The lovely folks over at
Wunderkind PR were kind enough to reach out to me and ask if I'd be willing to let you guys know about a new book coming out just in time for summer. I happily told them yes. :-)
Synopsis:
The year is 2024. Climate change has altered the world’s wave patterns. Drones crisscross the sky, cars drive themselves, and surfing is a new Olympic sport. Mafuri Long, UCSD marine biology grad, champion surfer, and only female to dominate a record eighty-foot wave, still has something to prove. Having achieved Internet fame, along with sponsorship from Google and Nike, she’s intent on winning Olympic gold. But when her father, a clinically depressed former Navy captain and widower, learns that his beloved supercarrier, the USS Hillary Rodham Clinton, is to be sunk, he draws Mafuri into a powerful undertow. Conflicts compound as Mafuri’s personal life comes undone via social media, and a vicious Aussie competitor levels bogus doping charges against her. Mafuri forms an unlikely friendship with an awkward teen, a Ferrari-driving professional gamer who will prove to be her support and ballast. Authentic, brutal, and at times funny, Mafuri lays it all out in a sprightly, hot-wired voice. From San Diego to Sydney, Key West, and Manila, That Crazy Perfect Someday goes beyond the sports/surf cliché to explore the depths of sorrow and hope, yearning and family bonds, and the bootstrap power of a bold young woman climbing back into the light.
Excerpt:
Google “Mafuri
Long.”
Click video.
And
voila!
That’s me,
surfing the monster of all waves—an eighty-foot beast. I’m like
a tiny knife slicing through a gigantic wall of blue that’s
rearing up behind me, a total H2O Everest. Scale? Picture me standing next to
an eight-story building. In 2023, I became the first “chick” to win
the Nike XX Big Wave Classic: one of the few women in history to surf a wave
that big, the only one to do it officially. I followed Daddy’s
advice before we left the dock for the open sea. “Don’t ride
that horse with half your ass,” he
said, sending me off with a fist bump. “Go after it, cowgirl.”
The freaky part is that the wave is a hundred miles off the San Diego
coast in the middle of nowhere. The surf spot’s
called the Cortes Bank, where the fish around you are the size of Volkswagens
and very big things can swallow you whole. The only way out there is in a
decent-size boat, and the only way to be saved after a serious wipeout is to be
rescued by that decent-size boat or plucked up by a Coast Guard helicopter,
which one big-wave legend experienced firsthand after a three-wave hold-down.
The bank sits just under the water and can kick up epic hundred-footers. It’s one
of the biggest, scariest waves in the world, and I mastered it: little five
foot three sandy-haired me.
You’d
usually have to wait until winter for a wave like that, but weather patterns
are so crazy with the globe heating up the last few decades, it’s
monumental—like,
who can predict? I had no clue how ginormous the wave was. I mean, nobody
anticipated it—not my
surf coach, the safety team, the other surfers, or the pilots in the choppers
circling above—but a
tiny voice inside and the never-ending elevator ride up confirmed it was going
to be borderline cataclysmic. When the wave hit its peak, I was staring down a
seventy-five-foot vertical drop, fear shrieking inside me. Ride or die,
that’s what
I thought. Like, seriously, flinch on a wave like that and it’s
bye-bye girly-girl. I went supersonic after that, faster than I had ever gone
before, my legs feeling the board’s feedback full force,
completely in the zone, focused, the entire ocean an angry fist beneath me . .
. Then I pulled out of the wave.
When the video hit social, it ping-ponged around the world, out
into space, and back again, sending up a collective girl-power supercheer,
pretty much locking up a ton of cash in surf-sponsorships and placing me on
every news feed from here to Alice Springs. Jax—that's
what people call my dad—says I
have a gift. He says he noticed it the first time I stood up on a wave in
Sendai, Japan, back when I was five and we were surfing together, years before
that tsunami leveled the place.
The sponsorship money let me set my marine biology degree aside
for a while. I couldn't find a job in the field anyway. Let me restate that: I
was offered one at SeaLand San Diego straight out of UCSD, basically to put on
a carnival show with a thirteenth-generation orca after her act was
reintroduced, but I passed because that isn't science, and a creature like that
should be ambushing seals out in the ocean and not squeaking for mackerel
treats in a man-made swimming pool for some spoiled kids' amusement. So the
money lets me spend my days training, and my eyes are on the big prize when the
Olympics begin on August 4.
© 2017 Michael Mazza, with permission from Turtle
Point Press
Author Bio:
Michael Mazza is a fiction writer living in the San Francisco Bay Area. His stories have appeared in Other Voices, WORDS, Blue Mesa Review, TINGE, and ZYZZYVA. He is best known as an internationally acclaimed art and creative director working in the advertising industry. Along with being named National Creative All-Star by Adweek, his work appears in the Permanent Collection of the Library of Congress. He has lectured throughout the country and abroad, most notably at the Great Hall of the People in Beijing. He has attended the Iowa Summer Writers’ Workshop, the Stanford Creative Writing workshop, and the Wharton School Executive Education MBA program. That Crazy Perfect Someday is his first novel. Connect with Michael at his website: www.mazzastory.com or on Twitter and Instagram: @mazzastory
**You can pick up a copy of That Crazy Perfect Someday June 20th at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Indiebound.**
