Ronald was Captain Crandall, who said he’d surfed in San Diego. His mother quoting him as an authority angered Sharkey, but he decided not to reveal his anger, nor to give anything away.

Although his mother was alone in her chair, it seemed he was facing two people, both of them hostile witnesses.

“Maybe it’s dangerous for Ronald.”

She snorted and clumsily lit the cigarette, snapping her lighter. “And not for you”—blowing smoke at him.

“It’s a challenge, I guess.”

“And this surf meet,” she said in a mocking singsong, “I suppose you think you’re going to win.”

“I don’t know. That’s why I signed up. To see if I’m ready.”

Because his mother was smoking a cigarette, tapping it in the ashtray, sometimes blowing and sometimes chewing the smoke, Sharkey had a better idea of her mood. The way the smoke left her lips told him she was agitated and confused, and now and then puffing and inhaling instead of replying, as she did now.

“Dad always said, ‘Big risk, big reward.’”

“And look where it got him,” she said, expelling smoke.

“Dad was a hero,” Sharkey said, the first time he’d raised his voice, though his voice broke in grief.

“What about me? I’m a widow. He left me to look after you.” She seemed to fortify herself, puffing again. “And you’re such a disappointment.”

Sharkey was not dismayed. He smiled at her for rejecting him, because it freed him from her. How much worse it would have been if she’d clung to him. She’d spent more than two years since the Colonel’s death seeing men—army officers—apparently enjoying herself. Sharkey wasn’t fooled by their bonhomie. They knew she was wealthy, they were looking to replace the Colonel—or even if that wasn’t their plan, they were romancing his mother, another sort of competition. He was glad she was preoccupied; he was happy when she left, happy when he came home to an empty house to find her note: Gone out—won’t be late. But she always was late. So what? It left him in peace. He enjoyed the solitude of the house after exhausting himself surfing. Alone, he reflected on the joy of being on his own wave.

“I know I’m a disappointment to you.”

She exhaled smoke through her lipstick-stained teeth—a blue plume of satisfaction—then nodded, puffing again, a sort of mute agreement.

“But I’m not a disappointment to myself,” he said. “I like what I’m doing. I’m learning.”

“Skipping school,” she said. “Your marks are terrible. I have no idea who your friends are. I get this letter”—she slapped it on her thigh, where it had lain all this time.

“I’m happy. I’m doing what I want to do.”

“You have no ambition!” she said, and mashed out her cigarette in the ashtray.