Ellis Gardner climbed into her beat-to-shit truck and started the engine.  There was a crack in the windshield, on the passenger side, that had branched and was crawling towards her.  Another few days and that crack would cut right through her line of vision.  How did it happen?  Ellis had no idea, it just appeared, but she needed to get it fixed.  Soon.  Along with the passenger door and the tailgate.   And the engine.  And the rear brake light.  And definitely the suspension.  What she really needed was a new truck.  Whatever.

It was still dark outside, maybe another forty-five minutes before the sun would come up, and her body was stiff from too little sleep.  God Damn it!  There was no reason to go out every single fucking night; she needed to remember that.  Nothing wrong with spending time alone.  Solitude, introspection.   Silence was not the enemy.  She was thirty-five years old, old enough to face the music once in awhile.  And anyway the parties were stale, same thing year after year, getting high; hooking up with someone she knew far too well whenever the mood struck.  This was a small, small town and her group of friends very insulated, Appalachia by the sea.  When the surf got big you could see it in the ocean–people dropping in, fist fights and boards being launched at the heads and bodies of non-locals.  It was dangerous to be an outsider around here.  When the waves got overhead, the boys turned into a raging pack of wolves, a militia hell-bent on defending their territory and their sense of allegiance and loyalty to the local break was strong.  During those times it felt good to be a part of this clan.  It made Ellis feel safe.

She revved the engine, trying to get everything warmed up so the heater could do its job.  It was March.   The sun was coming up earlier; her days were getting longer.  Ellis loved the beginning of spring, loved the way the sun hit the water; the light seemed brighter, somehow fuller.   South swells would start rolling in soon and then she would be able to surf in front of her house but for now she had to drive up the coast for waves.

She gunned the engine one more time then turned the heater on high.  Lukewarm air blew into her face.  There was a slight throbbing at the back of her skull but nothing serious.  This was a level 3 maybe 3 1/2 on her 10-count hangover scale.  Not too bad.  Nothing the ocean wouldn’t cure.

Ellis shifted into reverse and backed up her long driveway.  She’d been paddling out in the dark for the last year, trying to avoid the crowds.  A lot of her friends were doing the same thing.  Surfing had become the new golf–every asshole, his sister, AND his fricking mother had taken up “the sport” and it was harder and harder to find uncrowded waves.  In the old days her group had taken care of crowds with assault-oriented intimidation, like slashing tires and breaking windshields, but now you had to worry about lawyers and lawsuits.   All these new people with their pompous attitudes and sense of privilege, hooting and hollering in the ocean—they completely destroyed the peace that came from sitting quietly in the water, waiting for the next set.  They’d make it to the lineup, usually in groups of three or four, because god forbid they do anything alone, and yell back and forth about how great it was to be out there and did anybody have a good line on property in Costa Rica or Nicaragua or any other trendy investment spot.  They were like bobbing cockatoos in some weird animal circus, perched on their boards, flexing their crests and puffing out their feathers, trying to take on the appearance of a bigger, more impressive bird, and all the while claiming their territory with shrieks of entitlement.  Fucking rich assholes were taking over the planet.  They bought all the beachside houses and drove prices through the roof, then got a couple of “Point Dume” bumper stickers and slapped them on their cars so the world would know exactly where they lived, threw on some trunks or a bikini and a pair of Uggs and called themselves surfers.   It was getting to the point where Ellis wondered if she would just have to stop.  Find something else. The thought was too depressing to consider.

She drove along the highway.  A few lights were on in the houses but most people were still sleeping.  She’d grown up here.  Ellis’ mother died when she was born, complications of childbirth, some type of infection.  No memories.  Her father ran a hardware store down in the village.  She been here all her life; this was her home but it was increasingly hard to recognize.  There were still a few beach shacks but they were increasingly rare, crushed by the elephant steps of the wealthy developers.  Typically a rich asshole would buy two or three cottages on the sand, level them, and fill in the space with a monument to his own ego, some crazy architectural statement that said look at me.

Ellis turned into the lot, drove past Frank’s black BMW and pulled into a space next to Pablo Schwartz’s beat-up camper.  Pablo had been parked here for the last week, cooking his dinners on his little camp stove, drinking beers out of his ice chest, using the showers at the public restroom.  He knew the lifeguards and they let him stay around, sometimes for two weeks in one spot, even though it was against the law to sleep in your car.  He moved from one lot to the next, year round.  It was the only way he could afford to stay.  His mother sold her house years ago and, even with his savings; Pablo would never be able to afford the smallest shack now that the billionaires had invaded.

Pablo walked over, stuck his head through her window and kissed Ellis on the lips.  There was a little spark in that kiss but no pressure.  She smiled as he pulled back.

“What are you doing later?”  Pablo had his wetsuit zipped and was clearly ready to get in the water.

Ellis shrugged.

“I’ll buy you breakfast if we can shower at your place first.”

Ellis nodded.  They both knew that Pablo wouldn’t buy her breakfast.  Pablo never spent a penny unless he absolutely had to.  After he showered she’d make him something to eat and then maybe they’d hangout or maybe she would send him off, depending on her mood.

Pablo kissed Ellis again, this time on the cheek, and headed for the ocean.  She watched him go as she pulled off her jacket.  They’d grown up together, learned to swim, then ride mats, and finally surf on the same beach.  It was Pablo whom she picked when she decided it was time to have sex for the first time.  She loved him in a weird, complicated brother-sister-lover kind of way.  She liked his wiry-hard body, the way he didn’t need to fill up every moment with words and the fact that he didn’t give a damn about material possessions.  All Pablo needed was a good surfboard, a decent wetsuit, tons of pot, a stomach full of food and a dry place to sleep.



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KATIE ARNOLDI has published three novels. The first, Chemical Pink, was a national bestseller. Her second novel The Wentworths was a Los Angeles Times bestseller as was her most recent book, Point Dume, which was published in May 2010 and released in paperback on 4-20 2011. Katie was the 1992 Southern California Bodybuilding Champion. She was also a competitive longboard surfer, an enthusiastic backcountry survivalist, fanatic scuba diver and a constant traveler. She has an extensive knife collection and is currently writing another novel.

One response to “Point Dume – An Excerpt”

  1. Erika Rae says:

    Looking forward to more! Welcome to TNB, Katie.

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