He laughed a little—angering her more—because she was wrong. He would never be able to explain it to her, so why try?

She asked, the day of the surf meet, where it would be held; and when he told her, “North Shore—Pipeline,” she said she probably would not be there. But after Sharkey arrived and signed in and got his number, he saw her a little way down the beach, incongruous at Sunset Beach in city clothes—his mother in a dress, and beside her, holding her hand, Ronald, in an aloha shirt and slacks, the captain in civvies.

They looked out of place and awkward, the wrong shoes, the wrong clothes, his mother in a pillbox hat, Ronald looking military in his posture, his shirt tucked in, his shoes shined, signaling to him with a thumbs-up.

Sharkey kept his distance, annoyed that they had come, distracting him, calling attention to themselves. He wandered beyond the spectators and the canopy and crouched beside his board, waiting for his name to be called.

In the sequence of six heats, Sharkey’s number was last. He sat alone, watching the others—Eddie in the first heat, the others he knew before him—and saw them trying to outdo each other. Eddie’s persuasive advice had always been, “Stay mellow, brah,” but he was jamming his board, swiveling on his wave, slicing through the barrel with his arms out, emerging in a squat stance before racing, until he reversed and vaulted over the wave, and at last slowed to step off in shallow water, looking joyous.

The others seemed to take cues from Eddie, echoing his moves, going him one better with repeated cutbacks, and there were cheers for them from the clusters of spectators seated on the sand. Sharkey’s mother and Ronald stood at the back of the beach, under the palm trees, near the judges’ canopy, frowning at the sea.

When Sharkey’s name and number were called, there was a shout from Eddie, but no cheer of recognition as there had been for the others. Sharkey paddled out, aware that he was being scrutinized as a stranger, one of the two haoles at the meet, and when he swam to the wave he did not know any of the three surfers who’d gotten there before him. They sat on their boards, waist deep in water, not acknowledging him—and he saw dogs again, teeth and jaws and narrowed eyes, necks shortened in threat. They bobbed together, riding the swell, Sharkey at the edge of the lineup.

No one onshore could have seen them clearly enough to understand the mood of rivalry or heard their snorting at him; but it didn’t matter. What mattered was waiting for a wave and choosing the right one before the horn blared and he was out of time.