By Ina Louise
Kaloa headed for the water, surfboard in hand. The crashing waves roared the truth he refused to hear: he kept trying to prove he was the same rider from fifteen years ago.
He duck-dived through the break and surfaced in a prime spot. One, two, three paddles—he was up. But his rigid stance and flailing arms tried to bully the wave, and the ocean responded by tipping him straight off.
He burst back up, slapping the water in frustration.
“Stop fighting,” a soft, cool voice said.
Kaloa whipped around, caught by clear, bright eyes the color of the Pacific. Long blue-black dreadlocks framed a face several shades darker than most people on the islands.
“You should be moving with the wave, not fighting it,” she said as a wave crashed over him. When the water cleared, she was gone.
His session continued without improvement. He was better than this; he had the international trophies to prove it. Six weeks until the Pipeline Masters competition, he had to get better. Frustration spurred Kaloa back to shore.
Halfway back, the mysterious woman shot out of the water, and he nearly fell off his board. “You have great technique under all that anger.”
He ignored her as she glided over the water, hardly moving her arms, yet she stayed beside him.
They reached the shallows and stood up.
“Your pride is holding you back.”
“Excuse me?” he shot back, unable to stop himself from noticing how she filled out her wet suit.
“I’ve spent enough time in the water to recognize surfers who wear their love for the ocean. It’s on their faces. They bend, flow with the water. Your pride makes you rigid, and the ocean breaks rigid things.”
“Who are you?”
She shrugged. “Someone who knows the water—and can help you smile in it again.”
He didn’t need help, yet the idea of being near her made him nod.
“My name’s Alika. Meet me back here tomorrow at dawn.” She took a few steps backward then turned and disappeared under the waves.
The next morning, Kaloa found the beach busier than he’d anticipated. Alika stood by the water, surrounded by children in wet suits. They parted as she approached him.
“Kids, this is Kaloa Matthews, and he’s going to help teach you how to surf!”
Their mouths dropped open, including Kaloa’s.
One of the boys walked up to him with wide eyes. “You’re Kaloa Matthews? I’ve heard of you. I didn’t know you still surfed.”
Kaloa swallowed a sarcastic retort, recognizing himself twenty years ago: carefree, wave-hungry, and in love with surfing.
He smiled. “Yes, I still surf, and I’m going to teach you how, too.”
They coached the kids on technique, then Alika explained wind and ocean patterns—in a way that sounded like she spoke for the ocean itself. They took turns pushing kids into the waves. When one finally stood, wobbling but riding, everyone cheered—Kaloa loudest of all.
Days passed in a rhythm of dawn lessons and dusk surfing. Kaloa applied what he’d learned, a bond between him and Alika blossoming into something like love. But Kaloa couldn’t shake the questions that floated just beneath the surface:
Why did her eyes glimmer underwater?
Why did she refuse to spend time onshore with him?
Why did he only see her at dawn and dusk?
Consumed, Kaloa followed her deep below the waves. Even without moonlight, he would’ve seen her lower body shimmer into luminescent scales, ending in a tail. Disbelief drove him forward, and he reached her just as she pulled him to the surface.
“You followed me!”
“What are you?”
Her tail drifted between them. “I’m a daughter of Mami Wata, an African water-spirit. My human form lasts only this moon cycle. Time is almost up.”
Kaloa stared at her, dumbstruck.
“Say something.”
“You’re… a mermaid.”
“I am not a mermaid! I’m a spirit.” She exhaled sharply. “Look, Kaloa, I saw your talent, but pride was suffocating it. I knew I could guide you. I hadn’t expected… I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” He drew her close. “Thank you for reminding me to smile. You’re part of the joy I’ve found, and I don’t want to lose you. Is there—”
“—No. I’m sorry.”
She disappeared under the waves.
As Pipeline neared, Kaloa ignored the mounting pressure and clung to his newfound joy. His students cheered as he breezed through the qualifiers.
That night, he went to the water to celebrate with Alika. He spotted her far offshore, her form already dissolving into the waves.
He dove in. Finally, he reached her beyond the break and pulled her close.
“I have to go,” she whispered.
Kaloa held her, willing her to stay whole.
“Kaloa… never forget your joy.”
She slipped from his arms and vanished.
He spent the night on the sand, staring at the water until sunrise. Finals were today. He would ride for Alika, for the joy she returned to him, and for the kids who helped him find it again.
Kaloa had made the top three.
Straddling his board, he waited for the one last wave that could make him champion. Beside him, his competitor took off on the next wave.
He must be desperate, Kaloa thought. Had he waited, he’d have seen the better wave rising behind it.
As the competitor wiped out, Kaloa paddled into the winning set.
He was just dropping into the perfect spot when he saw the other surfer floating face down.
Kaloa glanced around. The safety Jet Skis were too far out. He dove toward the surfer. He flipped the man over and pulled him toward an approaching Jet Ski. The surfer coughed up water and was rushed to safety.
The horn blared.
Kaloa had lost.
But he didn’t care. A perfect set was coming in. He paddled, turned, and dropped in.
Inside the barrel, sunlight flickered in a shape that looked like a smile. He smiled back.
He didn’t bother trying to find her.
She was already there.
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