The Practical Navigator by Stephen Metcalfe Page B

now. Tourmaline is a beach break, popular with young beginners and longboarders. This is where Michael first caught waves on his own, where, as a boy, he hung out all summer long. The bathrooms were especially gross, and because they were, Michael has never felt like he’s at the shore if the public bathrooms and showers aren’t contagious.
    As he watches the surfers catch the last waves of the afternoon, he’s aware of a spindly figure approaching. The man, bearded and with long, tangled sun-streaked hair, is barefoot, wears ragged jeans and a faded Quicksilver T-shirt. The man stops. He eyes the beer hungrily.
    â€œHey, got an extra, bra?”
    The man looks familiar. Almost but not quite. Michael knows the type. A self-styled surf guru. An aging man-child who probably lives in his car and spends his days on the sand, smoking dope and discussing the wave conditions, past and present, with anyone who will take the time to listen. Michael lives now in an alternate universe. He pulls a beer from the plastic ring and flips it to the burned-out man who snatches it out of the air and grins. “Tight, bra.” Foam bubbles and spills as he pops it and sucks it in happily. He looks toward the water. “Dunzo out there, huh, dude?” Dunzo. Meaning the best ever. The guy would be funny if he wasn’t serious.
    â€œYeah, pretty good.” In truth it’s weak. Without even thinking about it, Michael knows the knee-high waves are coming in fifteen-second intervals, a northwest wind is working against a southwest swell. Crossed-up lines with some workable corners and a choppy surface.
    The surf rat stares at Michael a moment. His brow furrows as if he’s struggling to remember something. Where he lives. What day of the week it is. He gestures with the beer.
    â€œYo, you Michael Hodge?”
    Michael answers before he thinks to lie. “Yeah.”
    The bum breaks into a huge, happy grin. “Dude! Aw, man, whoa, it is a complete and total honor, dude.” He thrusts his sunburned hand out at Michael. Michael has no choice but to take it. The bum’s fingers are dry and scaly. He pumps Michael’s hand up and down with enthusiasm.
    â€œI was on the beach when you took the ASP event up at Trestles. You were so totally, bitchin’ badass, man?”
    â€œThanks,” says Michael, retrieving his hand.
    â€œMichael freakin’ Hodge!” The bum shakes his head as if he can’t believe it. As if the name is as good as the cold beer. And then he looks lost again, as if he’s suddenly not sure it really happened. “Hey, when was that, man, what year?”
    â€œOh four,” says Michael.
    â€œYeah!” The rat grins, both happy and relieved. “And bra, you were milfy. You were the boss!”
    â€œI was lucky,” says Michael. “Garcia couldn’t catch a decent ride in the final heat and handed it to me.”
    â€œYeah, but thems the breaks!” says the rat as if he remembers. “You put out or shit or lock the doors on Fort Pitt. And I was there!”
    â€œI’m glad you were.”
    The bum gulps some beer. He nods toward the water. “Hey, you should be out there with us. Showin’ the newbies how it’s done.”
    Us.
    â€œYou know what’s wrong with surfing?” says Michael. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “The waves take you in the wrong direction.”
    The bum frowns, then chuckles uncertainly. “Too heavy for me, man. I just like to get fucked up.”
    â€œBe my guest.” Michael hands him the rest of the six-pack and turns back toward the truck. As he’s tossing his unfinished beer into a trash can, he can hear the bum calling out to someone on the beach.
    â€œHey, dude, hey! Know who that is? That is Michael Hodge, man! He used to tear it up! He used to be somebody.”
    Somebody.
    Used to be.
    *   *   *
    â€œShe’s his mother,” Michael