This moment when you're completely enclosed in water moving at highway speeds, when one wrong move means getting slammed into the reef or washing-machined until you don't know which way is up.

Time stretched. Everything went silent despite the roar. I could see the light at the end—the exit, getting smaller as the tube closed behind me, collapsing like a dying star.

Flew. Just flew. Board tracking perfect, body compressed, breathing steady.

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.

Then the tube spit me out like a bullet from a gun.

The world exploded into sound—the roar becoming a scream, wind hitting my face, and underneath it all, the crowd losing their fucking minds.

I rode the white water for another thirty yards, standing tall now, board skimming across the foam. Then kicked out clean, board flipping up as I dove off into waist-deep water.

The beach erupted.

Screams. Cheers. Whistles. Phones flashing like a lightning storm. A hundred voices chanting my name.

I stood in the shallows, water streaming from my hair, chest heaving, sun behind me painting everything gold.

Colt was already paddling back out, jaw set, eyes sharp. Jaxon followed, face unreadable. The others scrambled to position.

Round one: Eros.

But we were just getting started.

I paddled back out, arms pulling steady, the board cutting through water like it was made for this. The sun had dropped lower, painting the ocean in shades of copper and violet. The crowd on the beach was louder now, energized, hungry for more.

Back in the lineup, I sat up, catching my breath. The others were already positioned, eyeing the horizon with that focus surfers get when they know they're behind.

Colt looked over, nodded once. Respect, maybe. Or acknowledgment that I'd just made this harder for everyone.

"Round two!" Dex's voice carried from the beach, amplified somehow—probably someone's Bluetooth speaker. "Best wave wins! Go!"

Ryder went first.

A solid six-footer rolled in, peeling right—his preferred direction. He spun, paddled hard, popped up smooth. The wave wasn't as clean as mine, choppier, but he worked it. Pumped for speed, carved hard, launched off the lip in a small air that got the crowd screaming. He hung there for a second, board vertical, arms out, before gravity remembered him and pulled him back down.

He landed it. Rode the shoulder for another twenty yards, kicked out clean.

Solid wave. Seven out of ten, maybe.

Shane went next. Late drop on a steep one, tried to make it, but his timing was off. The nose pearled—dug into the water instead of planing—and the whole board flipped. He went over the falls, board tombstoning behind him, leash yanking him back into the white water. He surfaced ten seconds later, coughing, board floating nearby.

The crowd groaned sympathetically.

Kai caught a screamer—fast, steep, the kind that tries to outrun you. He managed a decent ride, stayed in the pocket, clipped the lip once. But the wave closed out on him, section collapsing all at once. He got swallowed by white water, disappeared for a moment, then popped up spitting salt.

Good effort. Six out of ten.

Jaxon's turn.

He waited. Patient. Let two waves pass that the rest of us would've taken. Then a set came through that made everyone sit up.

Double overhead. Maybe ten feet. The kind of wave that separates weekend warriors from people who actually know what the fuck they're doing.

Jaxon spun, dug deep, paddled like his life depended on it. The wave picked him up, and he dropped in—vertical, committed, no hesitation. His bottom turn was a freight train, all power, no finesse. Water carved away from his rail in a massive spray. Then he shot back up the face, hit the lip in a top turn that threw spray twenty feet in the air.

He rode it all the way in, solid and strong, no barrel but no mistakes either.

The crowd went wild. That was an eight, easy. Maybe higher.

Which left Colt.

He sat there, floating, eyes on the horizon. Waiting. The sun kissed the water now, turning everything molten. Five minutes passed. The crowd got restless, murmuring.

Then I saw what he was waiting for.

An A-frame. Perfect peak, breaking in both directions, the kind of wave that comes maybe once an hour if you're lucky. The face was glass, the shoulder clean, and the way the light hit it made it look like liquid gold.

Colt turned, positioned himself dead center. Started paddling.

Late drop—deliberately late, putting himself deeper in the pocket than was safe. The wave jacked up beneath him, stood vertical. He popped up at the last possible second, leaned back to keep the nose up, and dropped.

Then he stalled. Kicked the tail out, let the board slow, positioned himself right where the lip was about to throw. He compressed low, almost sitting, and the wave's lip pitched over him.

Tube.

Not as long as mine. Not as clean. But deep. He was buried in there, invisible except for the occasional flash of his board's lightning bolt through the green. The roar carried across the water.

Then he shot out, the tube spitting him free in a spray of white water and sunlight. He emerged with both fists up, screaming, water cascading off him.

The beach absolutely lost it. Screams, cheers, people jumping, phones flashing like a strobe.

That was a nine. Maybe even matched mine.

Colt paddled back out, grinning like he'd just won the lottery. "Tie game, god-boy!"

I met his eyes. Let a slow smile spread.

"Round three," I said.

The ocean changed.

It always did right before sunset—something about the tide, the way the wind shifted, the energy of the water itself transforming. The sets started coming bigger, darker, more aggressive.

We all felt it. That tension in the air, in the water, in our own muscles. This was the decider.

A set rolled in that made even Jaxon hesitate. Ten feet, maybe twelve. Black walls of water topped with white, moving fast, the kind that could hold you under long enough to wonder if you'd ever see daylight again.

I paddled deeper. Past the impact zone where the others waited. Past where any sane person would position themselves. Into the death zone, where the biggest waves broke first, where the current pulled hardest.

The first wave of the set jacked up like a sea monster rising. Too big, too steep, the lip already pitching forward before it even fully formed. Unrideable for anyone with sense.

I turned my board. Started scratching.

Paddle. Stroke-stroke-stroke. Arms burning, lungs screaming, board barely planing on the face because it was so damn vertical.

The wave lifted me. Kept lifting. I was climbing a wall that was trying to fall on my head.

Pop.

Feet under me. Barely.

Then I dropped.

Freefall. True freefall, like jumping off a building. The face was so steep it was past vertical, actually pitching forward, throwing out. Wind screamed past my ears loud enough to hurt. Spray exploded around me, blinding, cold, stinging every inch of exposed skin.

The board chattered so hard I thought the fins would rip out. But I stayed on it, weight forward, knees bent almost to my chest, hands out for balance.

The lip threw.

It didn't curl—it pitched, violent and fast, tons of water hurling itself forward like it was angry. I was already inside when it closed.

Darkness. Not the green room. Not the cathedral.

This was something else. This was the ocean showing you what it could do if it wanted you dead.

The roar was deafening. Physical. Vibrated in my bones and made my teeth ache. Black water all around, backlit by dying sunlight that filtered through in shades of deep emerald and gold. The tube was so big I could've stood up straight. So long I couldn't see the end.

I flew. Just flew. Board tracking perfect despite the chaos, despite the tons of water collapsing behind me, chasing me, trying to catch me.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

Twenty-five.

The tube spat me out like the ocean had been holding its breath and finally exhaled.

I shot into sunlight, the spray behind me exploding in a massive plume that caught the last rays of sun and threw a rainbow across the entire beach. The roar of the wave became the roar of the crowd—a hundred voices screaming like they'd just witnessed something holy.

I rode the white water standing tall, arms out, letting the moment breathe. Then kicked out clean, dove off into the shallows, stood in waist-deep water with the sun setting behind me and the crowd absolutely losing their minds.

The beach was chaos. Pure chaos. People screaming, jumping, phones everywhere, some girl had climbed onto someone's shoulders and was waving her bikini top over her head.

Colt paddled in, face somewhere between awe and defeat. Jaxon slapped him on the back, said something I couldn't hear over the noise. The others just stared, boards floating beside them, watching me like I was something that shouldn't exist.

Dex waded out into the water, arms raised, grin splitting his face. "SURFING GOES TO EROS!"

The crowd erupted again. Chanting. Screaming. My name over and over.

"WEIGHTLIFTING!" Dex shouted, turning to the beach. "BACK TO THE RACKS! THEN WE PARTY!"

People surged up the sand. Boards were abandoned, forgotten. The competition was half done, and the night was just beginning.

I walked out of the water, board under one arm, sun at my back painting me in gold and shadow.

I hadn't even broken a sweat.

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