Free Tapping the Source by Kem Nunn

shortly after the inside wave had begun to form. His board would shoot straight down the small wave and he would fly off the front, or he would catch a rail trying to turn and slip off the side. Then one morning something happened that was different. Ike got into a wall of white water from a large outside wave. It grabbed his board, sent it skimming across the surface of the water. Ike got to his feet. He was carrying more speed than he was used to, but he found the speed actually made it easier to stand. The wall slowed slightly, began to re-form. Ike leaned into the wave and the board swung easily beneath him. A wall of water rose ahead of him, its face glassy and smooth, streaked with white. He was angling across it. The bumpiness of his rides in the white water was gone; it was smooth, fast. He was riding a wave. The wall rose rapidly, began to pitch out, his inside rail caught and over he went, headfirst into the shore break, his board sailing into the air after him.
    He had to swim back into the shore to get his board. But all the time he was swimming, he wanted to stop and shout, to raise his arms over his head and shake his fists. He knew now what the hoots and screams he had heard from the surfers beneath the pier were all about. He had gotten into a wave. He ran through the shallows, kicking up great rooster tails of water with his feet. He didn’t go back out right away. He sat down on the nose of his board in the wet sand and stared out into the lines of white water just now turning a kind of gold in the rising sun and tried to remember every detail of how it had felt.
    He thought about it for the rest of the day, going over each sensation as he strolled past the empty lots and scarred palms. Fences formed ahead of him like green walls. He performed imaginary maneuvers of great skill, ducking now and then beneath the lip of an occasional hedge, his hand raised to ward off invisible spray.
    He felt like talking to somebody about it and so decided to look for Preston. He still had not seen him since that night in the alley.
    •   •   •
    He found him at Morris’s shop. Morris was out and Preston was alone in the back lot. He was sitting on the wheel of an old flatbed bike trailer, staring at the alley. His back was turned to the drive and as Ike came up it he could see a sixer of tall cans at Preston’s side.
    Preston looked up as Ike came around the fence that separated the drive from the lot. He watched Ike come around the fence and then stared back toward the alley. “Look here,” he said. “It’s Billy the Kid.” Ike passed behind the spray booth and came up to the trailer. He noticed there was already a sixpack’s worth of empties at Preston’s feet. “Thirsty?” Preston asked him, and then tossed him a can without waiting for a reply. Ike caught it and pulled the ring. Beer foamed out white and cold, running down the sides of the can and over his fingers. He took a drink and then looked at Preston. Preston was still watching the alley.
    “I took your advice,” Ike told him. “I’ve been going farther north, by the cliffs.”
    “My advice was that you leave town.”
    Ike took another drink and looked down on that head of Christ that covered Preston’s forearm, at the bloody crown of thorns radiating birds and lizards. He felt the beer burning in his throat. “I got a ride today, man. I mean, a fairly decent one.”
    “Yeah?” Preston looked up at him with one eye. He poured the rest of his beer down his throat. He had a way of doing it, of opening his mouth and holding the can about two or three inches away and just pouring it in, like dumping oil into a crank. When he was done, he dropped the can and stomped it with his boot, added it to the pile at his feet and reached for another.
    “You were right about that board, it’s a lot more stable.”
    Preston just nodded again and sat looking across the lot. Ike stood beside him. He was tempted to say something about seeing Preston