I start with the obvious. “The guy you saw was Jake Evans. He goes to my school. Lydia invited him to wash dishes. His dad’s in the military too.” I’m hoping this last part will make him sound better. See? Our dads are men of honor.
Mom’s face changes. Her smile says, I know what you’re going through. Uh-oh. I’m not sure she does.
“I dated a guy for two months once before I got the nerve to tell my parents,” she confesses.
Wait, what?
I start to protest, but she waves me off and sits down on the corner of my bed. Oh dang. This feels like the last five minutes of a family TV show, when the slow music starts and it always ends in a hug.
“Gary Ratchford,” she continues.
“Oh yeah?” I say, because what else do I say? My nose crinkles, and my lips scrunch as if I’ve smelled a beached-whale carcass. I don’t want to think of Mom with anyone but Dad.
She doesn’t notice. “These are confusing times, you know, being a teenager, hormones, and I’m sure you have questions.”
“I don’t, really.”
“And ever since you’ve been doing that whole church thing, I . . .”
That’s what Mom calls my love for Jesus. “That whole church thing.”
Kelly brought me with her to a church camp called Hume Lake the summer before sixth grade. It was a blast, and it was the first time I had heard about Jesus in a way that made sense: how it wasn’t about us working our way up to Him but about Him coming down to us. That clicked for me. Also, there was this friendship-with-God thing, like I could talk to Him about anything, seriously anything, and I loved it. When I came back from Hume Lake, I started going to her youth group. It was like a dose of summer camp once a week. Turns out it was perfect timing. One year and three months later, my brother Matt was hit by his own surfboard in a freak accident. For the next year, my parents would be MIA as they spent every day in the hospital and then the rehab facility with him. They’d check in with texts, and I’d visit him sometimes, but a lot of nights when I’d get home, there’d be a note on the fridge about what food to heat up for dinner and a reminder to turn the lights off before bed.
I spent a lot of time at Kelly’s house or with other church families, and I’d go on every weekend youth-group trip. I joined a midweek Bible study. Even though I was going to junior-high group, Pastor Brett heard what happened and said I could also come to high-school youth group. In the loneliest year of my life, when I should’ve felt like an orphan, God filled my life with more family than I could imagine. People wonder why I’m so in love with Jesus, but if they saw the way He filled every void and answered every question, they’d totally get it.
I sit up in my bed. “Mom, it’s not a ‘church thing.’ I love Jesus.”
“Of course you do. But I don’t know the pressures they might put on you there at that church thing, and I want you to know, that if you’re thinking about sex, then we can talk.”
Whoa. “What?”
“And the lengths you went to cover it up! Coming home every night with your hair wet? I just know that if you’ve been keeping a boyfriend a secret—there may be other things.” She pauses, tilts her head, and shifts to look at me. The bed bounces, and I wish it would bounce me out the window, because she adds, “So he picks you up after work—and then you shower at his house to make it look like you’ve been swimming?”
“No, I use the beach showers. Mom—”
“Oh, that makes sense. It’s right by your work. And here, your father was afraid you’d gone back in the ocean.”
“Really?” I swallow.
“He said you smelled like seawater the other night. I told him don’t worry—we’re all on the same page.” She gets a twinkle in her eye. “I shoulda known it was a boy.” She smiles like she’s in on a big secret. “Mum’s the word. I’ll tell your father you’ve been practicing swim at a friend’s house.” She winks at me, and I feel knots in my belly. She’s covering for me. And for something that isn’t even true!
There are so many things I want to say. “Mom, I’ve been swimming in the ocean.” “Mom, I feel closest to Jesus when I’m out on the water.” “Mom, I miss surfing.” “Mom, I know you almost lost Matt, but you won’t lose me.”
But I don’t. Right now, I can keep swimming every night because Mom thinks I’ve been out with a boy and she’s actually okay with it.
I reach out and squeeze her hand. “Mom, I haven’t had sexual intercourse, but when I plan on it, I’ll be sure to talk to you, okay?” This won’t be until the night before my wedding, but she doesn’t need details.
“Do kids still call it that? Intercourse? Huh. I thought it was, like, banging or hitting it or—”
“Mom!”
“What! Okay, fine. Intercourse it is. You sure you haven’t?” She tries to look inside of me with her searchlight eyes. I sit in awkward silence until she embraces me like we’re reuniting after years apart. I feel her tears as our cheeks press together. “I can’t believe how old you’re getting,” she sniffles. “Where has time gone?” Now I’m twelve and in a maxi pad commercial, but I endure it because the ocean’s worth it. It’s always worth it. A single thought comes to me, and I don’t know if it’s God or my guilt, but either way, I hear Him asking:
“Do you love the ocean more than Me?”
Chapter Eleven
Every Monday morning, I leave ninety minutes early and my parents never notice, but when I wake up this morning, I’m afraid everything will be different and they’ll have a guard posted at my door. I peek into the hallway, but everything’s the same. Mom’s out to her office already, and Dad’s happy that I’m getting a head start on my education. Well, as long as I make my bed first.
Like every Monday, I bike five miles past my school to El Porto Beach to watch the other high-school surf teams. By 7:00 a.m., I’m tucked into my hoodie on the wet sand and doing my Bible study while the girls practice their rail-to-rail turns. A worship song plays in my earbuds as I watch the girls popping up, carving, and soaring against a backdrop of pink morning sky:
I see Your face in every sunrise.
The colors of the morning are inside Your eyes.
The world awakens in the light of the day.
I look up to the sky and say, “You’re beautiful.”
I watch a girl catch a left, angling down the wave as it chases her from behind. She traverses the face as she rides down the line. So clean. I could be this good by now, but who knows if I can still get to my feet? At the bottom, almost where the water’s flat, she turns her shoulders and buries her rail, setting up for a graceful arcing turn. Her speed shoots her back up the face, and she whips her board back 180 degrees, catching a little air. I actually clap in response and shout, “Yes!” She offers a friendly wave when she hears me, rides in on her stomach, and trots over.