type who would, and I’m sure his rich daddy could hook up him with all the right people.

  Maybe somewhere among the approximate 175,000 residents of the island, there will be a raging bonfire and fruity drinks. What Dad doesn’t know won’t hurt him. That’s my summer motto at his house every year, and I intend to abide by it on the island. It’s still summertime with my dad. It’s just uprooted thanks to the pretty boy surfer.

  I take a sip of my airport coffee, but it tastes the way I imagine garden dirt and rain water would taste. I wish I’d asked Dad to stop at Starbucks. Unlike my mom, he’s not a fan of major coffee chains, but then again, if my morning breakfast consisted of black coffee and Aspirin, I probably wouldn’t be high maintenance about it either. I walk over to the nearest trash can and drop the cup. Maybe the lack of caffeine will allow me to sleep on the flight. It may be more bearable that way.

  “He should be here any minute,” Dad says when I sit next to him. “His dad is dropping him off. He’s a good kid. I think you’ll get along with him just fine.”

  “It’s not like I’m going to be hanging out with him,” I remind Dad. “You guys are training and surfing. I’m just doing my own thing.”

  Dad looks toward the ceiling and shakes his head. “We’re staying in the same house,” he says. “There are still mealtimes, events on the island, other things. You can’t completely ignore him. I’m not saying be his best friend. Just get along and make it pleasant. I really need this job, Kaia, and I hate that it’s interfered with our summer, but I’m doing the best I can.”

  Ugghhh. The only things worse than a summer guilt trip is a sunburn and itchy bug bites.

  “I know,” I admit. “I get it. I do. I know you need this, and I am the one who said I needed an escape from life at home. My wish was your command. I just got more than I bargained for.”

  “Thanks for doing this for me,” he says. “It’s going to be fun. I promise.”

  He begins to say something else, but his gaze shoots over my shoulder and he jumps to his feet. He’s gone in a blur before I can even ask what’s up. I spin in my seat and watch Dad rush toward the admittedly beautiful brunette boy dragging two surfboard bags in with him. Another man carrying luggage stops to shake Dad’s hand.

  So that’s them – the Richardsons. I try to be nonchalant, like I’m just casually glancing o
ver, but it’s hard to play it cool when they’re basically off of the pages of magazines. His dad looks like he belongs in a fancy watch advertisement, the ones where men in expensive suits lean against a sports car while checking the time.

  And Dominic… Well, he’s exactly what I would expect of a rich kid who likes to surf. He’s tall and clean cut but also muscular and a bit edgy. He’s definitely prettier than most of the world’s top surfers. It actually makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit. He’s so clichéd, and sadly, that equals success in our society.

  I grab my phone and swipe the screen. Then I open Instagram and browse through random pictures of succulents and boho jewelry to make myself look uninterested in what’s happening around me. I don’t intend on getting to know this guy. From what I’ve heard, he acted like a crybaby over losing an event and then partied his way into flunking out of college. He may look the part of a spoiled rich kid, but he clearly lives the spoiled rich life as well. His daddy may be able to get him out of some trouble, but I’m not about to engage with that kind of drama.

  “And this is my daughter, Kaia,” Dad says as footsteps approach me. He motions a hand toward me. “She’s with me most summers, so she’ll be going with us.”

  “Oh, cool,” Dominic says, extending a hand toward me. “Dominic Richardson. Nice to meet you. Do you surf?”

  I reach for his hand, noticing every vein and how they tighten in his arm as his hand grasps mine. He smells like sunscreen, and it makes me wonder if he’s already had a morning surf.

  “Not if I can help it,” I reply. “That’s always been more of Dad’s thing.”

  “That’s a shame,” he says, exhaling a sigh after. “I figured good surf genes had to run in the family. Thought maybe you could teach me something too.”

  I scrunch my nose and shake my head. “Sorry. Not my forte. But you’re in good hands with my dad.”

  He reaches back for his carry-on bag and says something to his dad, so I use the opportunity to glance back at my phone. I pull up the ongoing group text I have with my friends back home and start to tell them about my summer predicament. I occasionally cut my eyes toward Dad and Dominic as they go through their checklist with Mr. Richardson regarding boards and equipment and whether or not they brought enough surf wax for his quiver. Dad says something about surf shops on the island as I type the words ‘he’s incredibly hot,’ but then I change my mind.

  I delete the entire thing and exit the message. One, I don’t want to admit to anyone that he’s incredibly hot. My friends don’t need to know about his chiseled jaw line or dark brown eyes or how his arm vein pops through his skin and makes me want to run my fingers over it all day long. Two, I don’t want them hounding me for photographic proof or seeking him out online. I’m not about to ask him for a photo, and I don’t want to send them screenshots of his Instagram. In fact, I don’t even want them to know he exists because they’d find a way to make this awkward as hell for me.

  And three, there’s no point in telling them anyway. We said we’d keep in touch and still be best friends forever after graduation, but I already feel us slipping into that black hole that is life after high school. Last I heard, Isabelle was headed to Costa Rica with her family, but she only sent two photos to the group text. Christa and her boyfriend broke up since they’re going to college in different states, but she didn’t want ice cream or company after the split. We’re all scattered across the galaxy, too busy to hang out and too wrapped up in our own worlds to keep up with each others. This is our new normal.

  I don’t know where they are right now, but I know my spot in the galaxy is about to be on St. Catalina Island.

  Chapter Two – Dominic

  “They’re busted,” I say, slamming the bag onto the airport floor. I kick it aside and run my hand through my hair. “Fucking busted.”

  Glenn snaps his head toward me, and I debate apologizing for the language, but when I glance down at the crease along 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 lifts board after board, shaking his head at the carnage in my bag. I bite down on my lip so I won’t curse again. Even with the extra padding, the damn kooks at the airlines still managed to wreak havoc. These things haven’t even touched water yet. They haven’t been waxed. They haven’t sat on the shoreline soaking up the sun and sand. I could ram the end of a broken board through these idiots.

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

  I clench my eyes shut, remembering that the magic carpet was in this bag. “Damn it,” I mumble. “I did bring that one.”

  He zips the bag up and offers me that apologetic face that only parents know how to give. My dad still hasn’t nailed that expression, and really, I don’t expect him to at this stage of the game, but my stepmom Cassie is a pro. She actually 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 if that will bring back the magic board from Fiji. As if that will…

  “Where’s your other board bag?” Glenn asks.

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

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

  The confusion on his face is enough, no words necessary. He asks his daughter to stay with our stuff as we rush back to see if maybe the board bag is floating around waiting for someone to claim it. Not a single employee in this tiny airport has seen it, and after multiple checks, I’m asked if the items were insured and told to talk to customer service.

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

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

  Kaia stares me down, like she’s a piece of aircraft about to fly over the Bermuda Triangle and I’m the paranormal force that sucks planes from the sky and into their demise. But she’s not having any tragic mishaps. She probably Googled me beforehand. It’d explain the death glare.

  “No boards?” she asks.

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

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

  Glenn is already explaining our exit plan to Kaia when I catch up to them. He points ahead, saying something about catching a boat to take us to the island from the mainland. A local named Santino is supposed to be picking us up. We walk outside and wait in the breeze for the car to pick us up and take us out to the docks.

  The colors of the mainland are so much brighter than California. The palm trees seem greener, and the sky is bluer. I felt this same thing in Fiji and again in Tahiti. I never realized island life could be a true paradise. I’ve always seen the cruise commercials and magazine photos, but it doesn’t compare to reality. The only “island” I’d ever seen before this past year was Horn Island, California, and that’s not even an island.

  When the car pulls up, Glenn and I load our luggage into the back. Kaia takes the passenger seat, leaving her dad and me to squeeze in the back with the bags that wouldn’t fit in the trunk. I probably shouldn’t have bothered with my busted boards, but I didn’t want to abandon them in a foreign airport.

  Glen
n chats with Santino about the upcoming swell, the best foods to try, and what time is best to get in the lineup. But Kaia and I remain silent. I don’t know where her headspace is, but I’m somewhere between the airport and Horn Island. I question if it’s even worth this. Every surf trip, every strike mission, every island… I’ve been chasing swells for months on end, thriving on jetlag and caffeine, hopping time zones like it’s no big deal.

  The exhaustion hasn’t quite caught up to me yet, but if this doesn’t pay off, it may catch up and literally kill me. It doesn’t matter how many shapers want to work with me or how many companies reach out to me after seeing my surf clips. I’m lacking in competition footage because I haven’t competed in ages, but my free surfing makes up the difference. That’s where the excitement happens anyway, when you’re free to just hit the lineup and do whatever you want on a wave. There’s no worry about scores or impressing judges. You’re just pushing your limits and impressing 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 Surf sticker on my boards. I need to be part of their team. They were my family. Drenaline Surf was home. There’s no way they’d hear me out after all that’s happened, so I have to let my surfing do the talking for me. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll see that I’ve changed along the way.

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

  Nearly an hour later, we follow Santino along the pier toward Bungalow 3, the small overwater beach house where we’ll be saying for the next few weeks. All of the bungalows look exactly the same, aside from the number above the front door. They all connect via a wooden pier that sprouts out the houses like limbs on a tree.