The surfing competition begins bright and early on Saturday morning. Held on the stretch of beach closest to the pier, it draws a surprisingly robust throng of spectators, who watch from the wharf or from shore.
Hazel had done his best to explain how the judging and scoring worked, but it still feels like the time I accidentally walked into an advanced theoretical physics class while searching for Intro to Environmental Science.
Hazel doesn't seem to mind.
"I kind of envy you, actually," he says as, shivering against the morning chill, I zip him into his wet suit before the competition begins. "I used to love watching surfers. Now, I can't help running scores in my head, like, 'Ooh, damn, that's gonna cost him a point for form,' or, 'she's got style but her balance is out of whack.' It's nice to just appreciate it without thinking too hard."
"Thinking too hard is what I'm good at, though," I say distractedly, checking my watch. "You've got five minutes."
A funny gurgle makes me look up, and I frown as Hazel rubs his stomach.
"Did you eat breakfast?"
He shakes his head. "Nah. I can't eat before I compete. Too nervous. Kind of like you before a test, am I right?"
I roll my eyes at him. "I still eat breakfast, though."
"Tell you whatâwin or lose, we'll get pizza later. My treat."
I hesitate. "I have to study. This thing will be over by noon, right?"
Hazel's smile falters. "Yeah, should be. Hey, Iâ"
A garbled announcement made via bullhorn signals the competition has begun.
"Shit. I'll see you later, 'kay?" He leans close, ostensibly for a kiss, but I pull away, too conscious of the gathering crowds.
Instead, I pat his arm awkwardly. "Good luck. I'll be rooting for you."
He laughs and shoves me playfully. "You better."
He turns and trots towards the shore, where the other surfers have gathered in a group, joined by the judges and referees, who will monitor and watch the action from the waves.
Meanwhile, I make my way out along the pier in search of a good vantage point.
I'd imagined myself getting little out of this apart from boredom and a sunburn, but soon I'm caught up in the excitement of the crowd, cheering the surfers on and waiting in anticipation as the waves roll in.
The conditions are perfect: a clear sky, a brisk breeze, and 3 to 4 foot waves rolling in one after another in quick, energetic sets.
It's not bad on the spectator side, either. The sweet scents of fresh kettle corn and cotton candy give the salted air a carnival perfume, and the vendors on the wharf are up, running, and open for business. Bright baubles, shiny trinkets, and salt-water taffy compete for space with beach toys, colorful kites, and other ways for tourists to waste their money.
I choose a spot about halfway along the length of the pier, which is where Hazel told me I would catch the best action.
People of all genders line up along the shore, boards in hand. Hazel told me the competition is open to everyone as long as they pass the qualifying round.
"At the pro level, or in extreme conditions, most women are at a physical disadvantage against male competitors," he'd explained. "But at the intermediate, amateur levelâand especially in the sort of waves we get hereâit's pretty negligible as long as they're fit. A woman won last year."
That womanâa buff fitness coach with spiky pink hair and tattoos covering most of her torsoâis Hazel's biggest competition. She goes by Gem, and I spot her on the shore, kissing her girlfriend for good luck before she wades into the surf and paddles out to the line-up, where the other surfers wait their turn to catch a wave.
Still on the sand, Hazel squints against the glare of sea and sky, searching for me among the crowded pier. Spotting me, he blows a kiss in my general direction and waves. I wave back with a pang of guilt, wishing I had the freedom and courage to kiss him as openly as Gem's girlfriend kisses her.
The competition is divided into three rounds. There are twenty competitors, and in the first round, ten will be eliminated. In the second round, five will be eliminated, leaving five to move on to the final round.
The first round takes the longest, as the referees try to ensure everyone gets a good set and a fair shot. Hazel had taught me just enough to tell whether a competitor was doing well or badly, though not enough to tell exactly why, and the slow pace breeds boredom. There are several false starts and do-overs, and by the time it's finally Hazel's turn, I've zoned out and nearly miss it when he starts paddling hard for an incoming swell.
Then he's up on his board and I'm mesmerized. Even though his entire concentration is on riding the wave, and even though I'm just one set of eyes in a crowd, I get the sense that somehow, the show is just for me.
I don't know enough to say how well he does, but he looks like a pro to me, bending low over his board as he slices through the water along the front of the wave. He doesn't attempt any spectacular tricks, but he rides the wave farther than any of the other contestants have and lets it go gracefully when he gets too close to shore.
I hold my breath until, straddling his board in the waves, he sees his score, set in huge black letters on an enormous scoreboard erected on the sand, and raises his arms in triumph. He's in third place, overall, and safe for the next round.
The second goes faster, or seems to, as the stakes are raised, and only the top five will qualify for the final.
Again, when it's Hazel's turn, I can't look away. His strength, grace, and speed leave me in awe, but apparently the judges don't feel the same. When his score is posted, he laces his hands behind the back of his head and the crowd groans.
At first I don't understand. He'd been in third place, and now he's third again; but as the other surfers' scores come in, I see the problem. He's quickly bumped from third to fourth, and finally to fifth place. With two competitors left in the round, he could easily lose his shot at the final.
Fortunately, luck is with him. The first competitor is a hotshot who risks too much to show off and wipes out almost right away. The second is disqualified on a technicality, which causes some drama on the shore. There's yelling, sand throwing, an exchange of threats, and finally a defiant (but thankfully anti-climactic) expulsion and exit.
All that matters is that Hazel's place is safe, which makes him a finalist.
As the final round begins, tension hums in the air. The fresh morning breeze has given way to a stronger, steady wind, and the scent of lunch foods mingle in the air. Unhealthy, overpriced, but tempting, the fare on offer includes burgers, hot dogs, pretzels, pizza, fish and chips, nachos, burritos, several varieties of barbecue, and tempura vegetables and shrimp.
Unfortunately, my meager student budget doesn't include tourist treats, so I make do with the packet of peanuts I brought along in my pocket.
I don't mind; most of my attention is on Hazel anyway.
As the fifth place competitor, he'll go last. The other qualifiers included his nemesis, Gem, his friend Dave, and two others I don't knowâan older man and a woman. Both appear fit and cut-throat competitive, and if I'm honest, I'm not sure Hazel has my bet.
Gem is up first, and it's immediately clear that she's been saving her real effort for this. Though admittedly not an expert, I can't find a single fault with her ride, and cheer with the crowd when she scores deservedly high. Dave goes next, starting strong but losing his balance and wiping out near the end, resulting in a middling score.
The other female finalist follows Dave, earning a score that puts her second, but her male counterpart quickly bumps her down to third. Hazel has to earn a score higher than her or Dave to win bronze, higher than the old dude to win silver, and higher than Gem to win gold.
I'm almost biting my nails as he paddles out to the breakers, ready to pick his wave. A big one rolls in and a murmur of excitement goes through the crowd. He paddles hard, picking up speed, and gets to his feet in one smooth motion.
For a few seconds, he looks like a god of the waves, soaring over the surface of the seaâhis body and the wild power of the oceans perfectly in tune.
Then he slows, and with a funny sort of awkward tumble, like a rag-doll dropped by a child, falls off his board and disappears beneath the water.
My heart sinks like a stone, and a murmur of disappointment goes through the crowd. The disappointment turns to unease when Hazel fails to resurface, and I lean over the rail, straining to see what's happening as several referees paddle towards the spot he disappeared. One ducks beneath the waves and surfaces with a limp form in his arms, and together, the swimmers maneuver him onto a board and swim for shore.
Heart in my mouth, I jump up, push through the crowd and sprint along the pier, heedless of the tightness in my chest or the wheeze of breath in my throat as my body protests the sudden, unaccustomed exertion.
The referees get Hazel to dry land and a lifeguard skids to his knees at his side. Meanwhile, I reach the landward end of the pier, leap from the weathered planks and face-plant as the hot sand shifts beneath my feet. I pick myself up, brush grit from my hair, and force myself back into a run as a second lifeguard joins the first.
A crisis has a way of clarifying things, and this is no exception.
Earlier, I'd been too shy to kiss my boyfriend in front of a crowd. Now, if my dad himself were watching, I wouldn't stop to think twice as I dash towards Hazel's supine form.