Sky Surfer

Wind whips my face while I’m flying through the clouds. 

Well, some might call it falling. 

OK, fine. I’m definitely falling.

My lungs are empty from screaming as I flail my arms, soaring toward a mountaintop. The bird that zips by is probably the last I’ll ever see. 

Wait, that’s no bird. 

“Oomph!”

I belly flop onto a long and thin board, no longer falling. In the city of Peak, that board is called a sky surfer, and this one just kept me from going splat. 

The goggle-wearing rider who saved me laughs, and for a second, I’m too ashamed to look up. She tugs on a pole sticking out of the sky surfer, turning the attached sail and steering us past a snowy mountaintop. 

“Sorry to interrupt your dive,” she says. “Saw you fall off your board.”

“Didn’t think to help then, Yara?”

My big sister effortlessly steers the sail in a way I can only dream of. “Figured you should learn why you shouldn’t sky surf alone until you pass the exam.”

“I definitely will! Pass, I mean.”

She laughs again. “Then you better start practicing, Sami.”

Among all the challenges of living in Peak, a city stretching across our planet’s three tallest mountains, the hardest is getting around quickly. That’s where sky surfing comes in. Once a year, there’s an exam­—a race—that lets you earn your right to ride the wind. To score a surfing license, though, you can’t just finish the race. You have to earn a spot in the top five. 

Now that I’m 12, I’m old enough to take the exam, which takes place during the New Year festival. But that only gives me ten months to practice. And while I can’t afford a trainer, and most of the racers will be a lot older than me, I’m aiming to pass—and win.

That’s why I’m standing here, peering over the side of Knife’s Edge, one of Peak’s three mountains.

This cliff is way more intimidating than the one that almost killed me, so it doesn’t help calm my nerves when Yara leaps right off, shouting, “Have fun!”

My big sister didn’t just complete the challenge. She finished first. I’m going to do the same, and each of Peak’s mountains can teach me something different about surfing.

Today’s lesson? Balance. 

A wooden plank meant to be a pretend sky surfer sits on the ground, half on the cliff and half off. I place one foot on the back. My other foot goes on the front, which hovers over nothing but air. If I can stay steady, next time I won’t fall off my—

The plank tips over. 

For a single, heart-dropping moment, I’m toppling forward. I lean away just in time, landing back on my butt while the plank slides off Knife’s Edge, vanishing. 

Hugging the craggy mountain surface, I sigh. It’s going to be a very long year.

Eight months to go. I can finally balance over a cliff without falling, so it’s time for the next lesson—control. 

Jagged Pass is the second of Peak’s mountains, and sledding to the bottom will be good practice. That is, if I can avoid the sharp points that could poke all kinds of holes in me. 

Closing my eyes, I push forward to propel the sled off the mountainside. “Here we go!”

Soon I’m racing down. Controlling the sled here will help me do the same on a sky surfer board. I lean left, steering away from a pointed rock. Then I shift again and barely miss the next edge, speeding up. 

Or I’m trying to when a rolling boulder knocks me off my sled. 

Before I can grab it, the sled slides away. Then I go tumbling down, wondering why I wanted to be a sky surfer in the first place.

“Are you sure you want to do this again?” asks Yara. 

Peak Point is the third and highest mountain, where the race begins and ends. I’ll have to face it sooner or later. Might as well be today. So that’s why, standing behind my big sister, I nod for her to send us off. I haven’t been on a sky surfer in months. My whole body trembles with anticipation.

This mountain’s lesson is overcoming fear. Arms around her waist, I hold on for dear life as we start falling.

. . . and keep falling. 

Then Yara yanks on the sail, the winds carrying us forward. This time, I don’t slip. Don’t lose control.

“Alright,” she says. “Now you try!”

I blink behind my surfing goggles. The plan was to just ride along, but she swings me around to the front so my hands grip the large pole. But the problem isn’t that I’m in control. It’s that I’m in control and we’re surfing toward another mountaintop.

I swallow. “Here goes nothing.”

My hair flies back while the airstream carries me forward. I weave around, just barely avoiding a rocky crash landing into Knife’s Edge and the three other surfers beside me. The exam’s nearly over, and the hundreds competing are now down to a dozen. 

My heart pounds as hard as a drum because today I’m flying solo. Yara isn’t here to catch me if I fall. That’s especially clear when someone bumps one of Jagged Pass’s pointy rocks and spirals out of control. 

There are 11 surfers left. Then 10 when a teen slips off their board, rescued by a sky patrol officer. 

The end of the race lies just through a narrow opening between the mountains. My legs shake, but I remember my practice and glide across while others crash. 

Disappointment bubbles up inside me. My stomach flips at the sight of the five other surfers—all adults—who made it through first. Thousands cheer for the winners, and I force myself to land. Deflated, I realize there’ll be nobody congratulating me today.

At least that’s what I believe until Yara steps out from the crowd, followed by dozens of other surfers who all circle around me. 

“You did great, Sami!”

“But I didn’t pass . . .”

“You were the only kid to actually finish, and you worked hard for that.” Placing her hand on my shoulder, Yara winks. “Plus, there’s always next year.”

I smile because she’s right. Going from barely being able to surf to almost beating a bunch of adults—that’s something to celebrate. And if these past few months have taught me anything, it’s that nobody surfs to get to a destination. 

It’s all about the journey. 

^{This article was originally published in the December 2025/January 2026 issue.}