CRUSH POINT

HOMECOMING

I can handle wipeouts. It's the waiting that I'm never prepared for. When you're out at sea, sitting on your board, waiting for a wave—that's the worst part of surfing, no matter what people say about injuries or drownings.

It's the same with airports.

I hate waiting, and my flight's already been delayed ten minutes. I'm just aching to get back to my hometown after five years away.

When the boarding finally starts, my parents don't take the goodbye well. My mom pulls me into one of her bone-crushing hugs, the smell of coconut shea butter filling my nose. Her soft, dark curls brush my cheek—spirals that match mine in shape, but not in texture. Hers are healthy, shiny, always moisturized. Mine? Salt-burnt, sun-bleached, and no matter how hard I try, always frizzy.

When I pull back, she gives me that soft smile I know too well, the one that always comes before a lecture.
"Text us when you land, okay? And don't forget—your first class is Monday at eight, Kehlani Chen. Please actually focus on your summer classes. They don't seem important now, but I promise you, they will be."

My mom, Black and fierce, is all business even when she's holding back tears.

My dad, quieter—Chinese, gentle in his own way—hugs me next. I can't tell if he's squinting because he's trying not to cry or because of his terrible eyesight, which my brother and I unfortunately inherited. He never leaves home without his thick glasses. I prefer contacts; I don't like being seen in public with four eyes.

"Remember, we trust you. Don't waste this. No wild parties, don't do dumb shit, and most importantly, focus on your classes."

"Okay, Dad. I love you too."

I waste no time getting on the plane, backpack slung over one shoulder. My surfboard's already packed in the belly of the plane, but it's still heavy on my mind. I slide into my window seat, pop in a piece of watermelon gum, and try to ignore the butterflies. I've flown enough to know the drill, but something about it still gets to me.

I must've dozed off, because the next thing I know, the pilot's voice crackles through the speakers, announcing our descent.

My heart picks up like I'm paddling for a wave.

I press my face to the window and catch sight of the California coastline—the sweep of land, the pier stretching into the water, and that familiar blue-green stretch of home. The wheels hit the runway with a jolt, and just like that, I'm back.

After picking up my luggage, I step outside into that warm, hazy California air that clings to your skin like saltwater. The smell of cigarettes burns my nose. The pickup zone is chaos—car horns blaring, people shouting, the grind of suitcase wheels across concrete. One runs right over my flip-flop-clad foot, and I wince, but I'm too busy scanning for a familiar face to care.

My brother Dylan is nowhere in sight. Figures.

I dig my phone out of my backpack, thumb hovering over his contact, when I hear it before I see it: the loud chorus of Surfin' USA blaring from an ancient Honda. The car jerks to a stop at the curb, coughing like it might give out right there. The windows are rolled down, the paint is peeling, and Dylan's wild grin pops out from behind the wheel. His black buzz is a little overgrown, and there's an empty coffee cup rattling around by his feet.

Dylan back from UC Santa Barbara, where he's been studying marine bio and "trying to figure his life out," as he puts it looks exactly the same but more tired, maybe. I know he's been busting his ass at the aquarium: giving tours, scrubbing tanks, whatever they'll let him do. Still trying so hard to make something of himself.

"Parking was a nightmare!" he shouts over the music, like that explains everything.

I can't help it—I laugh. It's been five years, and somehow, nothing about him has changed. Still the same Dylan who taught me how to blast Dad's rock records when we were kids. Still the same Dylan who thought a dented old Honda was cooler than a new car because it had character.

I lug my surfboard bag up to strap it to the roof. The second I slide into the passenger seat, it hits me: the smell of ocean air mixed with coffee and old car upholstery.

I'm home.

We pull away from the airport and merge onto the freeway. The coastline sprawls out beside us, the Pacific glittering under the afternoon sun. I can just make out the waves—small and glassy. The kind that would be perfect for warming up after a long break.

The Welcome to Rivera Verde sign flashes by, its paint is chipped, but it still makes my heart kick. I can almost see the beach where I took gold at the SoCal Juniors at fourteen. I can still hear the crowd at State when I placed second at sixteen. My parents cheered, sure—they flew me out, paid for the boards, the gear, the training. But it was always: This is just a phase, Kehlani. Anything but admit I might want this for real.

Downtown looks exactly how I remember with faded neon signs, sun-bleached shopfronts that haven't changed since the '80s. But as we pass the boardwalk, my breath catches.

Last time I saw it, the place was practically dead. Now it's alive. People are everywhere—stringing up lights, repainting signs, scrubbing down food stands, setting up pop-up rides that probably should've been thrown out a decade ago.

I roll down my window, and the town's scent floods in: salt, fried dough, sunscreen, and something sweet—maybe the first batch of taffy being pulled in one of the candy shops.

Although everything around me is familiar, Dylan's condo isn't. I knew downtown like the back of my hand, but this neighborhood? I wouldn't find my way without him.

His place is small, basic, and cluttered—cheap furniture, ocean magazines stacked on a wobbly table, and a single framed photo of him and his longtime girlfriend, Sophie, smiling on the beach.

I drop my suitcase and duffel by the door, but it's my shortboard I unpack first. I slide it out of its case like I'm checking on an old friend. With its yellow deck and pink-and-orange hibiscus bottom, it's my most beautiful friend. My fingers trail over the wax, the scratches, the dings.

Soon, I think. Soon I'll be back out there.

Before I even think about unpacking, I'm drawn to the sliding glass door like a magnet. I step out onto the porch, barefoot, the wood warm beneath my feet from the afternoon sun. The ocean breeze hits me full-on—cool and salty, brushing against my skin like a welcome back.

And the sound—God, the sound.

The steady crash of waves is clearer than I remember, like the town's heartbeat calling me home. From here, I can just make out the shimmer of the water between rooftops and palm trees. That blue-green stretch that's waited for me all these years.

I start thinking about the biggest event of the summer: the Pacific Crown Open. It isn't just big—it's huge. The kind of comp where sponsors come to scout. Where Rivera Verde University might finally stop pretending I don't exist.

Tampa was technically a beach town too, sure. But there? It was a thirty-minute drive, traffic lights, tourists, strip malls, and parking meters between me and the water.

Here?

I can almost taste the salt in the air. I can see the ocean's edge, and I can feel it—close enough that if I really wanted, I could grab my board and be in the surf before sunset.

I close my eyes, just listening to the waves. The same waves that have been calling me back since I left. Since I got that email in April—waitlisted at Rivera Verde University.

After everything. The grades. The AP classes. The early mornings paddling out. The trophies stacked on my shelf.

RVU said I'm smart enough, sure. But their surf team? They don't give spots to kids who moved away and let their names fall off the leaderboards.

Cornell already sent the acceptance. My dad's legacy there basically sealed the deal in their minds. Ivy League. Safe. Prestigious. But also... landlocked. No waves. No surf team. No career.

I grip the porch railing, the wood warm and rough beneath my fingers.

The ocean's right there.

And for the first time in a long time, so is my future.