Dylan had been in the water for about 45 minutes when he finally saw a decent set of waves heading down the coast. He paddled out a little farther and let the first two waves roll through. The overeager surfers would clear out early, giving him room for a good ride on the later waves.
The third wave in the set still looked weak. He pulled up to see what was happening farther out and noticed a swell that might morph into something big. He began paddling fast and moving parallel to the wave so he could turn on it and grab the big shoulder that was starting to form.
When the wave was on him, he pushed his board down and catapulted to his feet, just in time to make his first bottom turn, a perfect hit that launched him straight down the line. The wave shoulder was holding beautifully. He hit off the top of the wave and pumped down the line as fast as he could, riding high on its face. Once he neared the end of the shoulder, he dropped down the face and cut back into the body of the wave, then cut back again to carve a figure eight.
After a few more pumps down the line, he was riding the shoulder again. The wave kept forming on the edge, so he held tight to keep himself from sliding off the back. At this point, he had been up for around 15 seconds, and his legs were burning from the intensity of the ride. He pumped a few more times to keep his board gliding for as long as the wave would let him. Finally, he cut back at a 90-degree angle, pointed his board toward the shore, and let the wave roll under him as he fell back into the whitewash.
He walked the few blocks back to his truck barefoot. He peeled off his wetsuit down to his hips, wrapped a towel around his waist, climbed the rest of the way out of the wetsuit, and changed into shorts, sandals, and a sweatshirt. Then he pulled out a jug of water and washed his board, hair, and suit.
Once all of this was done, he loaded everything into the truck and checked his voicemail. The first message said, “What’s up, man? Hey, I need a payment by the end of the week. Not the whole five grand just yet, but at least five hundred. Let’s meet at Twiggs tomorrow and deal with it. Three o’clock. Café Americanos. Later.”
The second message said, “I’m still not very happy with you, Dylan. Trust matters, you know. Call me as soon as you can, please. I need to hear your thoughts on something.”
He looked back down the road and stared at the waves. After a few minutes, he climbed into his truck and drove to his apartment. His roommate Bill was out. Dylan carried his surfboard into Bill’s bedroom, put it on the bed, wrote a note, and taped it to the surfboard. He glanced at the salt lamp sitting on the nightstand and wondered if anyone sold them in Kansas. Probably so, he figured. Who wouldn’t want a salt lamp? He walked into his bedroom and grabbed the suitcase he had packed and hidden in the closet the night before. Everything seemed to be in order. He left the apartment, locking the door behind him.
He headed east on the 8, stopping for gas in Gila Bend and eating at the Space Age Restaurant. A cousin would put him up for a week or two in Cottonwood. Then he would return to the Great Plains to take care of his mother, who had stage IV cancer. His brother Jerry had been serving as the primary caregiver, but he was struggling through a vicious divorce and in the middle of an intense alcohol addiction. Nothing good would come of it.
Dylan kept on driving. Heat waves rolled across the desert floor, turning everything around him into a shimmering distortion. The cholla in the distance seemed to move more slowly than the ones that slid by him along the highway. His eyes burned from the wind blowing through the windows. He sank into the dream and let his mind empty.
As he drove through El Centro, he thought about making some calls in a few weeks to the people he had betrayed. If nothing else, trying to explain things would help him better understand his actions. They might never forgive him, but everything was a risk, and nothing was simple. He didn’t want to close any doors just yet. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe they would at least listen.
