I don’t start to cry until I’m back in the house with the door shut. I don’t know how I made it this far, but once I’m clear of the outside world, the tears start to fall. My mom comes down the hall toward me, and from her expression I can tell I failed miserably at making it so my parents didn’t hear me. I bury my face into her shoulder. She doesn’t say a word. She just puts her arm around me and hugs me tightly as I sob uncontrollably.

Izzy.”

A hand grabs me by the shoulder and tries to wake me.

“Izzy, get up.”

I am completely disoriented as I wake up from the deepest sleep. My eyes are still sore from last night’s extended crying jag, and they’re also bleary due to the early hour. I squint and look out the window and my fears are confirmed. It’s still pitch-black outside.

“Dad? What time is it?”

“Five oh seven,” he says.

My head slumps back onto the pillow. “Leave me alone. I need to sleep.”

He yanks the pillow out from under me, and my head plonks down on the bed.

“Oww!”

“We’ll take the pillow with us,” he says. “You can sleep in the truck.”

Now I am completely confused. “Where are we going?”

I’m finally able to focus on him as he flashes a huge grin.

“Sebastian!” he says. “It’s going to be epic.”

Now I’m starting to wake up. Sebastian Inlet is the best surf spot for over a hundred miles.

“How epic?” I ask.

“There are two hurricanes in the Caribbean, and according to the surf report the waves might be as big as we’ve seen in years.”

I let this sink in. “We better get going.”

Dad has an orange and blue Ford Bronco that was old when he got it back in college. It’s not much to look at, but it’s weathered decades of salt air and sand, and is the ultimate surf vehicle. We load our boards into the back and minutes later pull out onto A1A, the highway that runs right along the Florida coast. It’s going to take us about an hour and a half to reach Sebastian, so I tuck my pillow against the window and fade off to sleep.

At the halfway point we pull off for a pit stop at a hole in the wall diner that serves amazing breakfast burritos. They have egg, peppers, chorizo sausage, and salsa all rolled up in a homemade tortilla. Dad and I stop here whenever we get the chance.

“That is so good,” he says as he savors his first bite.

I’m still too tired to talk much, so I just nod my sleepy agreement and smile before taking another bite. We sit there silently eating for a moment until Dad catches me off guard with a comment.

“Despite what you may be thinking,” he says, “Ben really cares about you.”

I continue to eat in silence, but I flash him the expression that says I’m not interested in having this conversation.

He totally ignores it.

“He’s probably not great at expressing it, but he’s heartbroken about his parents. It makes him doubt everything.”

I swallow another bite of my burrito and look right at him. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

He nods. “Okay. I just know you’re hurting.”

“I’m serious, Dad. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“All right, my mistake. Let’s finish these in the Bronco and get back on the road.”

We climb back up into the truck, and after silently finishing my burrito, I resume my sleeping position. I’m not actually sleeping this time, but I figure it’s the best way to keep him from trying to talk about Ben.

When you drive along A1A, you can see the ocean in between gaps in the sand dunes, and with the sun rising over it, it all seems kind of magical. I think about what Dad was saying in the diner, and after about twenty minutes of mulling it over, I ask him, “How do you even know?”

“Know what?”

“That Ben cares about me? Parents just say that stuff to make their kids feel better. You can’t know that.”

“You’re wrong about that,” he says. “I can know it. I see it in the way he looks at you and in the way he talks to you. But I also know it because he’s told me so.”

Now I sit up and look right at him. “When?”

“We run together three times a week,” he reminds me. “What do you think we talk about?”

“Sports?”

“No,” he says. “Well, sometimes we do. But mostly we talk about life and things. He talks about you a lot.”

“What does he say?” I demand. “I want specifics.”

Dad shakes his head. “I can’t tell you that. It wouldn’t be fair. Just like I wouldn’t tell him things you told me in confidence. But I can tell you that he cares about you more than he’s cared about anyone in his life. You mean the world to him, Iz.”

“It sure doesn’t seem like it,” I reply.

He smiles the same smile that he’s smiled at me my whole life. “I know, baby. Being a teenager can be really confusing, can’t it?”

“You’re not kidding.”

“Just remember that sometimes it can be amazing.”

“Like when?”

“Like right now,” he says as we pull in to the parking lot and look out at the surf. The sun has just broken over the horizon, and there’s enough light to see that the waves are amazing.

“You weren’t kidding,” I say, referring to his prediction. “Epic.”

We spend hours surfing the inlet. It’s crowded, so you have to wait your turn, but the wait is more than worth it. These are the biggest waves I’ve ever surfed, and the fact that I’m sharing them with my dad makes them even more special.

We’re both working on specific skills to help at the King of the Beach. I’m still trying to be more aggressive, and Dad is practicing his carving. Carving is what you do when you make turns and dig the rail—the side of the surfboard—into the wave and send water spraying.

“You’ve gotten so much better,” he says while we wait in the lineup. “It’s unbelievable.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he says. “I bet you’re ready to try an aerial.”

“Come on. There’s no way.”

An aerial is when you ride up the face of the wave, launch into the air, and then come back down and land on the same wave. It’s an incredible move, and not only have I never done it, I’ve never even tried it.

“The waves are big enough,” he says with a wink. “You can get the speed.”

I shake my head as though it’s a ridiculous idea, but in my mind just a little part of me considers it. Completing an aerial would be awesome. I remember the first time I saw one. My dad and I were watching a DVD of surf highlights, and seemingly out of nowhere Kelly Slater just rocketed right off the wave. I couldn’t believe it. I made Dad pause it and go through it frame by frame. Last year Bailey Kossoff did one during the King of the Beach, and that’s the moment I knew he had it won.

“Just try it once,” Dad says. “For me.”

I give him another skeptical look, but I don’t completely reject the idea. Am I good enough to land an aerial? I guess there’s only one way to find out.

The next wave I catch is my biggest one of the day. I am flying across the face, and I pass up some prime turning opportunities to look for just the right spot. I see it on the lip and shoot right up into the air.

For an instant I feel like I’m flying. It’s breathtaking.

I reach down and grab the rail with my right hand to keep the board from separating, and then I land back on the wave. Or rather, I try to land. I come in awkward and fall off the back, slamming hard into the ocean. It takes my breath away, figuratively and literally. That doesn’t take away from the experience one bit. I try it a few more times, and each time I come close but struggle with the landing and wind up eating a face full of ocean. By the time we climb back into the Bronco, I am battered, bruised, and exhausted. I’m also inspired.

“So, what do you think?” asks Dad as he pulls out of the parking lot and back onto A1A.

I know he’s asking me what I think about the day in general, but my answer is much more specific.

“What do I think?” I reply with a big grin on my face. “I think I can land it.”