Extract: Not a Babe, by Sarah Johnson

 Jerri keeps her head down in the surf-crazy town where she lives. Her father was a famous big wave surfer, remembered by the locals like surfing royalty. Now her brothers have inherited his crown.

Not Jerri! Out back, unnoticed with her best friend Frida is the only surf spot she wants to be. Even though she really rips.

But the tides are changing, and when a group of boys challenge Jerri and Frida to surf with them at a gnarly local break – too hard for girls, they reckon – Jerri surprises everyone by accepting their dare.

It’s a decision she quickly comes to regret. How can she keep her head down, when surfers’ lives are at stake?

The following extract from Not a Babe by Sarah Johnson (One Tree House, $30.00) is published here with kind permission.

Jerri lay with her head on her board, face turned to the horizon. At this level, the surface chop was an alpine landscape, row after row of dark furrows and sharp white peaks, a mishmash of shadow and light.

Now and then a larger swell shifted the skyline, sliding like a burrowing beast beneath her board, lifting and lowering her on its breath.

But mainly there was only the sweep of sea, then the stretch of sky.

A rogue wavelet hit the rail of her board, its backwash slapping her in the face. Jerri gasped and heaved herself upright, shaking the water out of her eyes. She kicked her heels to swing herself around, the lineup coming into view just as Frida, tall and slender, pushed up on her surfboard, arched her back and in one fluid motion sprung to her feet.

Frida stayed low as she slipped down the crest of the wave and out of sight. She emerged seconds later riding the lip, a streak of black and hot chemical pink against the backdrop of the hills, before she turned, dropped and was gone.

Jerri whistled under her breath. Watching Frida surf was like watching a swallow swoop across the surface of a pond – dipping, rising, always one beat ahead. Her feet and board appeared not on the wave but above it, gliding on a layer of flight. It was worth watching, every time.

Jerri stretched her shoulders and started paddling back towards the knot of surfers sitting beyond the break, waiting their turn. The afternoon had been hectic, the swell epic, and every surfer in the North Island seemed to be here, jostling in the lineup like sparrows on a wire.

When they’d first arrived, she and Frida had paddled out further along the beach, happy to put up with a messier break to avoid the crowds. But as the afternoon wore on, the tide had brought the groups closer together until they’d found themselves merged with the others, fighting for space.

Most of the other surfers had gone in now, taking the shadows gathering behind the hills as their cue to head for the shore. Yet there was a sour current among those who stayed, as though a long afternoon of clean swell had failed to deliver what they’d paddled out for.

Jerri had narrowly escaped being hit by a red-faced man who’d snaked her on her last wave, dropping in on her, eyes studiously averted, forcing her to swerve out of his way. She’d treated it as reason to take a break and shot back over the top, paddling further out to lie on her board and wait for Frida, see what she wanted to do.

Now, no one acknowledged her as she slipped back into the lineup. Only a handful of hard-core locals were left, including the red-faced snake. One man, older, with a shaved head, spun his board her way, looking at but not seeing her, his gaze travelling straight through where she sat, as if she occupied a blank space.

Jerri didn’t care. Better not to be noticed, and she didn’t need his permission to be there. She looked towards the beach. Frida was on her way back out, riding the rip like a conveyor belt, paddling as efficiently as she surfed.

Another man, the bald head’s mate, muttered as she passed.

Frida stopped paddling. “What’s that Jono?”

The man shot a grin at his mate. “I said you girls should stay in the whitewash with the groms. Leave the real waves to the real surfers.”

Frida sat up, flicking her rope of long dark hair over her shoulder. “Whatever Jono. You know you’ll never be as good as me, no matter how many centuries you sit out here.”

Jerri stifled a snort. Frida was right. She was already one of the town’s best surfers, sponsored at fifteen and heading for a surfing career these old farts could only dream of. She paddled over to her. “Awesome snap.”

“You think so? Reckon I need more rotation in my shoulders. Make it sharper.”

And there it was. The reason Frida was so damn good. She didn’t waste time talking up the waves she’d caught. Instead, she analysed them, always on the lookout for what to do better, how to surf stronger, smoother, what else to try. For Frida, surfing was a matrix she intended to crack. That’s why she was good. That’s why she’d make it to where she wanted to go.

“Shall we head in?”

Frida screwed her nose up at the lineup. “Yeah, it’s getting a bit grumpy out here. Let’s catch the next one in together. That’ll really piss them off.”

Jerri lowered her voice, imitating Jono. “You groms need to learn the rules. You groms should learn to surf. You should stick to the south end of the beach. You should stay in the whitewash. You should leave the real waves for the real surfers.”

Frida laughed. “And you reptiles should remember you were young once too. I mean, what even is a grom?”

“Ancient surfy slang, that’s what. They got called it, so now we get called it. It’s like how waves are still always measured in feet. What’s that about? We’re metric now! But everything has to stay the same as when they learned to surf.”

“Yeah, like in the Dark Ages.”

Their wave, when it came, was twice their height and hollow as a pāua, its lip peeling towards them at speed. Jerri went first, whooping as she took the drop, then looking up to see Frida dropping in right in front of her, pumping hard to keep ahead, then going high as Jerri went down, slipping in behind. Then they were both on the wave’s face, stretching out their arms until their fingers brushed and holding them there, just like they’d done since they were girls, side by side on their foamies in the whitewash.

Further in, Frida peeled off, letting Jerri have the final moments of the wave to herself. Jerri made the most of it, cruising the green sheen of the wave’s face until it closed out near to the shore.

On the beach, Jerri waited while Frida undid her leg rope and wrapped it around her board.

“Can you unzip me?” Frida asked.

Jerri pulled down the back zip on Frida’s wetsuit, revealing the skimpy straps of an apricot bikini top.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Latest totally impractical offering from my sponsor. They sent it with the wetsuit.” Frida twanged the strap. “At least it’s elasticated. What did those guys’ faces look like, though? When we went for the same wave.”

Jerri grinned. “Dunno. Didn’t bother checking.”

Not a Babe by Sarah Johnson is on sale in bookstores nationwide.