Their young spirits splash about in the line-up with no fear, a dumpster of twelve-year-old trash talk, and pretending not to see mom up to her knees in shore break waving them in like a guy the with orange glow cones taxiing your next flight. The two-foot waves are pit high and their skinny 60 lb bodies go screaming by like sunburnt corndogs. They have respect from the older crew in the line-up just because they are so f%#king happy cheering them on feels like a duty. They can’t back down knowing their peers are watching, it’s game time, and when they make a big drop or land a floater that high pitch squeal can shatter the ocean surface. Stay frosty young groms, stay frosty!