Some names of people and cities have been changed.

            It’s six-fifteen on a late January morning, and I’m standing in a parking lot in Bolsa Chica just off Tower 20, bouncing lightly on my feet in an attempt to stay warm. It’s a fruitless endeavor; my car temperature read 49 degrees outside, which is basically freezing to a person born and raised in Southern California, and there’s a relentless wind tossing the towering palm tree fronds around as if they were ribbons. On the drive over, I passed two women standing in front of a church, waiting to spend their morning in reverence. Now, I note the people around me; they are also preparing to spend their morning worshipping, just in a slightly different way.

            The wind is biting, especially this close to the water. It comes in endless waves, lashing against my cheeks and ears. For the last twenty-two minutes, I have watched a precise and careful ritual, a choreographed dance of movements done mostly in silence. Several times, I debated whether to interrupt the silence with my questions or wait until after they’d finished. I check my watch for the third or fourth time, wondering when we will ever get to the sand.

            Ariana catches me and gives a low laugh. “Are we boring you?”

            Normally, I would begin apologizing profusely, but I’ve been up since five and am feeling more impatient than polite.

            “It’s not that,” I finally say, pinned down by Ariana’s intense gaze. “It’s just, well, we’ve been here for almost thirty minutes, and so far, we haven’t even left the parking lot.”

            Immediately, I regret my candor, but Ariana laughs, and so does Lisa.

            “I can’t stand this part either,” Lisa tells me, rolling her eyes. “Ari likes it, but I wish we could just get out and go.”

            I can’t help but agree and look to Ariana, who shrugs and pulls a bottle of sunscreen out of her bag.

            “This isn’t Hawai’i. You can’t just throw on a swimsuit and head into the water.” She gestures at the wetsuit she spent several long minutes shimmying into. “I’ve gotten faster at putting this on, too.”

            “It’s custom-made,” Lisa singsongs, and Ariana looks away, annoyed or embarrassed; I can’t tell.

            They were already here when I pulled into the parking lot, and it looked as if they were arguing: from a distance, I could see Ariana standing with her arms crossed as if to fend off Lisa’s animated gesturing. They laughed when I asked if everything was okay, glancing at each other as if I had missed the punchline.

            “We’re both very passionate people,” Ariana tells me. “My daughter says I’m incapable of expressing myself without being intense.”

            This intensity carries through in everything she does, including this parking lot ritual. Beside me, Ariana is wearing a thick, dark poncho that doubles as a shield from the outside world. Moments ago she tucked her arms inside and put on her bathing suit and the bottom portion of her wetsuit without exposing so much as a shoulder. It was impressive, and for a second, I felt compelled to say so, but something about the look on her face silenced me. Now is not the time for praise.

            Lisa moves in stages, first removing her sweatshirt and then her shirt. She’s already wearing a one-piece, bright turquoise blue with gray piping around the edges. While Ariana stays curled up in a protective ball, Lisa stands tall and stretches, then looks around the parking lot often as if to invite people to stare. She pulls on the bottom half of her wetsuit, jumping up and down a bit to wiggle it past her hips. Next, they apply layer after layer of sunscreen, and then finally, finally, we start making our way to the sand.

            Instantly, the mood lifts. The sky, just a few moments ago ominous and blue-black, now looks as if it has been set on fire. Thick layers of puffy clouds are lit up with the first morning’s sunrays, bright streaks of yellow, red, and orange. The water is already dotted with people paddling out, their boards gently bobbing up and down as they move against the morning current.

            I expect Ariana and Lisa to continue down the sand and straight into the water, but instead, they both set their boards down. Ariana starts stretching again, and Lisa kneels to wax her board. They communicate with a silent language through gestures and understanding nods. For a few moments, I sit and watch them finish their ritual. This is a patient person’s sport, apparently.

**

            As with most stories, theirs started and ended with love. Or, at least, what Ariana had believed to be love. Over breakfast, she tells me about David, her high school boyfriend.

            “I thought we were going to get married; I really did.” As she says this, Ariana neatly rips open two sugar packets and upends the contents into her cup. “We dated for two years in high school, which is practically forever.”

            She stirs her coffee, and for a few seconds, no one says anything. Then Lisa lets out a barking laugh, startling both me and the server, who is attempting to lean over and place water glasses on the table. 

            “Aw, just say it!” Lisa smiles at Ariana and then turns to face me. “It was me.” She announces it like she’s won a radio contest. “I broke them up!”

            But Ariana is also smiling. She regards her friend with the same expression a parent would bestow upon their child’s macaroni artwork.

“          It’s true,” she sips her coffee. “He broke up with me, and a few days later, they were dating.”

            “Whatever ‘dating’ means at that age,” Lisa chimes in, laughs again.

           Another beat of silence, and then Ariana looks at me directly.

           “Anyway, that’s what ended our friendship.” She glances at Lisa, her face unreadable. “But all that was a long time ago. And honestly, it doesn’t bother me now.”

           I scrutinize her expression, searching for clues of how she might genuinely feel. She looks utterly nonplussed, except for her eyes, which are darting back and forth as if she’s working something out. Finally, she puts her hand on the table, palm down, fingers spread.

           “Enough of that. Let’s go surfing!”

**

            Ariana and Lisa have known each other for forty years. They met in fifth grade when Ariana captured her in “Capture the Flag,” and Lisa had been so upset she left an unflattering drawing on Ariana’s desk, hoping to make her cry.

            “But I don’t cry,” Ariana tells me, clearly proud of it. “Instead, I invited her to my birthday party, thinking she wouldn’t come.”

            Lisa starts nodding. “My mom made me go, I think, I don’t know. I don’t really remember why I went, but we ended up swimming together and pretty much hanging out the entire party. We were best friends after that.”

            They spent their preteen years biking around Walnut, a small city nestled just south of the San Jose Hills. In Junior year of high school, Ariana’s parents moved them to Orange County, but the girls still saw each other at soccer camp.

            “We were always both very athletic and, of course, insanely competitive,” Lisa laughs. “It never caused us to fight or anything, though. I think it actually helped; it was motivating. I wanted to beat her.”

            Everything about Lisa is light: her skin, her hair, her outlook on life. When I asked Ariana why she started surfing, she said she was beginning to feel as if she lacked purpose, as if she needed something tangible she could tether herself to. Lisa said she likes how surfing is “sculpting my ass!”

**

            If Ariana were an element, she would be water, endlessly powerful, always moving, able to adapt and change form no matter the environment. Walking together down the boardwalk, I can’t help but notice how she moves with purpose, never straying from her path, cutting through a group of teenagers without fear or hesitation.

            When one of them laughs and says loudly, “Lady’s in a hurry, huh?” Ariana doesn’t seem to notice; if she does, it doesn’t faze her, and she doesn’t pause her story. She likes to have lengthy conversations while she power walks, taking the same two paths down to the beach every day. Her stamina is impressive and frustrating: I often struggle to keep up with her at almost thirty years her junior.

            Ariana starts her day with a powerwalk or run down to the beach, followed by an hour at the gym or a Pilates class. At the gym, she moves from machine to machine easily, never having to stop and wince against the pain or catch her breath. When I ask her if she has any tips for how I can become as strong as her, she smiles, casts her eyes down.

            “Oh, I don’t know that I’m strong. I’m just consistent, I guess.”

**

            Ariana seems to have an endless supply of matching two-piece workout outfits in varying colors and patterns, all expensive brands, and none showing any type of wear or fading. I imagine her closet: expansive, a walk-in, filled with neatly hung sets of workout clothing. When we talk about our weekends, hers is filled with meals of freshly caught fish and ocean views and day trips to rental villas that come with their own waitstaff.

            Ariana and I first met at our gym, a small, privately owned business located minutes from the beach. I remember feeling slightly intimated by her, by the confident way she moved through the room. Now, we break our reps up with short conversations, learning little bits about each other as we stand over the water cooler. I’ve seen that her tough exterior is barely skin deep; when we both reach for the same set of weights, she smiles at me brightly.

            “Take them! I think I’ll challenge myself and use the 25’s.”

            I glance at Ariana near the corner as I struggle through my set. Her lips are slightly parted as she punches the weights above her head, and each movement is precise, smooth, and controlled. Setting her weights down, she says something to the guy at the machine nearest her, and they laugh.  

            After her workout, she stands near the side door, taking off her gloves and peering outside the floor-to-ceiling window facing the street. Walking over to stand beside her, I am motivated to correct my posture and put my shoulders back. She’s smiling at whatever she sees outside, her cheeks rounding up against the deep wrinkling that frames her bright eyes.

            “I think I’ll go surfing,” she tells me. “My friend and I have been going lately. The surf has been great.” A moment later, I catch her slipping out the door, already walking briskly down the sidewalk toward the water.

**

            Back at Tower 20 and still waiting.

            Ariana and Lisa are waxing their boards in silence, every so often gesturing toward one another, their mouths set in tight, grim lines. Ariana switches her wax bar back and forth between her hands, making long, quick strokes up and down the width of her board with what looks like the edge of her bar. Her movements are so fluid it’s hard to see exactly what her hands are doing.

            “How many times have you done this?” I ask her, and she stops and laughs.

            “More than I can count. My brother used to let me wax his surfboard. I like the process. I find it soothing.”

            “I hate it,” Lisa chimes in. “I wish they came pre-waxed.” She laughs. “Pre-seasoned, like a skillet.”

**

           During our initial meeting, Ariana was open to having her life explored, her name used, and her thoughts displayed. Lisa, however, was adamantly against it. I explained that I wouldn’t use her photo or last name, just her first.

           “Doesn’t matter,” Lisa shook her head. “I’d rather not.”

           She didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t push. Later, though, I asked Ariana if she had any insights. She laughed and threw up her hands.

           “Believe me, I don’t understand half of the things that woman does.”

           Taking up surfing was Lisa’s idea, one that she brought up during their morning walks.

           “I just remember that we had been walking along this same path for months, up and down, up and down. And one day, I looked over and saw all these colors in the water. Bright, bright colors,” As she’s telling me this, her eyes seem to open wider and wider. This is the pattern I’ve noticed for her: long periods of quiet followed by bursts of energy. 

           The colors she saw were, of course, the surfers out in the water. Over breakfast that day, she and Ariana discussed the idea of surfing again. They dabbled in it in their teenage years, but now they wanted to “get it right,” as Ariana puts it. A week later, they met on the beach, not to walk but to surf.

**

            Like most sports, surfing has long been dominated by men. Surfing and what was later known as “big wave surfing” started in Polynesia and the Hawaiian Islands and “was synonymous with … courageous masculinity” (Duane). Popular figures in surfing at the time publicly mocked women’s surfing, insisting women had no place in that world. In 1963, “Surf Magazine” published an article by big wave surfer Buzzy Trent titled “Big Waves Are Masculine, Women Feminine.” In it, Trent writes that “Girls do fine when it comes to housework, raising children, doing office work, doing the twist,” but they should avoid attempting to surf, especially big waves (Trent). He explains that “girls are much more emotional than men and therefore have a greater tendency to panic. And panic can be extremely dangerous in big surf. …Girls are weaker than men and have a lesser chance for survival in giant wipeouts” (Trent).

            Thankfully, women ignored the likes of Trent and endured. Less than two decades after Trent’s infamous article, the media began showcasing female surfers in a positive light, and shortly after that, female surf competitions started to pop up around the country (Booth 4). Still, by the 1990s, very few women were surfing, making up less than 5% of the United States surfing population. By the early 2000s, however, that number rose to 15% and has continued to grow (Booth 3-4). In 2003, American professional surfer Bethany Hamilton lost her arm in a shark attack while surfing, and the media turned her into the poster child for courageousness. Long gone was Trent’s baseless assumption that women could not endure a surfing crisis; Hamilton proved they would not only endure but thrive.

           Ironically, one of the original pioneers and champions of surfing was Hawaiian Princess Kaiulani. Missionaries from the mainland arrived in Hawai’i during the 17th century and sought to rid the natives of one of their favorite pastimes. They disapproved of the gambling that occurred at surfing events, and the lack of clothing was deemed immoral (“Chronicling America: Historic Newspapers from Hawaiʻi and the U.S.: Surfing.”). Princess Kaiulani defied the missionaries’ decrees, surfed anyway, and then encouraged her people to do the same.

**

           Ariana settles back on her heels, surveying her board.

           “First layer done,” she announces.

           Lisa is still working on hers, holding it against her hip with her left hand and making aggressive circles with the other. When I first start interviewing people, I’ve found they are reserved and almost shy, carefully thinking through each sentence they utter. But after time, they almost seem to forget that I am there, that I am watching. They stop filtering, they slouch, they take large, thirsty pulls from their water bottles. They let their faces settle into their routine expressions, and right now, Lisa is smiling to herself, clearly excited, and Ariana is frowning as she waxes, practically scowling, causing a deep wrinkle to appear on her forehead.

           “Who taught you to wax your board?” I ask them both. Ariana learned from her brother, an avid surfer who begrudgingly taught his little sister the basics. He passed in the late nineties from cancer, and Ariana laughs when she imagines what he would say if he saw her now.

           “He would probably make fun of me,” she muses.

            “I had such a crush on him,” Lisa offers.

            I ask her if she learned from him as well.

            “No, my boyfriend at the time was a surfer, and I would sit on the beach and watch him.” She doesn’t elaborate further, so I ask her if she has a boyfriend now. Her ring finger is bare, as is Ariana’s.

            “Not at the time,” she says, resuming her vigorous circles. “But I’m looking.”

            And she is. Within five minutes of meeting in the parking lot, Lisa announces that she hopes to meet a fellow surfer.

            “I’ve always liked athletes,” she says by way of explanation.

            Now, she jams her board into the sand with a decisive grunt and exhales loudly. “I hope there’s a cute guy out there.”

            I catch Ariana shaking her head and think about the great divide between them, not only in personality but in demeanor. Lisa often seems to say what’s on her mind the second it pops into her head. Ariana is much more reserved, and several times, I’ve wondered if she is silently judging her. I am fascinated by the dynamics of their friendship – their falling out makes more sense to me than their reconnection, so I ask them how it came to be.

            Ariana has a Facebook but rarely uses it, often forgetting her password. During the initial lockdown phase of the pandemic, she had turned to the social media platform in a desperate attempt to secure Covid tests for her elderly parents. They were high-risk and mostly home bound, and Ariana served as their sole caregiver. Lisa saw her post pleading for tests and messaged her before she could second guess herself. Something about the vulnerability of Ariana’s post made Lisa feel less anxious about reaching out to her, and within hours, there was a reply.

            “Seeing her name was a blast from the past,” Ariana tells me. “I’d thought about her from time to time but had no sense of how to reach out.” She mentions quietly how the beginning of the pandemic was especially difficult for her, how she didn’t handle the transition to isolation well, and when she saw Lisa’s message, she felt a sense of hope.

            The pandemic has had myriad lasting impacts on our society and its people. Isolation and quarantine caused “unusual sadness, fear, frustration, feelings of helplessness, loneliness, and nervousness” (Khan et al.). Quarantine did have some positive effects, though. Humans are innately social, and during the pandemic, they found creative ways to remain connected, especially online. Ariana and Lisa began by messaging one another through Facebook, then through text, and finally by phone. Their first in-person encounter was at the beach, right after they opened back up. The rule was you had to keep moving, “active recreational use only,” according to Huntington Beach Mayor Lyn Semeta’s ordinance, no sunbathing or loitering. So Ariana and Lisa walked. They both wore masks, and frequently, the conversation ground to an awkward silence, but they kept moving forward. When restaurants reopened for outdoor seating, the first person Ariana thought of was Lisa.

***

           It is now after seven; all I can think about is food. I see a woman and her child walking by the trash can at the edge of the sand. The woman throws something away, and the toddler stands momentarily, looking out across the sand. His mother reaches out for his hand, but he pulls away and keeps his eyes on the water.

           I realize Ariana is saying something. “I’m sorry?” I ask, turning toward her.

           “We’re heading out to the water,” she smiles at me, and I feel like the toddler, unfocused and impatient. “See you in a bit.”

           They walk out the boards in the water, moving side to side with the current. As they approach a wave, they push down on the back of their boards, pushing the nose of their boards up and over the whitecaps. Lisa gets slammed backward by a wave, and she seems to lose her footing for a second. I see Ariana stop and look back; she raises her hand as if to ask Lisa, you okay? Lisa sticks out her tongue in response.

           By now, the water is relatively crowded, dotted with surfers trying to negotiate their space. Ariana slides her body onto her board, firmly gripping the sides. She moves into a wave, and as she’s about to go over, she pops just her upper body upward, her shoulders rigid and tight.

           Lisa is also on her board now, paddling effortlessly, slicing her board through the water. She moves effortlessly over the steady stream of waves cresting, and finally, the two boards meet, bobbing gently next to each other. I can see them talking, and Ariana is pointing. I can’t hear them, but I almost don’t need to; Ariana is likely giving strategies, going over areas of concern she’s noticed. Lisa will listen, or perhaps not, and then do whatever she wants to. She won’t have to ask Ariana to help her if she gets in trouble.

           I’m giddy at this point: I finally get to see the women in action. For the past few weeks, we have talked about surfing, watched surf videos, and even went to the surfing museum in Huntington Beach, but this will be the first time I’ll see Ari and Lisa actually surf.

           They sit on their boards for several minutes, waiting for the right wave. I watch them talking, laughing, and gesturing toward their wetsuits, their boards, and other surfers. This is the most I’ve seen them talk together. During that first initial meeting, they had talked more to me than each other, and several times when one of them was explaining something to me, they would pause to also explain it to the other. When Lisa mentioned her divorce, she briefly turned to Ariana and said, “I don’t know if I had told you that. That, um, Danny left.”

           Ariana shook her head. “I had no idea.”

           “It was in … 2015? Or maybe 2014. I’m unsure.” Lisa turns back to me. “The years have flown by!”

           Ariana starts paddling out, her arms moving in steady, sure strokes. I see her angle her board square with the wave that is rapidly coming up. Lisa is yelling from behind the wave, her hair bouncing around. Effortlessly, as if she’s done it a thousand times, Ariana waits for the wave to lift the tail of her board, and then she pushes off her hands and tucks her legs up underneath her. For a second, she teeters, squatting low, her arms outstretched. As she starts to curve into the wave, she rises up slightly, knees still bent, and then suddenly, she’s doing it.

I stand up, hoping for a better look. I feel like cheering. Ariana cuts her board to one side, moving with the wave, and then she loses it, crashing spectacularly into the water. When she comes up, the first thing I see is her smile. I’m certain I can hear her laughing, or maybe I’m imagining it. Either way, I can feel the weight of the victory from here. I wish I could be out there to voice my congratulations, to tell her that I witnessed her accomplishment, that it was real.

           Just then, Lisa paddles over to her, waving her arms. Their hands meet, and one of them says something that makes them laugh. I sit back down, sinking slightly into the sand. My congratulations can wait. 

Works Cited

Warshaw, Matt. The History of Surfing. Chronicle, 2010.

Bennet, Ariana. Personal Interview. 4 February 2022. 8-9:30am.

Booth, Douglas. “From Bikinis to Boardshorts: ‘Wahines’ and the Paradoxes of Surfing Culture.” Journal of Sport History, vol. 28, no. 1, University of Illinois Press, 2001, pp. 3–22, http://www.jstor.org/stable/43609829.

“Chronicling America: Historic Newspapers from Hawaiʻi and the U.S.: Surfing.” Research Guides, 2022, https://guides.library.manoa.hawaii.edu/c.php?g=105252&p=687128#:~:text=1820%3A%20Missionaries%20arrived%20in%20Hawai%CA%BBi,its%20gambling%20and%20sexual%20aspects.

Duane, Daniel. “The Fight for Gender Equality in One of the Most Dangerous Sports on Earth.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 7 Feb. 2019, https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/02/07/magazine/women-surf-big-wave.html.

Khan, K.S., Mamun, M.A., Griffiths, M.D. et al. The Mental Health Impact of the COVID-19 Pandemic Across Different Cohorts. Int J Ment Health Addiction (2020). https://doi.org/10.1007/s11469-020-00367-0

Trent, Buzzy. “Buzzy Trent on Girls Surfing: ‘It’s Certainly Better than Drinking in Taverns or Walking the Street.’” Encyclopedia of Surfing, 22 Nov. 2017, https://eos.surf/2017/11/22/buzzy-trent-on-girls-surfing-its-certainly-better-than-drinking-in-taverns-or-walking-the-street/.