Rollin runs head-first down the pine trunk with a surfboard strapped to his back. The squirrel's claws rattle on the bark. He hits the sand and keeps running, past the pink flowers, down to the bay.
Today he wants one thing. One whole lap. Out to the big orange buoy, around it, and back between the two beach flags. Hind paws on the board. Front paws on the kite bar. Tail dry the whole way.
He has started this lap eleven times. He has never finished it once.
The practice beach is already busy. Three ducklings in floating vests waddle out of the water, dripping. Sarai the otter waves them up the sand. She is the instructor, and her rule is that everybody wears a vest. Even ducks.
"Helmet?" says Sarai.
"On."
"Release?"
Rollin taps the red loop on his harness. One pull, and the kite lets go and flops down flat. "Clipped. Can I go? The wind's coming across the bay, and that's the best kind, because..."
"Did you eat breakfast?"
"A hazelnut. It was round, like the buoy. Can I go?"
A crab stands at the start line with a little flag in one claw. This is Dion, the starter. He looks at Rollin. Then he looks behind Rollin.
"Two passengers," says Dion. "One squirrel. One tail."
"My tail's not a passenger."
"It is on the board. It is counted." Dion clicks his other claw. "Practice closes at lunch. There is time for three starts. I will not be late for lunch."
On top of a flagpole sits Zola the tern, who keeps the records. "Rollin," she says. "Starts, eleven. Part laps, eleven. Finishes, none."
"You don't have to say it every time."
"I do. It's the record."
Rollin has a plan. He holds his tail straight up, like a mast, as far from the water as it will go.
