Chess Not Checkers

I tried to keep my nerves down and my breathing slow as I paddled through the channel. A white plastic chess piece floated past me. I snatched it and tucked the pawn into the side of my bikini bottoms. I got this.

Weeks prior, my partner Keahi and I came to the Mentawais. I’d romanticized crossing into my 30s in the barrel, although I never stated my intentions out loud. Instead, I’d spent the past 10 days falling on steep drops in smaller surf, thinking, “How can I get the barrel of my dreams if I can’t even take off on a two-footer?”

But now I was back at the reef we’d been surfing for the past two weeks, and the swell that we extended our trip for was here. I hoped I was ready.

I paddled into my first wave, barely made it around the mountainous white water and tucked into the pocket. Then I got a peaky one with a big drop. I made it to the bottom and flexed every muscle to the tips of my toes and barely squeaked under the lip and into the barrel. Beaming with pride and exhaustion, I stripped off my surf attire that night and my lucky pawn bounced onto the bathroom floor.

The next swell was bigger. Some surfers I met nodded in approval when they heard I was from Hawai‘i, as if that explained why I was out there. I didn’t mention that I only surf the mellow breaks at home and can count on one hand the number of small barrels I’ve ever gotten.

I sat for hours waiting for my turn and took notes on what to look for. I watched surfers turn late on two overlapping waves that’d stacked on top of each other—completely unpredictable in shape until they hit the inside reef, doubling up into one grand cavern. Some would come flying out into the safety of the channel. Others would surface in the impact zone, taking a quick breath before the next wave detonated on their head. But when I’d see one that I wanted, someone would start paddling before I decided to go. Thankfully, some of the guys started calling me into waves, and I put all my trust into their judgment. Some I made, some I didn’t. But that trust rewarded me with better and longer barrels than I ever imagined.

Eventually, a big one came to me and I was in position. I wanted it but was afraid of the consequences. Namely, a shallow, unforgiving section of reef known as the “surgeon’s table.” I knew that tiger-clawed backs, dislocated shoulders, broken boards and gashes to the face were not uncommon on the smaller days.

I heard Keahi yell, “Go!” from the inside. It was the reassurance I needed. I whipped my board around and took off. I held my line as a thick lip lit up by the intense, sparkling light of the setting sun folded over me and let me into its cave. I almost gave in to the light when the spitting mist enveloped me. It let me out, and my arms shot triumphantly in the air. I still got this.