The Tribes of Palos Verdes Read Online Free Page A

move, and ignore them if they laugh.
    â€œDon’t limit yourself to being a lame chick in the water,” she says. “Use your mind—and your arms.”
    I cut out a picture of Frieda surfing a big, green, velvety wave in Hawaii and hang it over my bed, where I look at it every night before I go to sleep.
    Freida doesn’t explain exactly what to do when other surfers laugh. Sometimes they catcall across the water, imitating me when I push off. “It’s a UFO,” they yell, “an unidentified flailing object.”
    I pretend I don’t hear them, but I do.
    *   *   *
    Palos Verdes is on an earthquake fault line unrelated to the famous San Andreas.
    â€œWe have our own fault line,” people like to say, “just like we have our own police force and school system.”
    Because of cliff erosion, entire streets on the west end of the peninsula shift about a foot a year, causing sewage problems and huge cracks in the foundations of houses. But Palos Verdes is listed in almost all travel guidebooks as one of the most beautiful coastal regions in America, so the residents stay, despite the certainty their houses will need extensive repairs every four years. The children of these residents learn that money fixes everything, even nature, if there is enough of it.
    *   *   *
    There is the smell of fast food in every room of our house, even though a housekeeper cleans daily. The bathroom smells like meat. The hallways close to my mother’s room smell like French fries, cheese, steaks. A heavy oil smell hangs like fog over the carpeted corridor, mixing with the odor of chemicals from nitrogen-flushed bags.
    Lately my mother doesn’t allow the housekeeper into her bedroom to clean. “My husband is always in someone else’s bedroom anyway,” she says, listening to the peacocks cry.
    â€œMating, Phil,” she says. “I hear you mating.”
    *   *   *
    I’m on my stomach in the bay, on my surfboard, experimenting with ways to paddle out faster. The waves are getting bigger now. It seems impossible to get out to the wavebreak because the whitewash keeps pushing me back.
    â€œIt’s harder for a girl,” Jim tells me. “Your arms aren’t strong enough.”
    Even though I get mad, I know it’s true. When I try calling a surf shop to ask if there’s a secret trick to good paddling, the guy who answers laughs. “Pretend there’s a great white comin’ at you, girlie.” Then he laughs again and hangs up.
    First I try pushing water through my fingers like I’m doing the breaststroke, but the board keeps going sideways. Next I try using my hands like scoops, feeling salt stinging the scabby spots near my bitten nails. Finally, I try pushing the water with my hands and kicking my legs, but my knees keep banging on the hard resin.
    Soon I’m sweating in the rubber, but I can’t take my wet suit off, because there’s nowhere to put it. Sweat and salt water start dripping in my eyes, and I punch the water as hard as I can. The rubber is suffocating me so I unzip the top of my wet suit and balance it on my head, wearing only a cotton T-shirt now.
    Then I get an idea: I imagine I’m a machine—a paddling machine that never gets tired. I plunge my arms about a foot into the water and propel myself forward, counting out loud, “One, two, one, two.” I paddle across the entire bay faster than I’ve ever done it before. The only thing that stops me is a gulp of sea water I breathe in by mistake.
    Choking, exhilarated, I rest for ten minutes, floating on my back. When I look up at the window, I see my mother’s yellow bathrobe reflected in the glass. I wave slowly to her from across the water. Then I put the wet suit back on my head and paddle again, showing off my form.
    When I look up a few seconds later, she’s