“Really? What’s yours?”

“My theory is unimportant,” I tell him.

“Maybe so,” he says. “But I want to hear it anyway. I don’t just want to figure out what the beach is about.”

“What do you mean?”

He looks at me. “I’d like to figure you out too. I find you . . . intriguing.”

I worry that this makes me blush, so I look down as I smile.

“Okay,” I say. “Come over here and look out at the ocean.”

We walk over to the railing that overlooks the water.

“I think it’s because tourists are like waves. But maybe that’s just me. I always think everything is somehow related to surfing.”

“How are tourists like waves?”

“When a wave comes at the beach it looks like the water is coming toward the land.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not really. It’s mostly an optical illusion. The wave is a force of energy that travels through the water and makes it rise and fall. It also pitches forward and falls back a little, but the actual seawater basically stays in the same place. And once the wave is gone, the water is all back where it started. Tourists do the same thing. They come rushing toward town and it’s all so very exciting, but they’re not here for long. That means they have to squeeze everything into that short period of time. They’re so rushed that they’re willing to go into a gift shop and buy shells with real money when all they have to do is walk along the beach and pick them up for free. That’s loony tunes. So to me they’re like waves that come crashing on the shore, and we’re like the water. They have fun. They rise and fall. But it’s not relaxing. And once they’re gone, we go back to normal, like nothing ever happened.”

“That’s . . . deep,” he says, taking it all in. “Are you always so philosophical?”

“Hardly. I just spend a lot of time thinking about waves.”

“Okay, so what’s our next stop?”

“Next we are going behind enemy lines,” I say as we start walking down the boardwalk again. “But you have to promise me that under no circumstances will you buy anything while we’re there.”

“If it’s another ice cream shop, I might not be able to resist. That junior sundae just triggered the hunger without fully satisfying it.”

“It has nothing to do with food, but I mean it. You have to promise.”

“All right, I promise not to buy anything,” he says. “But where am I not buying anything?”

Just saying the name brings a scowl to my face. “Surf City.”

Surf City is huge. It’s a surf shop on steroids. And like steroids, everything about it is phony, especially the girls. Their boobs are big, their tank tops are small, and their knowledge of surfing is comically inept. Take for example the girl at the door who greets us in Hawaiian. You know, because even though we’re five thousand miles away from Hawaii, it just sounds so surfy.

“Mahalo!”

Of course she has no idea that mahalo means “thank you” and not “hello.”

“Ma-hello to you, too,” I say back, with a tinge of snark as I shake my head.

I lead Ben up to a second-floor landing so we can fully survey the landscape. The lower level is filled with swimwear, clothing, and accessories while the upper has surfboards in every color of the rainbow. Every inch of it’s gleaming, and everywhere you look there’s another walking, talking Malibu Barbie.

“Welcome to the belly of the beast,” I say as I look out over it. “Pure evil.”

Ben takes it all in for a second and turns to me. I can tell he’s conflicted about something but doesn’t know how to say it.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Spit it out.”

“You love surfing, right?”

“More than you know.”

He looks out across the store again and then back at me. “Then why isn’t this your favorite place on earth? I mean, the name says it all. This is Surf City.”

I don’t reply with words so much as I emit a low growl.

“Okay, let me rephrase that,” he says. “I know this place is like the worst place in the world, but since I’m just a cheesehead from Wisconsin, could you help me develop the right vocabulary to fully describe how awful it is?”

“I’d be happy to. First of all, it’s owned by a faceless corporation and only exists to make money. It just happens to be that they make it selling surfboards. There’s no love of the ocean or surfing in its DNA. I mean, just look at the boards. They’re arranged by color, like that’s the most important feature. It’s like if you went into a bookstore and all the books were arranged according to how many pages they had.

“No one’s concerned about matching customers with the right one. They just want you to buy any of them. And to be honest, the boards are mostly here to create an artificial atmosphere so they can sell you overpriced swimsuits, Hawaiian shirts, and sunglasses. Or, best of all, a bunch of Surf City T-shirts with their logo everywhere so you can go back home and become a human billboard as you tell everyone about your ‘radical adventure hanging ten and riding gnarly waves.’ ”

When I reach the end of my rant, I realize that it was a little more passionate than I had intended. But Ben takes it all in stride and makes a joke out of it.

“So, you’re saying you don’t like it?”

“Yes,” I say with a laugh. “I’m saying I don’t like it. But it’s not about what I like or don’t like. It’s about showing you how to blend in among the locals. And if you look around, you’ll notice that there aren’t any here. Only tourists. See the fanny packs and the sunburns?”

“And the white socks.”

“Pulled all the way up,” I add, shaking my head.

“I wish you told me yesterday before I went and bought all those Surf City T-shirts.”

He’s joking, but I still give him my “don’t mess with me” look. And, while I don’t like to brag, my “don’t mess with me” look is quite impressive.

“But you said that they’re evil. How is any of this more evil than selling saltwater taffy? That’s just as fake and you’re okay with it.”

“Seven dollars for a decorative gift box of candy is a lot different from seven hundred for a longboard,” I say.

“Seven hundred dollars?” he says with a comical laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“Take a look.”

We walk over to a row of blue longboards, and he looks at the price tags. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“And the worst part isn’t even the money,” I say. “This is way too much surfboard for a beginner. But they’ll never tell you that. They’ll just let you walk out the store and totally bomb in the water. They’d never tell you that you can get a used fish for about seventy-five bucks that’s much better to learn on.”

“A used fish?”

“It’s a type of surfboard,” I say. “But we’ll save that lesson for later. We’re still taking baby steps.”

He laughs and we start to leave (escape?) when we pass the store’s Wall of Fame. It features action photos of some of the surfers who make up the Surf City Surf Team and a display case full of their trophies.

“Impressive,” says Ben.

“Yeah. As much as I hate to admit it, their team is amazing,” I concede. “They win most of the tournaments in the state.”

“Like King of the Beach?” he says, referring to the annual Pearl Beach tournament.

“How’d you know about King of the Beach?” I ask.

“It’s sponsored by Parks and Recreation,” he says. “I will be working there later this summer.”

“Surf City has won both trophies,” I say. “That one’s for the top team and that one’s for the grand champion. Bailey Kossoff has won the grand champion trophy two years in a row.”

“Is he a local guy?”

I shake my head. “No. They sponsor guys from around the state. That’s how they make sure to win.”

“Does Surf Sisters have a team?” he asks.

I shake my head. “There’s no money for it. These guys are like the New York Yankees. They can sign anyone who’s really good.”