Page 1 of Backstroke

Prologue

Eleven years old

Fallon

Water can be gentleand fierce. Unfortunately, I’ve come to know the latter.

The brilliant sun casts its warm glow over the bustling beach, teeming with people enjoying the perfect weather. As we unload our belongings from the golf cart, I notice that it’s more crowded than usual.

We arrived on the island only a few hours ago. After we unpacked the car, I begged to come see the ocean. My mom agreed, even with my father’s behest to stay at the rental house. Groaning and bickering to himself, he packed up the golf cart with sun chairs, a cooler, an umbrella and my bright pink surfboard.

The ride to our normal spot is short, but my foot taps away with anxious energy. It’s been several months since we’ve had a chance to get away from the city to escape to the sea.

I jump from the cart as soon as it’s parked. My toes sink into the warm, soft sand and I revel in the sensation—the earth cradling me, grounding me. Families build sandcastles and children giggle as they sculpt turrets and moats. Frisbees soar through the air, and the occasional volleyball comes flying from nearby.

My attention, however, is drawn to the water. Turquoise waves roll in, their frothy crests catching the last rays of sunlight. Surfers carve graceful arcs, riding the ocean’s energy. I watch, mesmerized and envious of their freedom, their communion with the sea. I want to be that great some day.

My dad has been reluctantly teaching me to surf for two years. He learned when he was a child, and continued honing his skills through high school until my grandfather all but made him leave his board behind as he attended college. He hasn’t surfed since. Because of that, he hates it. I suppose it brings up bad memories. Mom convinced him to give me lessons, but I can see his disdain for the craft every time I mention it.

The last couple years I’ve tried my best to improve, but I still feel like a beginner. We don’t live close enough to the ocean for me to practice often, but I’m still determined. I’ve done all the research, taken classes and now I want more than anything to finally catch a wave. I want to feel the freedom of the wind whipping through my hair, my body being propelled bythe wave below. Surfing seems like a dance with the waves—a blend of skill, timing and determination.

I can’t wait any longer. The anticipation of feeling the saltwater against my skin and the board slicing through waves has me bouncing on my toes.

“Dad, are you ready?” I ask, shifting my weight on the hot sand. I pick up the surfboard and gesture to the ocean.

“Give me a damn minute, Fallon. We just got here. I haven’t even sat down to crack open a beer yet,” he snarls, as he digs through the cooler to retrieve an iced can. He flops down on his chair, leaving Mom and me to set up the rest of our things. I heed his warning tone, nodding as I look back toward the ocean wistfully. I drop my board and sit, watching as others paddle out to the perfect spots while they wait for the wave that will bring them to shore.

The peaceful environment turns sour when I hear my father beginning to argue with my mother behind me. His outbursts are getting more frequent and aggressive. I can do no right in his eyes, always wishing I was the son he never had. His company believes him to be this extraordinary man, but they don’t see who he is under the mask he dons for most of the world.

The calmest seas can harbor tempests beneath their surface. My father—a shifting tide, unpredictable and fierce. He’s a force of nature, a storm that will shred anything in its path. I would know. I’m always in his trajectory.

Once he’s hot enough from the sun, he rises from the chair and makes his way toward the ocean without a word to me. I bite down on the words swirling through my head and like an obedient child, I rush behind him. With the board under my arm, I sprint down the hot sand, skipping over patches of large shells. Once my feet hit the water, I dive in, breaking the surfaceas it envelops me in its cool grasp. The sea always wipes away the bad in my life, whispering promises of a better tomorrow.

“It’s pretty rough today. Are you sure you want to try these waves?” he challenges, as though he already knows I can’t handle them. I can hear it in his voice, the way he always questions everything I want to do.

“I’m positive,” I assure him, as I secure the leash around my ankle.

“The undertow is worse than it normally is so keep that in mind, Fal,” he presses on, using the nickname I was given as a child when things weren’t so complicated and the world was still a magical place. I’ve since grown from those illusions as I was thrust head-first into the darkness that lurks in seemingly happy families.

“Dad, I know how to swim! I can do this!” I yell back, as I paddle out further.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, loud enough for the wind to carry his voice. I grit my teeth as the anger from his words simmer below the surface.

The waves are strong today—towering walls of water that seem to challenge even the most seasoned surfers. I’m not experienced by any means, but I want to prove that I can do this. Even with the mistreatment, I want to see the look of approval shining from my father’s eyes. Maybe that’s every child’s dream, to get the validation they long for but never receive.

Electricity coils through my body with equal parts of excitement and trepidation. I know in my heart I can do this, it’s my mind and my father that tell me I can’t.

Swimming out further, my heart races with adrenaline. I push the board down and cut through the waves until I’m at the perfect spot. A wave quickly catches my eye as it approaches, leaving me no time to prepare. I maneuver myboard under as it crashes above. When I resurface, I can see the disappointment written across his face, making me even more resolved to ride one today. My father turns away, wading through the water and back to his seat beneath the umbrella where he will probably remain until he needs another cool dip.

Instead of melting under his scrutiny, my resolve strengthens, bringing my attention to the perfect wave forming in the distance. The countless lessons play through my mind as I paddle out to position myself on the outskirts of the main peak. Time slows and my focus narrows. It’s me and the water alone at this moment.

I can feel the energy of the wave forming as my heart races. My arms carve through the water, paddling like my life depends on it. I feel the current pull me back right before the swell lifts me. I jump to my feet, unsteady at first but I quickly right myself. For a glorious moment, I’m riding the crest. Water sprays my face as my board glides effortlessly. Pride shoots through my body as I briefly close my eyes in triumph.

Then it happens—a sudden shift, a miscalculation. The wave crumbles and I find myself hurtling forward. The board slips from beneath me and I tumble headfirst into the churning water.

Salt stings my eyes and panic surges in my chest. I fight to regain my bearings, but my limbs are flailing wildly. The ocean toys with me, spinning me like a ragdoll. I surface for a mere second, gasping for air, only to be battered by another wave.

My board, seemingly possessed, dances just out of reach, causing the leash to snap. I lunge for it, miss and I’m dragged underneath once more. Time blurs, forming a chaotic symphony of bubbles, salt and confusion.

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