Wicked Break

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The man on the shore was waiting for me.

I’d been in the water for an hour, catching a nice southern break that was producing tight swells of about three to four feet just north of the jetty in Mission Beach. He’d been there for about half that time, watching from a distance, and when I dug the nose of my six-foot Ron Jon into the face of an anxiety-free wave and went ass-over-kettle into the water, the distraction of being watched ended my session.

I trudged in, shaking the ocean out of my hair as I approached the shoreline. The beach was deserted on a cloudy Monday at mid-morning. When the man waved at me, I knew he wasn’t trying to get anyone’s attention but mine.

“Are you Noah?” he asked. “Noah Braddock?”

I ran a hand over my face, sliding away the excess water and not bothering to disguise a frown. I jammed the butt of the board into the sand and let it stand erect. “Yeah. Who are you?”

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