“Today’s the day!” she laughed with a spin.
“My very first contest! Let’s jump right in!”
The waves were small - just a lump, no more,
And only three girls were there to score.

She paddled. She popped. She wobbled a tad.
Not smooth. Not flashy. But boy, was she glad.
She rode that wave from top to below,
Every inch of it - slow, but a go.

A cheer went up - though small as could be:
Some parents, a dog, one gull, maybe three.
Third out of three - and she didn’t care,
A little bronze ribbon she tied in her hair.

“I DID IT!” she yelled, heart light as a kite -

THEN -

“ERICA HORTON, THAT WASN’T RIGHT.”

The voice hit the beach like a foghorn blast,
Boomed out of nowhere, loud and fast.

Her mother - Mrs. Horton - had paced all day,
Arms crossed tight in a militant way.
Jaw clenched hard, heels in the sand,
Like a general guarding disputed land.

“You HESITATED. TWICE. That back foot was WRONG.
You should’ve carved LEFT! You won’t last long
If you PLAY at this, if you COAST, if you lose -
Greatness won't wait for those who so choose!”

Erica blinked. She looked at her board.
She looked at her mom. Then back toward the shore.
The salt was still magic. The waves were on tap.
But the yelling?

That part felt like cra_.