It’s Saturday morning, and Dick’s back in Huntington Beach sitting on a bench beside the pier, eating a burger from Duke’s Surf Shack. As he eats, he peruses the news, looking to see if there’s been any update on the search for Diego Ramirez. Today, the two-week-old story doesn’t get a mention.
The day is stunning, spring in its finale. The sky is cloudless blue and the wind sweet and light.
Hamilton arrives first, two boards under his arms. Frankie shows up a few minutes later. They walk to the smooth sand near the water, and Hamilton lays the boards between them. Dick watches as Hamilton gestures to the water, and he realizes he is explaining the currents and describing the different kinds of waves. Dick wishes he were closer so he could hear the lesson. The more Hamilton talks, the more Frankie seems to relax, at one point even working up the courage to ask a question.
Hamilton lies on one of the boards and demonstrates how to paddle and pop to your feet. Frankie lies down, and Hamilton makes a few adjustments, the two now laughing like old friends. Frankie tries popping up like Hamilton did, and Hamilton playfully shoves him off and takes his place. Frankie tries to shove him off the way Hamilton did to him, but it’s like the guy has glue on his feet. His body moves this way and that, but he never loses his balance.
Dick finds himself smiling as he watches and getting excited when, finally, they tie the leashes to their ankles and walk toward the water. Frankie steps tentatively into the frigid Pacific, while Hamilton seems immune.
When they’re thigh deep, Hamilton holds Frankie’s board so he can climb on, then he lies on his own board, and together they paddle out. The waves are small, but each time one hits, Frankie tumbles. Patiently, Hamilton waits for him to scrabble back on, and they set off again. Finally, a dozen spills later, they’ve made it past the break and are straddling their boards with a dozen other surfers. Though they’re too far for Dick to see their expressions, he imagines Frankie smiling wide.
A set rolls in from the horizon, and Hamilton slides off his board and shoves it out of the way so he can get behind Frankie.
“Paddle!” he yells, the command loud enough for Dick to hear on the beach.
Dick holds his breath as Frankie flails his skinny arms and as Hamilton motors him from behind. The wave catches up. Hamilton disappears. Frankie topples off.
When Hamilton pops up, he has hold of Frankie’s board. Frankie scrabbles back on, and they paddle back out. They wait for another set and do it again.
Frankie’s definitely no natural. He looks like a slippery eel trying to paddle on a stick of soap. But what he lacks in innate ability, he makes up for in determination. Though he looks exhausted, with barely enough strength to pull himself back onto the board, time and again he returns to the other surfers.
Finally, Hamilton says something that ends it, and Dick watches, disappointed, as they paddle back toward shore. He feels terrible for Frankie. He was trying so hard, and surfing is tougher than it looks.
Halfway to the beach, Hamilton says, “Stop.”
Dick looks past them to see a wave breaking a hundred yards away. Like before, Hamilton ditches his own board and gets behind Frankie.
“Paddle!” he roars.
The whitewater races toward them, and Frankie swims with everything he has. Dick can barely see Hamilton but knows he’s there by how fast Frankie is moving, his board being propelled by Hamilton’s amazing strength.
Go! Dick encourages. Go. Go. Go.
And it happens. The whitewater takes hold, and Frankie is no longer paddling but instead is holding on for dear life, his face a mix of terror and exhilaration, and it’s all Dick can do not to cheer.
He makes it to within twenty feet of the beach before tumbling off, then pops from the water, a huge grin on his face. He looks back at Hamilton, who is still treading water a hundred yards away, and raises his fist in triumph. Hamilton gives a shaka wave back, then climbs on his own board and rides to shore to join him.
Hamilton high-fives Frankie, then grabs both boards and heads for his truck.
Frankie bounds after him. “Wait. Mr. Ray?”
Dick smiles at the kid’s polite use of “mister” in front of Hamilton’s name.
Hamilton turns, and Frankie says, “I want to go out again. Will you take me out again?”
Hamilton smiles warmly, much nicer to Frankie than he was to Matt or the skinny kid. “Frankie, you did great, and that was fun, but I can’t just give lessons away for free.”
“How much do they cost?” Frankie blurts, his joy buzzing so bright Dick feels it all the way to his spine.
“Fifty an hour.”
“Oh,” Frankie says, his energy deflating. “Okay. Well, thanks again for today.”
Hamilton starts to turn but then lets out a sigh and turns back. “Tell you what, maybe we can work something out.”
Frankie brightens. “What? I’ll do anything.”
The words send a shiver down Dick’s spine.
Hamilton thinks, then his eyes widen with an idea. “Housework,” he says.
“Housework?”
“Yeah. My house is a mess, and I was going to hire someone, but if you want, we can make a trade instead.”
Frankie swallows. “I guess I can do that.”
Hamilton sticks out his hand, and Frankie shakes on it. “Meet me here tomorrow. You’ll clean my house, then we’ll surf.”
The shiver grows. Frankie’s around twelve, and Hamilton must know, with his record, having a twelve-year-old boy alone in his house isn’t a good idea.
“Does it have to be tomorrow?” Frankie stammers. “It’s Sunday, and my family goes to church. Can we do it another day?”
“Fine,” Hamilton says, seeming to lose patience. “Wednesday, four o’clock.”
“That would be great,” Frankie says excitedly, eager to please. “Thank you, Mr. Ray.” He bounds away, and Hamilton continues toward his truck, a smile on his lips Dick can’t quite read.
Dick watches Hamilton go. Today is Saturday, which means he has four days to figure out if teaching Frankie to surf is all Hamilton has in mind. He really wants to believe it is and for this to turn out exactly as it seems, surf lessons in exchange for a bit of housework.
He turns in the direction Frankie is walking to see him disappear into an arcade. Dick follows and catches up just as Frankie is exalting Matt and three other boys about his lesson, making his success far grander than it was.
Dick interrupts. “Hey, guys.”
They all look at him.
“I’m a reporter with Orange Coast Magazine, and I’m doing a story on local surfers. I overheard you talking. Who are you talking about?”
Matt jumps in. “Ray Hamilton. Guy’s sick on a board.”
“And he gives lessons to you kids?”
Matt frowns. “Just some kids.” He jerks his head at Frankie. “Wieners like this.”
“You’re the only one he’s taught?” Dick asks.
“Nah,” Matt says before Frankie can answer. “He also taught Zack.”
Dick pulls out his phone. “Can I get your name?” he says to Frankie. “For the story.”
“Frank Kramer.”
“And Zack’s name?”
“Zack Kuchinskis.”
“Do one of you boys happen to have his number?”