The sun hadn’t yet cracked the horizon when Wake Razor zipped up his wetsuit and stepped barefoot into the cool sand of Mission Bay. The air was still, touched only by the briny breath of the Pacific, and the glassy water shimmered with the promise of speed.
He nodded to Hydro Rebel, who stood by the boat, sipping black coffee from a battered thermos. “Motor’s warm. You ready to carve some gospel?”
“Always,” Wake Razor muttered, stretching his shoulders. He waded into the water, ski in hand, his ritual calm and practiced. It was his church. The slalom course was his sermon.
As the rope snapped tight, the ski sliced water. He leaned into the pull and exploded forward, carving sharp turns that launched towering rooster tails into the golden mist.
Across the bay, a group had gathered — elite riders known only in whispered wakes and sunlit ripples. They were The Lords of the Slalom, a loose-knit brotherhood of rogue wave-riders, each with their own mythos.
Poseidon’s Edge stood like a statue, barefoot and bronze-skinned, eyes tracking Wake Razor’s cuts with reverence.
Velocity Viper, draped in a neon rash guard, spun his ski idly in the sand. “He’s cleaner than ever. Like he’s dancing with the current.”
“Too clean,” growled Aqua Titan, his voice a deep undertow. “He needs challenge. The course hasn’t changed in years.”
The group watched as Wake Razor finished a perfect pass, spraying a high arc of mist before drifting to a smooth stop. The boat circled back, but he waved it off, catching his breath, staring out across the bay — where the fog was beginning to part.
That’s when he saw it: a floating structure gliding into view. It was a portable buoy grid — massive, custom, jagged — a slalom course like none he’d ever seen.
Slalom Sphinx stepped forward from the shadows, his head wrapped in a cloth like some forgotten desert champion. “We call it the Hydra Run. Twelve turns. No resets. No retries.”
Wake Razor narrowed his eyes.
“Why bring it here?”
Poseidon’s Edge stepped in. “Because you’re the best. And the best gets the challenge.”
Wake Razor chuckled, running a hand through his damp hair. “And what happens if I finish it?”
Neon Wake, perched on a nearby paddleboard, smiled slyly. “Then you get to name the course.”
He took one look at the shifting pattern of buoys — a twisted labyrinth dancing in the sun-specked mist — and slipped the rope handle back into his palm.
“Fire up the boat,” he said, voice steady.
Hydro Rebel grinned, already sprinting to the helm.
As the engine roared to life and the line tightened once more, Wake Razor whispered to himself, “Let’s carve a legend.”
