down to the beach, the rear view almost as good as the front, but I’m temporarily rooted to the spot. That feeling I had when I saw Carson surfing this morning, that feeling of lightness and freedom, leaves when he does, and I’m just me again.
I feel an arm slide into mine, and Brigitte draws me close as we follow him. “Is it my wishful thinking,” she whispers, “or did you and our male model surfer boy have a moment?”
“Actually, I think I just lost my mind,” I say. “And got a new one.”
Brigitte giggles. “Looks like you picked the right place to get over a broken heart. You may have come alone, but I don’t think you’re going to stay that way for long.”
I laugh, or make a sound that might pass for a laugh but is actually an exhalation as I remember how to breathe again. I know Brigitte’s just being nice, as is Carson, the surf god. I don’t know what happened in that weird, kind of delicious moment, but I’m back in reality. Vacation hookups aren’t my style, and I’m way too bruised from losing Daniel to even consider anything like that. Besides, now I’ve got more important things to concentrate on. Like learning how to keep from getting killed on a surfboard.
OUR GROUP SITS at picnic tables under the shade of trees for orientation as Carson outlines what we’ll be doing this week. He, Evan, and Randy will teach us the basics of surfing, like how to identify the good waves and stay away from dangerous rip tides, how to go from lying on the surfboard to standing, and basic safety. “By the end of the week, you’ll be surfing like pros,” Carson promises. “Or at least as well as Randy.”
Everyone giggles, especially Allegra, the bride to be, who I see sneaking wicked smiles at her bridesmaids. That can’t be about what I think it’s about, can it? Is the bride hot for the surf god? Kate, my smooth and apparently more sensible alter ego, advises me to ignore this and concentrate on the lesson.
“We’ll only be sending you out into currents that are good for beginners,” Carson says. “But just so you know, all three of us are certified lifeguards, so in the unlikely event that something happens, we’ll know what to do.”
I see the bride mouth the words Save me to one of her ladies in waiting. Ugh. Then again, I can’t blame her. I can barely concentrate on Evan’s lecture about identifying different types of waves because I’m also peeking at Carson. He is, as Brigitte said, model handsome, and yet he doesn’t seem cocky at all. While he’s clearly in charge, he sits quietly to the side, giving Evan his full attention even though he probably hears this lecture every week.
Being the daughter of two teachers forced me to be a good student, so I make myself pay attention to Evan’s description of spilling waves, which are gentle and good for beginners, and the nasty pull of surging waves. “And then there are the shore dumps,” Evan says. On a dry-erase board, he draws a big, steep wave towering over a little stick figure on a surfboard, and we laugh as he adds drops of sweat and two exclamation points of fear above the stick surfer’s head. “These waves crash hard at the shore,” Evan says, “and they’re the ones that surfers get injured in most frequently. We don’t want that to happen to you, so when you get bitten by the surfing bug this week, remember to read your waves properly before you go in. Still, a rogue wave can sneak up and grab you, so Carson’s going to talk about what to do if you get in trouble.”
This time, I have no problem staying alert. As Carson speaks in the vocal equivalent of dark clover honey, he looks into one person’s eyes at a time, making each feel as though he’s talking only to him or her. Eventually, he makes his way to me.
“So if you’re under water and you can’t tell which way is up—what surfers call ‘being in the washing machine’—reach for your surfboard,” Carson instructs. “It’s going to be
I feel an arm slide into mine, and Brigitte draws me close as we follow him. “Is it my wishful thinking,” she whispers, “or did you and our male model surfer boy have a moment?”
“Actually, I think I just lost my mind,” I say. “And got a new one.”
Brigitte giggles. “Looks like you picked the right place to get over a broken heart. You may have come alone, but I don’t think you’re going to stay that way for long.”
I laugh, or make a sound that might pass for a laugh but is actually an exhalation as I remember how to breathe again. I know Brigitte’s just being nice, as is Carson, the surf god. I don’t know what happened in that weird, kind of delicious moment, but I’m back in reality. Vacation hookups aren’t my style, and I’m way too bruised from losing Daniel to even consider anything like that. Besides, now I’ve got more important things to concentrate on. Like learning how to keep from getting killed on a surfboard.
OUR GROUP SITS at picnic tables under the shade of trees for orientation as Carson outlines what we’ll be doing this week. He, Evan, and Randy will teach us the basics of surfing, like how to identify the good waves and stay away from dangerous rip tides, how to go from lying on the surfboard to standing, and basic safety. “By the end of the week, you’ll be surfing like pros,” Carson promises. “Or at least as well as Randy.”
Everyone giggles, especially Allegra, the bride to be, who I see sneaking wicked smiles at her bridesmaids. That can’t be about what I think it’s about, can it? Is the bride hot for the surf god? Kate, my smooth and apparently more sensible alter ego, advises me to ignore this and concentrate on the lesson.
“We’ll only be sending you out into currents that are good for beginners,” Carson says. “But just so you know, all three of us are certified lifeguards, so in the unlikely event that something happens, we’ll know what to do.”
I see the bride mouth the words Save me to one of her ladies in waiting. Ugh. Then again, I can’t blame her. I can barely concentrate on Evan’s lecture about identifying different types of waves because I’m also peeking at Carson. He is, as Brigitte said, model handsome, and yet he doesn’t seem cocky at all. While he’s clearly in charge, he sits quietly to the side, giving Evan his full attention even though he probably hears this lecture every week.
Being the daughter of two teachers forced me to be a good student, so I make myself pay attention to Evan’s description of spilling waves, which are gentle and good for beginners, and the nasty pull of surging waves. “And then there are the shore dumps,” Evan says. On a dry-erase board, he draws a big, steep wave towering over a little stick figure on a surfboard, and we laugh as he adds drops of sweat and two exclamation points of fear above the stick surfer’s head. “These waves crash hard at the shore,” Evan says, “and they’re the ones that surfers get injured in most frequently. We don’t want that to happen to you, so when you get bitten by the surfing bug this week, remember to read your waves properly before you go in. Still, a rogue wave can sneak up and grab you, so Carson’s going to talk about what to do if you get in trouble.”
This time, I have no problem staying alert. As Carson speaks in the vocal equivalent of dark clover honey, he looks into one person’s eyes at a time, making each feel as though he’s talking only to him or her. Eventually, he makes his way to me.
“So if you’re under water and you can’t tell which way is up—what surfers call ‘being in the washing machine’—reach for your surfboard,” Carson instructs. “It’s going to be
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