Kit taught Poppy all the parts of the board: nose, tail, deck, rails. Before they even got in the water she lectured her about safety, which made Poppy think Kit was a little less cool, because safety was something only adults were supposed to care about.
Poppy’s parents took the ocean seriously. Over the years, Poppy and Ann had frequently lost track of the shore while they were swimming. Depending on the direction of the wind, the gentle pull of the tide would slowly and imperceptibly tug them north toward Truro, or south toward Orleans. They’d get caught up in their bodysurfing, and when they looked at the beach for the lifeguard stand and the familiar yellow umbrella marking their parents’ encampment, they’d see only a blank expanse of sand. Suddenly, they would swim to shore and race down the beach, finding Ed and Connie frantically calling out their names. They knew that the pull of the ocean could take their girls away into unsafe waters, farther from the main swimming areas, where the seals swam and the sharks followed.
Safety was just as serious for Kit as it was for Poppy’s parents. She had a kind of reverence for it, barking out what sounded more like commands than bits of advice. “Never let your board get between you and the wave. Always hold the nose up. Don’t ever think you know where your board is when you pop. Cover your head no matter what. If it’s behind you and a wave is coming, the board’ll smash you in the head or crack your nose. Hurts like hell, trust me. That’s why my nose whistles when I breathe.”
Before they even got in the water, Kit taught Poppy how to paddle on dry land. She also made her practice lifting up her chest, bringing her right leg forward and planting it sideways on the board while her other leg dragged behind it. She practiced squatting, arms down. “Don’t look at your feet. Look at the horizon. Imagine the water is rushing around you. Squat. Bring down your center of gravity.”
Poppy, anxious and tired of imagining surfing, finally got into the water. It was cold and exhilarating, and the board was huge and hard to manage. Kit sounded like a drill sergeant, and Poppy internalized Kit’s voice.
“Get on your board when the water is waist high. Paddle to the sandbar. Use your shoulders! Now go to where the waves are breaking. Turn around and face the shore. Look behind you for the wave. OK, here it comes. You’re going to need to learn how to watch for waves. OK now paddle, paddle, lift up your chest, feel it, feel it, now go!”
Poppy stood up her very first time. She loved the feeling of the water under her board, loved the energy of the surf, loved the rush of adrenaline. This was way better than researching history or babysitting rich kids. And it was way better than what she was before that moment: Gordo’s daughter, her mother’s sidekick, Ann’s pesky younger sister, Michael’s coffee shop buddy. She was always somebody else’s something; never anything special on her own. She didn’t stir the pot the way Ann did, she didn’t tug at anyone’s heartstrings like sweet Michael. Everyone thought she was just a space cadet, quiet and dreamy. And now here she was, on top of the ocean.
“You got it, girl!”
Poppy didn’t ride her first wave for long, maybe ten seconds, just long enough to know she’d never had more fun. It was as if the moment she stood up on the water she’d finally become her true self. She’d heard of people who knew they were alcoholics after their first sip of whiskey. Poppy was addicted to surfing after her first wave.